Margaret from Maine (9781101602690) (25 page)

“Mom's in the living room,” Gordon said. “She has a fire going.”

“Okay. Where's Grandpa Ben?”

“The barn.”

Blake slipped out of her jacket and hung it on the back of a kitchen chair, then walked down the short connecting hallway and stepped into the living room. Her footsteps brought Margaret onto her feet.

“How did you hear?” Margaret asked. “I just called you and left a message with Phillip.”

“From Carrie at the Shop 'n Save. It was just one of those coincidence things. She had just heard from someone at the hospital. I ran some groceries home and then came right over.”

Margaret smiled. It was a tender smile. Blake went to her friend and hugged her.

“I'm sorry, Margaret. He was such a fine man.”

“Yes, he was,” Margaret answered.

“I have such warm feelings about Tom right now. And about you. Tommy Kennedy.”

Blake felt Margaret hug her harder. Blake closed her eyes and held her friend. She stayed in Margaret's arms for what seemed like a long time. When Margaret released her, Blake had to wipe her eyes.

“Sit, please,” Margaret said, clearing the sections of a newspaper to make room. “I wanted a fire this afternoon. Isn't that odd? I like the flames.”

“I love a fire,” Blake said, sitting. “And it's a day for it.”

“Yes, so do I. I always have. I've just been reading the death notices. Morbid, I suppose, but I wanted to see how they're done. We'll have to post one.”

“There's time for that, sweetie. We could do that tomorrow.”

“I know, but I feel if I can be efficient about things . . . it helps somehow.”

Blake reached over and held Margaret's hand.

“And how are you feeling?” Blake asked. “Has it sunk in at all?”

“Oh, a little. I mean, it was such a long time coming that no one can say it was a surprise. Poor Tom. I miss him, Blake. I miss him as a person. But I'm glad it's over. Glad for him, for me, for Ben, and for Gordon. It's the proverbial second shoe to drop. Finally it's come and that's a relief in a way. I'm being honest. I think I mourned for him so long that I don't have much left.”

“I understand,” Blake said.

“Would you like some tea? A drink?”

“No, I won't stay long. Sean is leaving tomorrow on a business trip, and I want to check in on Phillip.”

Margaret stared at the fire.

“I guess we need to have people back after the ceremony. I called my parents and they're going to come up. I'm having trouble knowing who else might show up. He's been gone from the world for so long.”

“I'm glad your folks are coming.”

“You know, I've thought about this day, about him dying, so many times that you would think it's been rehearsed and clear in my mind. But it's not. It's still a surprise. Nothing has changed, and then everything has changed. I can't quite get my mind around it.”

“It's all just happening now, Margaret.”

“I understand that in one part of my mind, but my heart is twisted up.”

Blake squeezed Margaret's hand. Then she moved closer. She pushed back Margaret's hair a little.

“You stood by him,” Blake whispered. “I've never seen anyone else stand by someone as you did. I've never said this to you, but it gave me faith. It gave me faith that humans could be true. It restored me. After Donny, I sometimes thought, well, Margaret is in the world, too. You were like a counterweight to all the craziness that went on around the divorce. You don't know, but many people saw it, sweetheart. Your son saw it and that's everything.”

Margaret hung her head. She pressed a wad of tissues to her eyes and cried softly. Blake hugged her again. Something in the fire popped and a small ash flew out and landed on the hearth. Margaret took a deep breath, then looked up and tried to smile.

“The fire feels good,” Blake said, rising. “How's Ben taking it?”

“He's Ben. It hurts, I know it hurts, but I keep thinking that this is the tail of the comet. We had the comet a long time ago. That's the phrase that keeps going around in my head.”

Blake bent down and hugged Margaret one last time. A thick wind hit the house again and the fireplace puffed out a small ball of smoke. Blake shook her friend's hand lightly and then went out. Gordon sat at the kitchen table eating a bowl of cereal.

“Do you know what a great mom you have?” Blake asked as she slipped into her coat.

But Gordon didn't hear. He had earbuds in and Blake realized he had music jamming his hearing.

