Death in a Funhouse Mirror (12 page)

 

I stood in front of my closet, my eyes gritty and my brain working like it was buried in sludge, trying to find something solemn enough for a funeral. We'd worked until the wee hours of the morning, Suzanne, Magda, Karla Kaplan and I, finding the memos Valeria had referred to, as well as some other suggestive personal memos in both Suzanne's and my files, all of which were also on our personal correspondence disks. The disks I'd taken from Valeria turned out to be copies of our personal files, taken from our computers. Where an item had been taken from the paper files, Karla had inserted a pink form, indicating the identity of the document removed, the date it was removed, and that she had removed it. Each of the mystery documents had been placed in a clear plastic envelope, and Karla had taken them with her to give to a fingerprint expert. It had been absurd and high-tech and sinister, all at the same time. I'd come away feeling soiled, a feeling that a hot shower didn't erase.

I settled on a purple and black linen suit with a long jacket and pleated skirt, with a black linen blouse. At the last minute, I pinned on the silver Art Nouveau pin David had given me for our first anniversary. A talisman against an evil world. It wasn't raining but it was cool and overcast, the right kind of weather for a funeral.

The public radio station was offering its usual menu of interesting items, but I couldn't seem to focus on any of them, and when a plummy British voice began delivering the news, I turned it off. I'm not a dedicated "buy American" type, or I wouldn't be driving a Saab, but I do think that a radio station supported by public contributions ought to give us our news in American English, and not be getting it from the BBC. We Americans can be so absurd. Fiercely anti-intellectual, yet we glom on to the mediocre products of another nation as though every word was Shakespeare.

The traffic on 128 was thick as sour cream. Half the traffic, now that it was after one, was no longer cars, but vans and small trucks, many of them being driven with a sort of "it's not my car, I don't care what happens to it" insolence. One of the favorite tricks of Boston drivers is to refuse to look at other drivers. If you don't see someone, after all, you don't have to yield to them. Normally I'm comfortable enough in my Saab to drive on autopilot, so I can think about things other than driving. This would have been nice, because I hadn't had much time after we finished flushing Valeria out of our files to prepare for what I expected to be a challenging day. But I'd allotted an hour for a drive that should have taken forty-five minutes, and I'd be lucky if I got there on time.

I found a parking space around the corner from Eve's apartment, jammed the car into it, and literally ran back to her door. It was almost ten past two, and she was waiting on the steps, raincoat draped over her arm, looking forlorn. She jumped up when I got close, the lost look replaced by a relieved smile. "I was afraid you'd forgotten," she said.

"As if I would, Eve. I almost ended up in jail, but I'm here." I put an arm around her and gave her a quick hug. "Let's go. I'll tell you about my adventures in the car." She climbed in obediently, tossed her raincoat in the back with mine, and buckled her seatbelt. "Where to?" I asked.

"The Unitarian Church. I'll direct you," she said. "Do you have any tissues? I forgot to bring mine."

"In the glove compartment."

She opened it, found the box, and stuffed a handful into her purse. "What do you mean, you almost got arrested?"

"I broke the law. I got caught in this horrible traffic jam, and after sitting there a while watching the precious minutes ticking away, I got impatient and tried to go around it in the breakdown lane. Good old law-abiding me. Only time in my life I've ever tried that. I'm usually the one waiting patiently in the jam, cursing the ones who are zipping down the breakdown lane. Anyway, I was racing along and suddenly there was a police car blocking the lane, and nowhere to hide. This giant policeman gets out and strolls over to my car. You know the type—the clean-cut, larger-than-life product of Wheaties with the aviator glasses and ridiculous Smokey hat. Walking with that stiff-hipped gait that comes from having a poker up his ass."

Eve gave a little snort she tried to stifle with her hand. "Stop it, Thea," she said, "I really shouldn't be laughing. I always thought they walked that way because of those silly jodhpurs and motorcycle boots they wear."

"You don't want to hear the rest?"

"I do."

