Rules Get Broken (18 page)

“Mr. Herbert, we can certainly remove some of the eye shadow if you’d like, and we can remove most of the mascara if that’s what you want. But the hair is a problem. I don’t know how to say this delicately, but…we lost a great deal of your wife’s hair while we were shampooing it, and the only way we could correct for that was to tease her hair the way you see it and then use hair spray to keep what hair was left in place. I’m afraid if we do anything more with your wife’s hair now, we might wind up with a much worse problem.” He let this sink in and then continued. “I do hope you understand that we’ve done our best.”

“I understand,” I replied, hearing my voice crack. “I do. You can’t erase the fact she’s gone through hell. I should have realized that. I just wasn’t thinking. I’m sure you’ve done all you can.” I extended my hand.

“Again, thank you for letting me come here today. I truly appreciate it.”

I looked once more at the stranger in the casket who was once my wife, shuddered in disbelief, and left the chapel without another word.

One of the many telephone calls I made on Monday was to Don Brady, a college buddy since my freshman year who now lived outside of Chicago. As soon as Don heard the news, he told me he’d come to New York for Peg’s funeral, but added that his wife, Lynne, wouldn’t be able to join him because she’d just given birth to their first child, a boy. I had known Lynne was due sometime in August, but I hadn’t given her pregnancy a thought since Peg went into the hospital. Anyway, I told Don I understood and thanked him profusely for being willing to make the trip.

He flew into LaGuardia Airport late Monday night, picked up a rental car and checked into a bed and breakfast in Cold Spring Harbor, a small village just west of Huntington. Shortly before eleven the next morning, the back doorbell rang, and there was Don. He talked with my parents and me for a while and then suggested the two of us grab lunch somewhere.

“I don’t know if I’m up to that, Don,” I replied dismissively. “I had a terrible night’s sleep last night, my nerves are shot and I feel like hell warmed over. Maybe some other time?”

“I think you could use a break now,” Don pressed. “Come on. A change of scenery for a few hours. A little fresh air. It’ll be good for you. Isn’t there some place you’d like go?”

“Well, we could go to the yacht club, I suppose. It’s a weekday, so it won’t be crowded, and we could eat outside. Not the worst idea, I guess, but…I don’t know, Don. Doesn’t seem right somehow.”

“Come on,” Don urged. “We’ll be gone an hour or two at most. Trust me. You’ll feel better if you go.”

“What do you think, Mom?” I asked, hoping she’d been listening to Don’s entreaties.

“I think it’s a good idea. You should go.”

“You’ll be okay with the kids?”

“I’ll be fine. Go.”

“Guess that settles it,” I said, turning back to Don. “But I still think I’m going to be lousy company.”

“You’re not going out to lunch to entertain me,” Don said with a smile as he got up from the kitchen table. “I’m supposed to entertain you.”

We arrived at the club around twelve-fifteen and entered the clubhouse from the side entrance. Ellen Walsh, the wife of the club’s general manager and the hostess for lunch that day, was standing on the far side of the dining room talking to one of the waitresses. When she saw me, her eyes opened wide in surprise and then filled with tears as she rushed over to me, arms outstretched. She hugged me for several seconds before pushing herself away to speak.

“I just heard about Mrs. Herbert not even half an hour ago,” Ellen exclaimed, wiping away her tears. “I couldn’t believe it. I said to the woman who told me that she must have made a mistake, but she said no, it was true. Oh, Mr. Herbert, I am so, so sorry.”

“Thank you, Ellen,” I replied, not knowing what else to say.

The three of us stood awkwardly in the corner of the dining room, Ellen trying to regain her composure, me trying not to lose mine, and Don wondering what was going to happen next.

Ellen wiped her eyes once more and shook her head. “I’m sorry,” she said. “You don’t need people carrying on like this, I’m sure.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I assured her. “There’ve been a lot of tears the last two days, and I’m sure there’ll be a lot more before this is all over.”

She nodded but appeared to be regretting her show of emotion. “Will you be having lunch today, Mr. Herbert?” she asked, her normal businesslike demeanor returning. I said yes, and she led us to a table on the outside patio.

“And can I get you something to drink, Mr. Herbert?” she asked as she handed us our menus.

“I’ll have a Myers dark rum and orange juice, please,” I answered, instantly feeling guilty. Guilty for ordering a drink I enjoyed, and guilty for even being here in this beautiful spot on this beautiful day.

“And you, sir?”

“I’ll have a Budweiser, please,” Don answered, true to form.

We sat and waited for our drinks, looking out at Northport Harbor. The yacht club was positioned halfway up a hill overlooking the harbor, so from our vantage point on the patio, we could see hundreds of boats below us on their moorings. The water was a brilliant blue, reflecting the sky above, and looked alive as the breeze ruffled its surface. Little puffs of white cloud skittered across the blue sky as the boats swung on their mooring lines, almost in perfect unison—first in one direction, then in another, always trying to head into the wind, always one step behind. The club’s flags waved crisply while halyards on dozens of boats slapped in the breeze against aluminum masts. The scene before us was so beautiful and peaceful—so different from the chaos and white noise I felt inside.

Our drinks arrived, and I lifted my glass and tilted it in Don’s direction. “To health,” I toasted. “Nothing else matters.”

“Got that right,” Don agreed, tapping the mouth of his bottle against the side of my glass.

“So tell me about your son. You and Lynne must be excited.”

Don looked at me for a second and then looked out at the harbor. “We are,” he answered softly.

“What’s his name?”

“Donnie,” Don replied, turning to face me again. “Donald Brady III, to be exact. After my dad and me.”

“That’s great. I’m happy for you. Happy for you both.”