Chapter Twenty-nine

H
ow strange it was, Margaret thought, that on the day of her husband's funeral she must also be a hostess. She wondered about it as a custom, how it had become expected. Were the details of food and housecleaning supposed to take one's mind off the tragedy at hand? If so, it didn't work particularly well, because as Margaret moved around the kitchen, trying to keep her black dress clean and not spotted with sink water, she merely felt put-upon.

But at least her mother was there. Whatever differences they had had in the past, she could count on her mom. Her parents had arrived the night before and parked their Jay Feather camper back behind the barn, plugging into a receptacle that Ben had placed there for them years ago. Her father was dressing in the camper; her mother was upstairs, slipping into her own mourning dress. Ben and Gordon had already driven over to the cemetery. Everything was running a little late.

“Mom, we have to get a move on,” Margaret called up the stairs, her hands still wet from the sink.

“Right there, honey.”

“The caterers are pulling in now.”

“Okay.”

Margaret returned to the kitchen and watched the catering van pull close to the house. Two young girls jumped out of the front. Margaret was relieved to see an older woman climb out from the middle of the vehicle. Almost immediately the woman began giving the girls orders. The girls began sliding doors open and ducking inside while the woman came up the stairs and knocked. Margaret let her inside. She was a short, wiry woman who smelled faintly of cigarette smoke, but she gave off an air of competency as well. She wore black trousers and a black smock. She held out her hand; one of the knuckles, Margaret noticed, had been jammed and flattened into something resembling a tree burl.

“Dorothy Gibson, Mrs. Kennedy. I'm sorry about your loss,” the woman said.

“Thank you, Dorothy. Please call me Margaret.”

“We're a whisker late, I know, but don't you worry about anything. We have everything in hand. Just point me to the kitchen and we'll take care of things from there.”

Margaret gave Dorothy Gibson a brief introduction to the kitchen. Margaret was pleased to see Dorothy did not stand on ceremony; she opened cabinets, poked around in the refrigerator, and otherwise made herself familiar with her tools.

“This will all do nicely,” Dorothy said when they finished. “You'll be back around two?”

“I think so.”

“No worries. We'll have some appetizers ready to go, then we'll wait about a half hour after most of the people arrive to serve. People like a drink first. Does that sound about right?”

“Perfect. Thank you.”

Finally Margaret's mom stepped into the kitchen. She wore a black dress that was slightly baggy on her but suitable. She looked good, actually, Margaret noted. She had lost weight and had been doing yoga with a women's group and her posture and bearing seemed better. The softer winters agreed with her. Her skin held a better tone than when she had lived in Maine.

“This is my mom, Renee,” Margaret said, introducing the two women.

“Daddy should have the car ready,” Renee said after shaking Dorothy's hand. “I saw him from the upstairs window.”

The two girls arrived with dishes covered by foil. They were cute, probably high schoolers, Margaret saw, and they wore matching black skirts and sweaters. Margaret shook their hands, too, when they put down their dishes, then she corralled her mother and led her outside.

“What a day,” Renee said when she stood on the stairs waiting for the car. “You couldn't ask for a prettier one.”

“I'm glad it's a pretty day for Thomas.”

“Me, too,” Renee said.

Margaret felt her mom slip her arm through her own. They stood in the sunlight until her dad arrived with the car.

* * *

Ben Kennedy did not know what he thought about cremation. He didn't mind the concept, exactly, but it seemed a bit too tidy. He had moved enough final things in his life to know the weight of the dead, and it was somehow that weight that reassured him in its endings. The small urn full of ashes that stood on the table beside the hole—a posthole, really, Ben thought, nothing more—contained the mortal remains of his son, Thomas, and that seemed impossible. Cows, dogs, cats, they required spadework, sometimes the backhoe, and he had never considered it before, but the process of burying the creature had been its good-bye. He did not know if he could find the same finality in a jar of ashes, regardless of what the undertaker, Todd Lyle, told him about such things. But, he decided, now was not the time to raise such an issue. Walking beside his grandson in the good October light, Ben made a conscious decision to let things go. Whatever had happened to his boy was finished now. That was as clear as a bell.