"I rolled down my window and waited. He sauntered up and just stood there, staring down at my chest with that infuriating smirk that says 'I can stare as long as I want, lady, and there isn't a damn thing you can do about it.' Then he leaned down and said, 'In sort of a hurry, aren't you, ma'am.' I agreed that I was, and I told him I was going to a funeral. The bastard actually smiled, and he said, 'I don't think the deceased will notice if you're late.' Then he got ready to give me a ticket, but I batted my lashes and talked him out of it."

I didn't tell Eve the rest. The way I'd talked him out of it was to tell him whose funeral I was going to, and that I was late to pick up Eve. I'd pulled no punches. I'd painted a dramatic, not-too-far-from-the-truth picture of poor, suffering Eve, alone, desolate and motherless, waiting in vain for her dearest friend, and then invited him to still give me a ticket. Instead, he'd given me an escort down the breakdown lane to the end of the jam, and then blocked traffic to let me back in. It's so often that way with cops. First they push you around to prove they can do it and then they indulge in some magnanimous gesture.

I really didn't have any reason to be mad at him. I had been breaking the law, and he was just doing his duty, but, with the exception of Andre, I have a real distrust of the police, dating from the night David died. David had been lying there in the hospital, dying, asking for me, and I was in the waiting room, desperate to be with him, but the police wanted to ask him about the accident, and they wouldn't let me see him until they were done. So they got the last moments of his life, and by the time I was allowed to see him, he was still warm, but the light had gone out of his eyes. I never had a chance to say good-bye. It left me with a big chip on my shoulder.

I put my hand over Eve's, which was cold as ice. "Doing okay?"

"I guess so." She sat stiffly, biting her lip, staring straight ahead. "I still can't believe it. I..." She took a deep breath and slowly let it out. "I'm okay as long as I don't talk about it. Then I start to cry."

"You're allowed to cry, you know."

"But I hate being weak and defenseless, looking pathetic in front of others. I ought to have more self-control."

"It's a pretty screwed-up world we live in if the list of shoulds and oughts includes not being sad at your own mother's funeral, Eve."

The church parking lot was jammed and there was no visible street parking except a small space behind the hearse, marked by a little yellow tented sign that said funeral parking only. It was almost 2:30. I pulled into the space and explained our dilemma to the black-suited functionary who was working the street. "You can leave it there," he said, frowning at my lack of taste in arriving in a red car. He opened the door for Eve.

"Will you sit with me, Thea?" she asked as he closed the door.

"If you want. Wait a sec and I'll walk in with you." I locked it and tossed the keys into my purse, aware that he had checked my dress carefully to be sure I didn't favor red clothes as well as red cars. He needn't have worried. I may not have a wardrobe of vehicles, but I do know how to dress. My mother was very conscientious about teaching me the rules: no black or white to a wedding, no red or yellow to a wake, and her own personal one, somber, dark clothes to a funeral, but not black. Black was for the family. Eve was wearing a trim, black, Chanel-style suit edged in white. Walking beside her, in my loose jacket and flowing skirt, with my hair escaping around my face, I felt unkempt and ungainly. It reminded me of walking with Carrie, who had also been very short. I quickly pushed Carrie out of my mind.

Eve stumbled as we went up the steps, and another of the black-suited functionaries was instantly at her elbow to support her. He stayed with us all the way down the aisle, until Eve was safely installed next to Cliff. I felt odd sitting there with the family when I didn't belong, but reminded myself again that I was there because Eve wanted me. I could hardly forget. She was clinging to my arm with a bone-bruising grip. Then the minister began the service and I put my mind on autopilot.

I guess it was a good service. At least the minister knew Helene, and could say meaningful things about her, and at least there were meaningful things to be said. Helene had lived a significant life. I think about that sometimes, about what might be said at my funeral. That my hair had never once looked combed? That I always got my reports in on time? That I was steady and dependable and could be relied on to fix things? That I had "quite a little temper for such a solemn child," as my Aunt Ella used to say?

That I loved a good meal, but was always forgetting to eat? Not an earthshaking bunch of epigraphs to mark the chapters of my life. I sat there in the pew, considering my own funeral and trying to still the rumbling of my stomach, not paying much attention, until the minister stopped and a woman got up to speak.

