God is in the Pancakes (25 page)

When the minister enters he nods to her, then walks to the podium by the casket, which is draped with a large arrangement of flowers. I can practically hear Mr. Sands complaining about them. “Look at all those damn flowers, Grace!” he'd say. “What are they trying to do, make me look like I won the Kentucky Derby? If they really wanted me to rest in peace they would have buried me in my La-Z-Boy with a glass of scotch in my hand.” This thought makes me smile.

“Let us pray,” the minister says. “Compassionate and loving God, we gather to commend Frank Sands into Your most gracious hands. Lift us into the joy and peace of Thy presence. Grief is never an easy burden to bear, but in times like these often it's best to hear from those who were so directly influenced by the departed. So I invite Frank's daughter Jill to share some thoughts of her own.”

Jill Sands stands and tugs her jacket down as she walks to the podium. “Hello, everyone, and thank you for being here today,” she says, looking up from her notes and nodding at certain individuals in the crowd. “I guess every child knows and fears that this day will come, and yet that doesn't make it any easier or the words any easier to find.” She takes a deep breath before looking down again. “Many of you know the wonderful accomplishments of my father. When he came back from Korea, literally starting with one shovel, he built his small construction company into a successful real estate development firm. Over the course of his life he was an active member of the PTA. He was an expert woodworker, an avid wine collector, a gourmet cook, and yet—and yet none of that matters to me today.

“Because all I can think about right now is the time he taught me to drive.” She smiles. “One weekend, right before I turned sixteen, he took me out to the parking lot by his office and told me to get behind the wheel. After I'd gotten into the driver's seat and he'd buckled himself in on the passenger side, we sat there for a few minutes not moving and not saying anything. ‘You nervous? ' he finally asked. And when I nodded my head, he nodded back. ‘Good, I thought it was just me,' he laughed. Then he said, ‘I could have used a shot of bourbon before I left the house.' ‘Me too!' I replied.

“Anyway, when I finally mustered my nerve, I turned the key, put the car in reverse, and stepped on the gas hard. Well, not two seconds later we hear that sickening sound of something being crushed to oblivion beneath the tires. I screamed. Dad screamed. Then he jumped out of the car to see what I'd just killed. And as I sat there for what felt like an eternity—but what was probably three seconds—I silently sent up a prayer that if I hadn't, in fact, killed anything, I'd never drive again. Next thing I know I hear Dad laughing. Turned out I'd only run over a bottle of Coke that had rolled under the car.

“Well, when Dad got back in and told me to start her up again I just shook my head and told him I couldn't. I explained to him the deal I'd just made with God, and that this had probably been God's way of telling me that I shouldn't be on the roads anyway. Dad looked at me very seriously, and then, in that manner that those of us who knew him best would recall, he said, ‘Cut the shit, Jilly, and get on with it.' ”

Yeah, that does sound like Mr. Sands, I think.

“And that was Dad,” Jill continues, laughing herself. Then her breath catches. “That was Frank Sands. A man who was perfect and flawed and wise and selfish. He was smart and he was stubborn and sometimes I hated him. And sometimes he hated me, and a lot of those times he wasn't wrong to do so. But he always taught me the importance of keeping perspective on things. He launched me into the world and taught me to appreciate life. It's how I'll get through today because I know he'd tell me to ‘cut the shit' and to keep in mind that he'd led exactly the life he wanted to lead. That he'd married the woman he'd always wanted to be with and they loved each other fiercely. He'd tell me that he had no regrets, that he'd been blessed in life and that it was his time to go. I know how much he valued the members of his extended family and his friendships and I know he thought that's what made life worth living. Thank you all for being here today to honor that memory.” Jill gives one of those unhappy smiles, then walks back to her seat.

Isabelle stands and hugs Jill, and the two keep holding on to each other. That's when I feel the tears sliding down my cheeks, and I can't stop them. I cry for the loss of my friend Mr. Sands, who genuinely lived the life he wanted. I cry for my friend Izzy and her loss. I cry for the relationship they had, and for the love they shared through years full of curves. They stayed friends and stayed in love despite it all. I cry because, after all, I think that's what having faith really means.

“In its most raw form today we feel the homily ‘the Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away,' ” the minister says. “But that we grieve, that we mourn, that's a testament to the impact of that life and it reminds us that though Frank is no longer with us in corporeal form, his spirit remains. Please join me in reciting the twenty-third psalm.”

As we start reciting the prayer, I realize how reassuring it is to hear all of those voices coming together, echoing against the marble. Everyone is probably thinking about slightly different things—my mind usually wandered to my own stuff during group prayer—but when everyone chants together, at least your own voice is amplified.

“And let us say, ‘Amen.' ”
Amen.

People stand and begin filing out to the main reception area and that's when I catch sight of Jeff Potts from Hanover House.

“Grace,” he says, putting his arm around my shoulder and giving it a squeeze. “So good of you to come today.”

“Mrs. Sands asked me to,” I reply, then add, “But I wanted to come. I couldn't have missed it. Do you come to all of these?”

“No.” He shakes his head. “But I probably do go to more funerals than most—occupational hazard,” he says in a slightly jokey manner.

“And are they all like this?” I nod my head back toward the room we were just in as the coffin is being wheeled out by some of the maintenance men.

“Uh.” Jeff nods, his eyes fixing on a far-off place so that I can tell he's recalling some of the others. “Yes and no. Of course there's a certain similarity just in the prayers that are said—and I think that's done almost as a comfort, you know, like marching orders, so people can sort of mindlessly repeat the message, go through the experience as ritual. But I'll tell you, all you need is one person to really speak from the heart, the way they tell the story of how much a gesture that person did changed their life, influenced their thinking, or touched them in some way, it can just hit you. And phew, it's all over.”