Ben saw the parish priest, Father Kamili, standing and talking to some of the mourners. Hard to miss him, Ben realized, the priest being an African. From what he understood, half the Catholic churches in the country now had priests from away because the local boys didn't buy into it any longer. That was all right by him. A priest always seemed a postage stamp to Ben, not the whole letter, and when he came up he shook the man's hand and introduced him to his grandson.

“I see the resemblance,” Father Kamili said, shaking Gordon's hand. “Naturally.”

“And I'm John Harigan,” a man standing beside the priest said, extending his hand. “I doubt you remember me, but I played football with Tommy at Millinocket. Some of the boys are showing up.”

“Well, that's fine,” Ben said, trying to place him.

It didn't seem possible that a man Tom's age was bald and spread out into his suit jacket the way this man seemed to be. But then, Ben figured, his own son was dead, turned to ash, and whoever would have guessed that could have come to pass?

Then cars began arriving in numbers. Something about the position of the sun caught the chrome and anything shiny on the vehicles and flashed it back at them, the refracted light running like cats across the dull grass. Ben stood back behind the table with his son's ashes, doing his best to recognize the waves of mourners walking slowly up the hill. It was the casket that was missing, he realized, his eyes giving nothing away. The casket gave things a substantial feeling. Burying a can of ash didn't seem worth gathering people for. A casket, on the other hand, spoke to the weight of the event.

“Hello, yes, hello,” Ben said. “Thanks for coming.”

Old faces. New faces. A group of seven American Legion boys, old buzzards, really, walked up the hill and got ready to do something or other. Ben found it difficult to concentrate. He wasn't sure what he had expected, but this wasn't it. He felt annoyed and cranky; what were they all doing here? Thomas was gone, his son was gone, and that wasn't something all the dark clothing in the world could alter.

In the midst of his confusion, he felt his grandson put his hand on his elbow and guide him to his seat. He was glad for that. He wanted a rest. His legs felt weak and his breathing moved solidly in his chest. Like ice melting. Like tea spreading in a cup of hot water.

“Mom's here,” Gordon whispered when Ben sat down, his grandson's breathing tickling him slightly. “They just pulled up.”

* * *

So this was it, Margaret thought, trying to weigh the sight of so many old friends and neighbors scattered across the hillside. She looked out the window, her forehead nearly against the glass, and tried to sort out her feelings. The October sunlight felt in contradiction to their business. It called for the harvest, for the taking up, not the putting under. But maybe, too, it was weather for a final tally. At least, she thought, they did not have rain. Rain might have been too much. Thomas did not deserve rain.

“I guess they want us in here,” her dad said, pointing to the open spaces marked by orange cones for the family. He pulled the car in and shut it off. How strange it felt to be in the backseat by herself; it was a return to childhood, her parents driving while she occupied herself with the passing scenery. But today was different, of course, and she waited while Mr. Lyle, the undertaker, stepped forward and opened her door.

“Good afternoon, Margaret,” Mr. Lyle said. “People are gathered.”

“I see,” Margaret said, stepping out.

“It's a beautiful day.”

“Yes, it is.”

“There's been a small change to the program events,” Mr. Lyle said, his voice going low, as if revealing something he was unsure about. “If it's all right with you.”

“What do you mean?”

“They've sent an honor guard,” Mr. Lyle said. “These are really quite remarkable young men. I didn't agree to any change until I had an opportunity to speak with you. It just occurred . . . the honor guard, I mean. They just arrived.”

“Do you mean the American Legion men?” Margaret asked, confused.

“No, this is an honor guard. I gather it's an elite guard. There's a form you can fill out to have an honor guard for veterans . . . for their funerals, but this wasn't my doing. I didn't think you'd want that particular service.”

“How did they get here? How did they know . . .”

“The squad leader . . . I'm sorry, I don't honestly know the vernacular here. I am not a military man myself. The squad leader said it was arranged in Washington. Because of the medal, I suppose. It's a little unclear to me, too.”