She was a small, timorous woman in a plain dark dress, and she approached the lectern as cautiously as though it sheltered a mugger. Her voice, when she introduced herself, was inaudible, but it grew in strength as she spoke. "I was a battered woman," she said. "Helene Streeter saved my life." She scrubbed at her reddened nose with a handkerchief. "It would probably be more accurate to say that Helene gave me a life for the first time. Before a friend of mine literally dragged me into Helene's office, I thought it was all my fault. I believed that my husband beat me because I deserved it. I deserved it because his dinner got cold while he was watching T.V. I deserved it because I couldn't get all the stains out of his shirt. I deserved it because sometimes I complained that we never went anywhere, or that he didn't pay any attention to me. He told me that I was worthless and incompetent and demanding and I deserved to be punished. And I believed him. Until Helene taught me that I didn't have to. Until she taught me that I had rights, that I had value, that I deserved to be treated decently."

She seized the lectern with both hands, standing on tiptoe so she could lean out over it. "I am not alone. I am but one of the many, many women Helene helped. I came here today to speak for all of us, to say how much we valued her, how much we honored her, and how much we will all miss her. Our sympathy is with her family today, who knew her so much better, and therefore have so much more to miss. So we are sad, for her family, and for ourselves. Her death is a terrible loss. But..." Her voice rose, high and proud now, so very different from when she had begun to speak. "...there is a way in which Helene Streeter is not dead, because she lives in all of us to whom she has given a chance at a decent life. She lives in us every day, in the small triumphs she led us to, in each tentative but successful attempt we make to realize our selves, recognize our worth, and demand recognition of it from others. As each of us women she has helped goes through our lives, each small, shining triumph, like tiny beacons in the darkness, illuminates not just our individual lives, but also her memory. We shine because she taught us that we can." She stopped, smiling and tearful. "That's all I had to say. Thank you for listening." She stepped down and walked calmly back to her seat.

She was received there by two other women, their faces glowing. Her place was taken by a confident gray-haired woman who strode to the lectern with the manner of someone accustomed to public speaking. "Helene Streeter was my colleague, my mentor, and my friend," she said. Her voice was strong and clear, with just a faint touch of New York. "As a friend, I loved her for her warmth, her availability, her beauty and her cooking. As a colleague, I valued her for her wisdom and insight, her clear values, her compassion, and her ability to see both the forest and the trees. Helene was always there, as a peer, to serve as a sounding board, or give a second opinion, or to serve as a resource. She never stopped learning, thinking, discovering. She had an extraordinary mind, and she devoted it to helping others."

I glanced at Cliff, to see how he was handling this. Sometimes it can make you very sad to hear even the good things, or especially the good things, about someone you loved. His reaction shocked me. He was staring at the woman with a look of intense distaste.

"Most of you knew Helene in one, or both, of these roles, and so I don't need to dwell on them. We all know that Helene was a beautiful woman, a generous friend, and a gifted therapist. It is in her role as mentor that I think she should be remembered. For many of us, in what is often rather derisively called the 'helping profession,' Helene Streeter was a courageous pioneer. Through her writing and her speaking, she argued persuasively and forcefully for recognition of women's differences, women's values, and women's voices, in psychological theory. She used to say that she often felt like an invisible woman, as at conference after conference, in seminar after seminar, she would question her male peers' assumptions, pointing out that their research was done only on males, or that the assumptions they were using were based only on males, and of questionable value, since they excluded half the population, only to be met with bland smiles, or cheery nods that she 'had a point,' and to see the discussion continue as though she hadn't spoken."

She paused, gripping the lectern as her predecessor had, and looked out at us. "I'm sorry if I may offend some of you with what I say. This is not meant as some feminist diatribe, but as a tribute to Helene. In paying her tribute, I would remind you that Helene lived life passionately, without reservation. She worked hard, she ate heartily, she played enthusiastically. She met life head-on. She wouldn't want me, in recalling her, to mince words. She considered the recognition of a woman's point of view in life-cycle theory, and in the assessment of personality development, to be the most significant effort in her life. She should not slip out of our lives without some recognition of that effort. She was an early voice, and a strong voice, for women in psychology."