I’m Losing You (49 page)

“Sometimes it takes a while to bring those memories from the Inner to the Outer. And Taj is very new—as am I.”

“Taj?”

“He needs to come by it himself, and he
will
. If he lets the Mahanta guide him.”

“What's his last name?”

“I don't know.”

“Is it
Wiedlin
? What's he look like?”

“I don't see why that's important.”

“You're right,” he said, nodding at the waiter for the check. “Nothing's important. Including the fact you are out of your fucking mind.”

Why did she even bother? She was grateful for all he'd done, especially for Tiffany. She wanted to release him, because Ursula knew her love had been overbearing. But to release him meant sharing the found vision of her passion play: smell of wet stones and burning wood, sting of incense, bordello voices (they seemed like Latin or maybe Italian, though she spoke neither).

She hadn't yet mentioned to Sara or Phylliss what girlhood memories and a trip to the downtown library had confirmed. When she was Tiffany's age, an aunt bought her a
Dictionary of Saints
. There was a painting of an ecstatic girl, implements of torture scattered at her feet. A man in a shirt with puffed sleeves held a sword to her neck. The story said she'd been forced into prostitution for refusing a rich politician; this hapless blonde, found on the Inner—who was Ursula, sad whorehouse girl exhumed from a dream—was none but St. Agatha herself. Now that her life made sense, she wanted to tell Donny everything, but how could he listen? Agatha had rejected the senator as Ursula had her father and his rough friends. Agatha consecrated her virginity to Jesus Christ; Ursula would make her vows to the Mahanta Sri Harold Klemp, the Living ECK Master. She must have known all this even as a tiny girl (it made her think of the Motorcycle Man at the potluck). Ursula was mildly embarrassed at the “bride of Mahanta” aspect, because she knew that wasn't at all something ECKists encouraged. Maybe it was inappropriate. She'd talk to Phyll about it. Phyll would set her straight.

Tiffany was coloring her book with a child's fierce attention. Occasionally, she glanced up at
Fraggle Rock
.

A woman came looking for Ursula. Taj saw her through the curtain; he knew Phylliss from ICM days and didn't feel like an encounter. He slunk to the bedroom.

For a few weeks, he'd been crashing there, unbothered, leaving in the early morning hours—but it seemed that the truth about Taj Wiedlin would soon out. Maybe it was time to call his sister for airfare home. He hadn't spoken to the family since Zev let him go. His mom was probably worried near to death.

When the coast was clear, he returned to the living room with a milkless bowl of Cheerios.

“Why did you hide?” asked Tiffany.

“I didn't hide.”

“You're weird,” she said, going back to her routine.

Taj couldn't believe he was offended by the little girl's dismissal. She shook her head, curling her lip in disgust as she drew. Taj began an “I'm weird” dance to break the tension, but her rejection congealed.

“When's Mama coming home?”

“I don't know, Crabby,” Taj said, doing his goofy jig. “Come on and smile.”

“I am
not
crabby and
stop
it.”

“Crabby Tabby.”

“You're
bothering
me,” whined Tiffany. “You don't even
live
here.”

“Ground control to Major Crab! Have a Cheerio and do the ‘weird' dance. You'll feel better.”

“I
hate
you.” She didn't really, but now she'd said so.

“A little over the top, don't you think? And rude.”

“
You're
rude.” Less emphatic now.

“Why do you hate me?”

“Because you're
weird
.”

“You mean I'm weird because I fuck your mother between the legs?”

Tiffany stood, agitated.
“Be quiet!”

He started a “Be quiet!” dance, and she pushed him. Taj grabbed her head and held it fast so they were nose to nose, like player and ref. He made creepy, guttural sounds and Tiffany shook, squealing in terror. He screamed all over the surface of her head as if it were the earth, his cries satellite signals covering land, sea and polar cap. He dug nails into her chest and yelled at the top of his lungs in her ears, making funny kung fu faces as he butted Tiffany's head and yanked out a slim broomful of hair.

He dialed Zev's office, pounding her stomach while they had him on hold. “Hello? Are you casting yet for
Dead Souls
?”

He left her there, receiver propped to bloody mouth and ear.

Rachel Krohn

It was almost midnight when the old woman called.

Someone had died. Could Rachel make it to the
chevra
the next morning, say, eight-fifteen? The
taharah
would take an hour, maybe more. Birdie said it was a child and asked if that might be too upsetting. Rachel wasn't sure. She asked if it was an accident, and Birdie said the girl had been murdered. Was there blood? Birdie didn't know.

Rachel skimmed a handbook for grievers she'd picked up at the Jewish bookstore. It said mourners should cover mirrors and overturn beds. She turned out the lights and thought of the furnitureless mansion of her father's memorial park. She drifted to an ocean of bobbing canopy beds, each with wide-eyed child marooned. The beds bellied-up in the water until all that was left were their periscope-legs. She woke up drowning just after three and never got back to sleep.