Even though this is the first funeral I've been to, I think I know what he means. “Yeah,” I say, “I cried when Jill told that story.”

“Me too,” Jeff replies, then smiles at me.

I wait for him to say something Jeff Potts-like, like, “But don't tell the ladies that,” or possibly even more Pottsian, “Now be sure to tell the ladies that so they know I'm a sensitive guy,” but he doesn't, and his genuineness makes me like him more. “The Sandses are such good people. They really cared for each other so deeply.”

“I just wish they could have found a cure in time to save him.”

“I know,” he replies. “And I know this may be hard to hear, but considering the suffering and frustration Frank would have faced as the disease progressed, this”—Jeff tilts his head toward the casket—“was almost certainly a godsend.”

I press my lips together wondering what Jeff would say if he knew I was involved—me, Grace Manning, “agent of God's will.”
A godsend
. . . I doubt it, but it sure would be nice to believe he's right.

I'm one of the first to arrive back at the Sandses' house, and I volunteer to help prepare some of the fruit platters. I'm concentrating so hard on trying to carve perfectly shaped cantaloupe balls that I jump when I feel a hand on my waist.

“Oh, my,” Isabelle says. “I wasn't expecting that.”

“Me neither,” I reply. “I guess I was sort of in my own little cantaloupe world there for a minute.” This makes Isabelle smile, but I feel like I should say something less doofy, considering the circumstances. “It really was a nice service,” I say.

“Frank would have approved,” she replies. “And he would have been especially gratified by the turnout. Do you know what I did? Counted heads,” she says in a low voice. “Isn't that terrible?”

“Would it be terrible to ask how many heads you counted?”

Isabelle smiles, then takes my wet, cantaloupey hand and gives it a squeeze. “Yuck,” she says, now looking at her wet hand before wiping it directly on her dress. “See? There are advantages to wearing a frumpy dress after all.”

I laugh quietly. “It's really not so bad.”

Isabelle rolls her eyes; she's not buying it. “There were about a hundred and eighty people present, give or take. Some of them I could have done without,” she says quietly. “Like the old shrews who kept nagging me to get an autopsy to see if there'd been negligence.”

“Oh,” I say, my breath quickening, “so you didn't do an autopsy?”

“No,” she replies. “
We
know what took Frank. His poor body had been through enough and I was going to be damned if I would let anyone disturb him further.”

I nod, unable to speak.
We
do know what took Frank, and I feel my shoulders and back unclench. There won't be a probe. There won't be an investigation, a trial, or an official sentence of guilt. Now if only I can find a way to live with
myself
.

“Isabelle, what a beautiful service,” a woman says, coming over to us at the sink and putting her arms around her shoulders. “Come, let me make you a sandwich, you must be hungry.”

“Really, no, I'm not hungry at all. I think my body knows food wouldn't sit so well right now.”

“You have to eat, Iz,” she insists. “It'll make you feel better.”

“Hardly,” she replies, but the woman doesn't take no for an answer, takes Isabelle's hand and leads her into the living room. As she leaves the kitchen, the Sands daughters walk in and I look at them wondering how Lolly and I would be behaving to each other if we were in their position. Do you act like you always have, like nothing's changed? Or do you finally let everything from the past go?

“I'm just going to—” I say to no one in particular, then pick up my plate of misshapen cantaloupe balls and quickly head out of the kitchen.

“Hey,” Cole says, approaching me. He's wearing a navy blue blazer with a gray and blue striped rep tie over gray flannel pants. It's like he stepped out of the J. Crew College Admissions/Funeral Catalog.

“Hi,” I say. “Do you want any?” I offer the plate of mangled circle-esque fruit.

“Uh, no, that's okay.” He makes a face. “I'm not really hungry. You want to go outside or something?” He loosens his tie and unbuttons his top button as we walk out the door. The catalog model look is now complete. We sit down on the porch stairs and look out over the rest of the Hanover House complex.

“I got to spend a lot of time with your grandfather,” I say. “He was a really great guy. And your grandmother, she's amazing too.”

“I never really spent a lot of time with them myself,” Cole replies. “But do you know they were married almost twice as long as they were single?”

“It's kind of amazing. All my relationships seem to break up after the first kiss.”

“Well, I guess we know what that means,” says Cole, nodding his head.

“No, what?”

“You must be an awful kisser.” When he laughs, I freeze. It's as if Cole's channeling Mr. Sands. The delivery, the sound of his laugh, it sounds just like his grandfather. “Uh, I was just kidding,” Cole adds when he sees the expression on my face. “I mean, I'm sure you're great at it.” He grins impishly, and Mr. Sands flashes through again.

“Yeah, you know what they say, ‘Kissing is just the best way of getting people so close they can't see what's wrong with each other.' ” Cole nods and smiles at this, but it makes me think about Eric and all that's gone on between us. I think about how long we've been friends, and yet how quickly things seemed to have changed between us.
How is it possible that something that took years to build could break so fast?
Then I think about my mom and dad, and wonder how long their relationship was breaking before it gave out. And that makes me think about Mr. and Mrs. Sands, and how long their relationship lasted before I came along and shattered it to pieces. “I should get back inside to see if they need any help,” I say. But when I try to stand up, I feel my heart throbbing. I put my hand up to my chest and try to catch my breath.