Dove Season (A Jimmy Veeder Fiasco) (14 page)

I tried to squeeze words out, but I was laughing too hard. I had a good one. But every time I started, my words were quashed by a wave of laughter. The fact I couldn’t get it out made it even funnier to me. I took three deep breaths. Pop did the same. A brief moment of silence. Both of us wiped the tears from our faces. When I got out my next punch line, “I lost my cumquat in the Holy Father’s rectory,” it was all over.

We laughed hard. For five minutes. Pop and I laughed through our deeper pain until we could only feel the physical agony of extended laughter. We laughed past cancer. We laughed past death. And every time it felt like it was dissipating, another round of laughter arose.

Through his laughter Pop said, “I don’t want to play anymore.”

“You can come up with a few more,” I said, massaging my painful cheeks.

Pop took in a few gasps. “No, Jim. I’m done,” he said and then snorted loudly.

“What do you mean?” My laughter slowed.

“I fold,” he said, his laughter uncontrollable to the point of hysteria. His smile both real and grotesque.

And while we both laughed with tears streaming down our faces, I stood up and walked to the side of Pop’s bed. Pop reached out his hand and even without the benefit of sight found my hand and clutched the top of it. The skin on the back of his hands looked paper thin, the veins deep blue under his darkly spotted skin. I reached past Pop and took the extra pillow. Pop laughed. I pressed the pillow over Pop’s laughing face with one hand, holding his hand with the other. He didn’t resist. Almost imperceptibly, he clutched my hand a little tighter. And I held the pillow, laughing and crying.

I could feel Pop laughing underneath the pillow. Laughing as I held the pillow tighter to his face. His shoulders shook. Laughing the Big Laugh. The once-a-year laugh. Pop’s final laugh.

And then nothing. Ten seconds or ten minutes, I have no idea. But it wasn’t until my own laughter died down that I realized that Pop’s had, too. I lifted the pillow from his face and set it at his feet. He was smiling. Pop was dead.

I stayed in the room for another half hour, sitting and holding Pop’s lifeless hand. His fingers still warm on my skin. Trying to lose myself inside it, I stared at a spot in space. I didn’t want to think about what had just happened, but I wasn’t ready to leave. I hadn’t been ready to say good-bye. I didn’t know how.

When I eventually walked into the hall, I felt like I was in a trance. I grabbed the nearest nurse and told her that my father had stopped breathing.

She rushed into the room, took his pulse, and felt his breath. At the base of Pop’s bed was his chart. She read it, and then her movements slowed. She had read that he had a DNR request. She glanced at the clock and made a note on the chart. She didn’t cover his face. I remember thinking,
Don’t they usually do that?
She took the extra pillow off the bed and set it on the chair. She pressed the sheet down around him, smoothing it out. Was that procedure, or did she just not know what to do? It was as if she was trying to make the room more presentable.

Realizing I was still there, she turned to me and said what I already knew.

“He’s gone. I’m sorry.”

She had no idea.

The rest of the day was a haze. In fact, the rest of the week felt like bits and pieces of barely conscious activity.

I vaguely remember talking to Angie that day. Her getting me a cup of water and sitting with me on a bench by the parking lot. I remember her talking, but I don’t remember a single thing she said. I smoked a pack of cigarettes. She put her arm around me once. I remember that. I put my head on her shoulder. Her hair smelled like dandruff shampoo. I know I didn’t cry, but my eyes hurt later. I don’t think I blinked enough.

I remember Bobby showing up and tossing me a fresh pack of smokes. Angie must have called and told him I was low. He drove me home and hung around the house, keeping a sharp eye on me. We drank beers. I smoked more. We talked. I remember holding up my end of the conversation. But again, I have no idea what I said. I was so comfortable around Bobby that we could talk without thinking. It was automatic. It could have been baseball box scores, horror movies, or my dead father. I have no idea what our conversation was about. I know I didn’t tell him that I had killed Pop.

I don’t remember falling asleep, but I woke up the next morning in my bed. Bobby had stayed the night. So protective that he had slept on the floor in the same room.

By the time I finished my first cup of coffee, I was better, but still in rough shape. I went from borderline catatonic to raw nerve. I had it under control, but it wouldn’t take much. It was hard to think about anything beyond what I had done. The thought was a constant distraction. Pop’s death wasn’t a surprise. It was the punch line to a very long setup.

I had done some mental preparation for Pop’s death. But I hadn’t mentally prepared for killing him myself.

I wouldn’t describe what I felt as guilt. Maybe it was my remarkable powers of rationalization, but Pop had asked me. It was what Pop wanted. It hurt because it had become necessary. It hurt because I was the one that could do it. Cancer would have killed him soon enough, but I couldn’t feel anything past that pillow.

The “Christian” thing to do would have been to let him suffer. Do we want people to suffer that much? We must, if we don’t accept that there is ever a reason to end life early. There were plenty of good reasons. Was I supposed to believe that there was no amount of pain that justified an early death? What was the point of living if life was torture?

Pop deserved better. I knew that. Pop deserved less pain. Pop deserved some dignity. Pop deserved a lot of things that I could never have given him. All I could give him was a hooker and a way out. That was the most I could do. I did something that I hated to do, because it was the right thing to do. It was his decision and my only choice. But there was still a part of me that felt like I had failed him.