“Yes, all right,” Margaret said, not entirely sure she was called on to make a decision. It was possible that all Congressional Medal winners received an honor guard. And what was it Mr. Lyle said? They could fill out a form and be provided with an honor guard? She felt annoyed with Todd Lyle; he pretended formality and politeness, but his eye remained on the bottom line and she found that a particularly disagreeable trait in an undertaker.

How peculiar it all was. She watched heads turn to see her as she began up the hillside.
As if I were a bride,
she thought, amazed. She walked alone, her parents tagging behind her. Then she saw Blake. Sweet Blake, who came close and kissed her cheek.

“If you need anything,” Blake whispered, “anything at all.”

“I'm all right, Blake. I'm numb, actually.”

Then the ring of people grew around her and she greeted as many familiar faces as she could. Old friends. Friends of Thomas's, friends of hers. Acquaintances, a few farmers, a milk buyer probably there for Ben. As she made her way closer to the small awning, she realized she should have given the interment more thought. She had left it in Mr. Lyle's hands, and, as she had already noted, he did things on a short purse. There was nothing wrong with the arrangement, but neither did it speak to Thomas's warmth and character. It was a Chevrolet funeral, and Margaret felt a short stab to the heart when she realized her husband deserved more.

The priest, Father Kamili, led them in an Our Father when Margaret finally sat beside Ben. She felt Gordon's hand resting on her shoulder; his other hand rested on his grandfather's. She reached back and covered his hand with hers.

Then ritual. One of the sacraments, she remembered. Strangely, she recalled the responses, the meter of the ceremony, with little effort. Father Kamili handled the service well. His voice had a pleasing lilt; a Caribbean tumble that made his sentences end in unpredictable ways. Ben had been correct to want a priest, she understood now. Belief or no belief, eternal life or no eternal life, the ceremony gave structure to a moment without structure.

When Father Kamili finished, the honor guard appeared on the crest of the hill.

She felt Gordon's fingers dig slightly into her shoulder. The soldiers—there was no denying it—looked resplendent. They carried rifles and marched in perfect step, not rushed, not hasty in any detail. She felt people turn and draw in their collective breath. Margaret glanced at the American Legion fellows, the elderly men in ill-fitting uniforms, and she saw them settle back in their chairs, as if they understood they would not be needed. The guard came solemnly down the hill, their buckles shining, their steps precise. They looked beautiful and young, masculine in the finest way, and she realized they did not move their eyes to accommodate their feet, did not look down. One of them, the soldier farthest on the left, commanded them, saying words in a short, military grunt that made little sense to her. When they arrived at the awning, the commanding officer produced a flag—where had it been? she had not seen it—and the men began to fold it. She had seen such things on television, everyone had, but she had never seen it in person. She squeezed Gordon's hand and reached over and took Ben's arm. She felt him trembling.

Yes,
she thought,
this is what Thomas deserved.
This is a small part of what he deserved.

Behind her, she heard Gordon begin to sob. She stood quickly and collected him in her arms. She held him fiercely. His sobs would not cease.

“Your daddy was such a good man,” she whispered passionately in his ear. “You should be very, very proud of him. You're his son and you have his goodness and I am proud of you.”

He nodded against her. From behind him, she watched Blake step closer and take Gordon's free arm.

Then it was time to receive the flag. She sat slowly and waited.

“On behalf of the president of the United States and the people of a grateful nation,” the commanding guard said in a clear, well-modulated voice, “may I present this flag as a token of appreciation for the honorable and faithful service your loved one rendered this nation?”

“Thank you,” Margaret whispered.

The flag felt heavy and dense, a perfect triangle, the stars facing upward. Margaret took it and held it on her lap. The commanding soldier stepped back and saluted her while the rest of his squad marched slowly up the hill. When they gained a hundred feet from the awning they came to attention, then pointed their rifles at the distant clouds and fired a volley. The sound shocked Margaret. Then a second volley, and a third, and Margaret, loosely conscious of their numbers, realized it was a twenty-one-gun salute. Seven times three. The smoke from the small explosions turned white in the October afternoon. She clung to Gordon's hand and squeezed mercilessly when a lone trumpeter blew taps from the peak of the hill. In those sweet, sad notes, she did her best to say good-bye to Thomas.
Dear man,
she thought.
Rest
.