Ursula Sedgwick

Donny argued with Phylliss and Sara, who were pushing for an ECK memorial, with readings from “The Golden Heart” and “Stranger by the River.”

When his mother died, the rabbi explained how the human being was often compared to a Torah scroll, the parchment equivalent to the body; the divine names written thereon, the soul. The agent thought that beautiful. Serena's pilgrimage beneath the house had
left her filthy, and Donny loved the idea of pious, level-headed strangers ceremonially scrubbing her down—wiping the pages clean—for the Journey. When he suggested the
taharah
would be a good thing, Ursula didn't speak. She smiled, grateful he was there at all—that anyone was who could help her Tiffany.

Donny called the rabbi and said Ursula was a Jew, and that is how her daughter was buried.

Rachel Krohn

Rachel was early. The girl's mother had been there all night with friends while the
shomer
sat with the body. The police arrested the boyfriend, Birdie said.

She sat on the couch and waited, wondering about the gore. What if the girl had been stabbed or mutilated? Rachel didn't think she could take that. She pulled a
taharah
primer from her sack. Some of the rules and regulations ranged from comical to macabre. All severed limbs were supposed to be tossed in the coffin. As blood was considered to be part of the body, it was kosher to be buried in the stained clothes of one's demise. And if a Jew wanted to be cremated, that was too bad—his wishes could be overruled by something called the Halachah, or Law. Birdie emerged from the back. It was time to begin.

The room was cold. There was a tiled floor with drain and slop sink. Buckets were filled with water and wooden two-by-fours lay stacked on a chair. The girl was on a metal gurney, wrapped in a bag. Another woman was there, around Birdie's age. She was the “watcher” who sat with the girl through the night, the one who recited prayers and reminded the body of its name “so it would not be confused before God.” They washed their hands and put on gowns. Birdie offered surgical gloves, but Rachel declined; no one else wore them. The bag was removed. Rachel gasped—she was blond and looked like an angel. There was a bluish bump on her forehead and the chest was spotted with bruised whorls.
She will never have her period
went through her mind, like a mantra to keep her from sinking. A tube had been left in her mouth, and when Birdie tugged, it wouldn't budge. She took scissors and clipped so it didn't protrude, closing the lips and cutting the hospital bracelet. They covered the face and pubis with separate cloths, then the whole body
with a sheet. Birdie tore pieces from the sheet to be used for the washing.

They tucked the sheet down and washed face and hair, drying afterward but not covering. The body was washed from right arm to shoulder, down torso to legs and then back. The process was repeated from the left side, Birdie washing while Rachel dried. Normally, rainwater or melted snow was required, but in this case they used water from the tap.

When the first washing was finished, they cleaned under finger and toenails with toothpicks. That was the most heartbreaking for Rachel, because the girl had painted her nails in different colors. They used polish remover that Birdie got from a metal drawer. Then the two-by-fours were placed under head, shoulders, buttocks and legs. The second washing—“the
taharah
proper”—began. Three buckets were used this time, and the girl was completely naked, even though Rachel thought the guidebook said that wasn't supposed to happen. They put a sheet over the body to dry it and the wood was removed. The other woman was ready with the shroud. (“After the
taharah
is completed,” the book said, “the deceased is dressed in shrouds sewn by the hands of a woman past the age of menopause.”) The sheet was lowered around the girl's head, and Birdie put a bonnet on her, as well as a piece that went around the face. Rachel helped with a collared, V-neck shirt—“you fuss with it. You have to learn,” Birdie muttered—reaching in to take the little arm and pull. Both arms were brought to the head and manipulated through. The shirt had no buttons and was tied at the top. They slid the legs into the pajama bottoms, pulling them up to the waist. There, the string was twisted nine times, then made into three loops so it looked like the letter
shin
, which stands for God. Birdie tied strips of shroud just below the knee, and made a bow. The last piece they dressed her in was an overshirt, made the same way the shirt was, only longer. It was easier than before to get the arms through. They brought the wooden box next to her. Inside was a long strip from the shroud; when they lowered the girl in, it ended up around her waist. Birdie repeated the twisting procedure—it seemed like twelve or thirteen twists this time—then made the
shin
again.

The face covering was pulled down, and Birdie put broken pieces of pottery on the eyes and mouth. When the shroud was replaced, the other woman sprinkled dirt from Jerusalem over pubis, heart and
face. The casket was lined with a very large piece of shroud that was then folded over the body, right side first, then left, then bottom and top. They put the lid on the casket and took off their gowns.

“To remove death,” Birdie explained as they washed their hands from a hose in the parking lot. “When you come home from the funeral there's normally water outside the front door, for washing.” Rachel stood there, numb and exhausted. “What a shame!” Birdie said. “Thank God it was not also a sexual assault.”