Bobby left in the morning, promising to check in later that day. I made a joke about him acting like my mother, but I was glad I had a friend like him.

Earlier while we were having coffee, I almost told him how Pop had died. I came close. But before I confessed, I decided to keep it to myself. I wasn’t afraid of what he’d say or do. I knew he’d keep it to himself. I knew he wouldn’t judge. But if I told him, it would be his, too. It wasn’t. It was mine and Pop’s. Nobody else needed to know. Nobody else needed to live with that. Not even Bobby.

Mike called just after Bobby left. After expressing his condolences, he told me that his mother, my Aunt Phyllis, was on her way over to the house. “Let her take over. Let her do it. You shouldn’t have to deal with that stuff, and you don’t need to. I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking,
I don’t want to be a burden
. Trust me. You won’t be burdening her. She lives for this kind of stuff. I think she likes planning funerals more than weddings. And she loves weddings.”

“She doesn’t have to,” I said. “Pop isn’t really her family.”

“But you are. Down here, we don’t draw lines that hard. Funeral ain’t for Uncle Jack, may he rest in peace. Funeral is for everyone still around. But for you, mostly. To give your father a good send-off. Let her do the work. She’ll handle the flowers, the food. You still decide on the big stuff, just let her throw the party. So to speak. Sorry, I know it’s not a party, you’re not celebrating, but…aw, hell, I’m sorry, Jim. I liked Uncle Jack.”

“Don’t worry about it, Mike. I think Pop would’ve wanted it to be a party. We ain’t Irish, don’t mean it can’t be a wake.”

Aunt Phyllis came over about a half hour later. She was a stout woman in her mid-fifties with strong, defined biceps and a bouffant hairdo. She was a farmer’s wife, meaning she worked twice as hard as most people. She split her time between doing the books, managing the paperwork, keeping a household, and volunteering all her spare time to the church and school. She was accustomed to a hard day’s work. She was also a talker on par with some coke addicts I’ve known.

After a warm bear hug and some real tears, I led Aunt Phyllis into the living room. We both sat on the couch, and she began her spiel.

“Just put your faith in me. It’ll be beautiful. I get my flowers from Mexicali, so it won’t cost so much. And don’t worry about money—I already got a collection going. Your father, he was in Rotary, they’ll help out. I called Tony Garewal. He’ll pit some beef for the reception. Everyone else already knows what to bring. Food is never a problem. Margie makes the potato salad. Jeannie, the beans. Doris, the rice. We’ve done this so many times, we could write a book. Speaking, I brought you a lasagna. It’s in the car. Forty minutes on three hundred. You eat meat, right? You didn’t become one of those, did you?”

I shook my head and gave her a weak smile.

“Did your father make any arrangements, tell you what he wanted?” she said, back to business.

“He didn’t want to be cremated. Never explained why, but I suppose a lot of people are creeped out by the idea. He has a plot in Holtville at Terrace Park. It’s already bought.”

“Next to your mother’s,” she said, crossing herself and looking to the floor.

“Yeah, he bought them together.”

Aunt Phyllis looked up, slamming a smile onto her face. “That’s good. Makes it easier. Jack was a veteran. Army’ll give you a headstone and a flag you can keep. For free. He paid with his service. That’s nice they do that. Do you want to have the service at the Catholic church in Holtville or El Centro?”

“Pop wasn’t Catholic, just Mom. I don’t think he would have wanted it at a church.”

“Oh,” she said, and then after an uncomfortable moment, she continued. “That was Jack. He did his own thinking. Don’t you worry. If anyone’s going to slip into heaven sideways, it’s going to be your father.”

I laughed and nodded. “I was thinking of having a small memorial at the funeral home. I’m going to head over there today and figure out the details. I don’t think Pop wanted anything extravagant. Something simple, a reception afterward.”

“You using Tanner Brothers in El Centro?” she asked.

“Yeah, unless you know better. Only one I could remember from the couple funerals I’d been to.”

“They’re good. Know their business. I helped with Sammy Alvarez’s funeral a month ago. They did a wonderful job.”

“Thank you so much for all your help,” I said sincerely. “It means a lot to me and the memory of Pop, of Jack. It really does.”

“Well, I’m sure you’ve got a lot on your mind. You need your time to mourn, too. Least we can do is help about the piddly things. Consider that work done. I’ll get the girls together, make some calls and the arrangements. You go meet with Tanner Brothers.”

“Keep the receipts and I’ll pay you back for everything.”

“We’ll talk about that later.”

“Aunt Phyllis. I want to pay.” I tried to sound stern.

“Did your father have a lawyer?” she said, clearly closing the subject.

“Clem Fidler,” I said.

“Red? Sure. They were friends. He’ll have some paperwork for you, I’m sure. Oh, if you write the obituary, I can get it in quick at the
Post-press
. Or I can write it.”

“No, I’d like to write it.”

I couldn’t remember if the preferred term was funeral home, funeral parlor, or mortuary. Whichever it was, I walked into the air-conditioned foyer. I was immediately greeted by a small man in a traditional black suit. He was about twenty-five, but his slick-backed hair was already gray at the temples.

“I’m Mister Carney. How can I be of service?” He spoke in a whisper that was slightly affected and filled with faux comfort. That kind of “there, there” voice one used when speaking to a crying child, but not really giving a shit.

He was younger than me, so I wasn’t about to call him Mister anything. “I’m here about Jack Veeder. I called about an hour ago.” I wanted to get this over with as soon as possible.

Carney walked me to a small vestibule that smelled like rotting candy, the product of some off-brand air freshener that probably advertised itself as “Spring Meadow” or “Summer Potpourri.” He lifted a clipboard off one of the chairs and handed it to me. There was a pen on a string tied to the top, and “Tanner Brothers” was written in large letters with a permanent marker on the back. Apparently Tanner Brothers had some issues with clipboard theft.

It took about twenty minutes to fill out all the forms. And even then, I had to leave a lot of spaces blank. It hadn’t occurred to me that I would need Pop’s social security number or his army information. There wasn’t a bell or anything, so I wasn’t sure how I was supposed to inform Carney I was done. Yelling down the hall seemed inappropriate for a place with dead people.

I wandered the halls looking for Carney. Every door I peeked my head into, I expected to find a corpse or a zombie, but it was just offices or empty viewing rooms. Eradicating any zombie issues was probably first priority with any funeral home. On my sixth door, I found Carney’s office. He was behind his desk, eating a sandwich. It smelled like liverwurst, which was an unusual choice. It smelled a little corpsey.

“Sorry to interrupt your lunch.” I stepped into the small office and held out the clipboard. “I’m going to need to call you with some of the information. I should have it at the house.”

“That’s normal,” he said, setting his sandwich aside and taking the clipboard. He picked something out of his teeth with his fingernail.

We set a day and time for the memorial (they would handle all the necessary arrangements), music (I would supply it), flowers (Aunt Phyllis), and who would perform the eulogy (I had no idea). I decided on a closed casket, but allowed for a viewing the day before for those who just needed to see a dead body. Due to the heat, I chose to make the burial itself a private affair the day after the memorial. And finally, it was time for me to decide on my choice of coffin.

Carney walked me to their showroom. It was a long room with about a dozen coffins, some closed, some open. It was no different than a car dealership. Last year’s models were pushed to the front for quicker turnover. Sheets taped to each model listed all sorts of extras: water sealers, moisture retardants, satin, silk, even a pillow would set you back an extra hundred bucks. The children’s coffins were to one side—in two sizes, one for babies, the other one for three-to twelve-year-olds, although dwarfs and larger pets would probably fit. It appeared that children’s coffins only came in powder blue or pink.

I quickly learned that coffins were not inexpensive. They had less pricey coffins, but they looked glue-gun cheap. They looked like they were made out of recycled cubicle partitions, down to the tweedy, blue fabric that lined the exterior. Those coffins still cost six hundred bucks, but nothing compared to the three grand for the Lady of Guadalupe model that looked like an East LA pachuco’s van conversion. There was no middle ground, only two choices: buy the cheap model and display one’s tightwaddery at the most delicate of moments or pay through the nose for something that is going to be permanently buried in the ground.

“Where are your mid-range models? Something nice for about a grand?” I asked.

“I’m sorry, but what we have here is our entire stock.”

“These are my choices? Just these? You don’t got cheaper ones in the back that don’t look like crap? Factory seconds, maybe. Returns? One with a couple of scuffs?”

“There are payment options, if you can’t afford it,” Carney began.

I ignored him. “Pop would have been okay with a pine box, but I don’t really have the time or energy to build it now. Who has the energy to haggle when they’re grieving?”

“We have models in a number of price ranges,” he said, guiding me toward the nasty fabric coffins.

“You work on commission, don’t you?”

“I am only trying to help you in this, your time of need.”

I laughed. “You didn’t answer the question. You get a commission on coffin sales?”

“Yes sir, I do. And we prefer the term
casket
.”

I slammed the lid of one of the coffins. “There is no good goddamn reason why these coffins should be so expensive. Does it eat at you when you up-sell the higher-end model to the parents of some dead kid? Hell, the kid’s coffins cost as much as the grown-up ones. They use half of the materials.”

Carney leaned in, having to look up. The soft sweetness in his voice was gone. “Look, man. I know it’s bullshit. I’m just trying to make a living. The boss here is an asshole. The customers are all sad and shit. Give me a fucking break. My job is depressing enough. You’re the first person to complain. Ever. It’s fucked up, but everyone else is happy to pay.”

I took a little under a minute, scanning the coffins.

“Yeah. Sorry. I didn’t mean to take it out on you. Doing your job and all that shit.”

Carney stepped back, giving me room. “It’s okay. Your dad just died. That blows.”

“Now sell me a fucking coffin,” I said.

Red Fidler came out from his office the moment I walked into the lobby. He took my outstretched hand and gave me a hug with the other. “I’m sorry, James. I considered Jack my best friend—don’t know if you knew that. He was a good man. I’m going to miss the son of a bitch.”

We walked back to his office.