“Thanks. Unfortunately, though, not everything turned out like we had hoped.” He looked out at the harbor again before continuing. “Donnie has Down’s syndrome. Which, needless to say, came as a bit of a shock to us. We never expected to have a baby with a problem like that. Never gave the possibility a thought. And yet here we are, parents of a Down’s syndrome child.”

“Holy shit, Don.”

“Yeah, my reaction exactly. When the obstetrician came out of the delivery room and told me about Donnie, I knew he’d made a mistake. Or was talking to the wrong father. And then I realized there wasn’t any mistake, and he was talking to the right father.”

“Jesus, Don, I’m sorry. I don’t know what to say. Except I’m sorry.”

“There is nothing to say,” Don answered matter-of-factly. “That’s the way it is. Period.”

“Simple as that?” I asked.” ‘That’s the way it is’?”

“Hey, it’s bad news,” Don replied. “Real bad news. There’s no other way to describe what’s happened. But the world hasn’t come to an end. And worse things could have happened.” Don paused, looking for the right words. “I think…Fate deals most people a bad hand sooner or later,” he continued. “The hand Fate’s dealt to Lynne and me with Donnie may not be the hand we wanted, but that’s the hand we got and the one we’re going to live with for the rest of our lives, whether we want to or not. The important thing is how we deal with that hand. We can either believe our situation is as bad as it could possibly be, and wallow in that thought, or we can be thankful our situation isn’t any worse.”

We both looked out at the harbor, each of us deep in thought.

“You know what I’m thinking?” I asked, breaking a silence that had lasted several minutes.

Don looked at me from across the table, eyebrows raised, questioning.

“I’m thinking what you said applies to me, too.”

“Applies to everyone, my friend. No exceptions.”

Don picked at the label on his empty beer bottle while I stared at what was left of my drink.

And then we both started to cry.

Peg was buried on Wednesday, August 20th. Paul Virag, the funeral director, told me Tuesday night that if I wanted to have a few minutes alone with Peg before they closed her casket, I needed to be at the funeral home by nine Wednesday morning. He made a point of saying I couldn’t stay long. We had to be at St. John’s at nine forty-five, he explained, and his people needed time to remove all the flowers from the chapel, seal Peg’s casket, load it into the hearse and travel the mile and a half to the church in summer morning traffic.

So at nine sharp, I pulled into the Tarasan-Virag parking lot with my father and mother, the children at home in the care of one of my cousins. Peg’s mother had become extremely upset during the wake the night before, and Peg’s sisters decided it would be best if they all went directly to the church rather than to the funeral home first. I hadn’t asked anyone else to join me, so the three of us were the only people there. As we reached the top of the steps, Paul opened one of the doors. He reminded us of our limited time and shepherded us down the hall to our chapel.

Except for Paul and one gray-haired man standing in the corner, his hands clasped behind his back, we were alone in the huge room. Somehow understanding the order in which something like this should be done, my mother and father approached the casket first, hand in hand. They stood in front of it for perhaps a minute, heads bowed, shoulders bent under the weight of their sadness. My mother sighed several times and shook her head. My father stood rigidly, tears running down his cheeks. They then each laid a hand on the casket and slowly walked to the far side of the room.

As they moved away, I walked up to the casket with leaden feet, each step an effort as I struggled to believe this was all really happening.

When I reached the casket, I stood motionless—not praying, not thinking, just staring at Peg’s face and form, trying desperately to insure I would never forget what she looked like, even in death. I’d had difficulty remembering the sound of her voice that morning, and I was terrified to think the memory trace of her was already fading. I couldn’t let that happen. So I stood, and I stared.

Fingers lightly touched my elbow. “Mr. Herbert?”

I turned and saw Paul Virag standing behind me. “Mr. Herbert, we need to get ready.”

“I know. I know. Just give me one more minute.”

Paul nodded understandingly and stepped back.

I turned again to Peg and looked down at her face for the last time. My eyes filled, and my vision blurred as I admitted to myself that our time together in this life was over.

“I love you, Peg,” I whispered, laying my hand on top of hers. “Forever.”

I wiped my eyes and turned away.

“Why don’t you all have a seat in the lobby for a few minutes while we get Mrs. Herbert ready for the trip to St. John’s?” Paul said as he ushered us to the rear of the chapel. “Mr. Herbert,” he added, facing me, “we’re going to load as many of the floral arrangements as we can, but we won’t be able to take them all. There are too many. So we’ll take the largest and nicest ones with us to the cemetery, and the rest we’ll deliver to nursing homes in the area. Will that be all right?”

I said yes, but I wasn’t listening to him. I was looking at Peg’s casket, and I was thinking that in a few seconds, someone would lower the lid, plunging her into eternal darkness. Then someone would crank the bolts that drew the lid down tight, so tight that neither air nor water would enter for—what had Paul said? One hundred years? And I was thinking once that happened, the beautiful Irish girl with the thick black shining hair and the brilliant blue eyes would be sealed away forever.

We arrived at St. John’s at nine forty-three, my parents and I in the rear seat of a Tarasan-Virag limousine, Paul Virag in the front seat with the driver. When we were within a hundred feet or so of St. John’s, Paul got out of the car, walked up ahead of us and moved the yellow “No Parking” cones onto the sidewalk so our driver could park directly in front of the church. As soon as the car came to a stop, he opened the rear passenger door and helped each of us out of the car. The hearse pulled in front of our limousine while Paul was helping us disembark, and the driver of our car, along with three other men, all in the requisite black suits, slid Peg’s casket out of the hearse and onto a rolling gurney.

While the three of us stood on the sidewalk in front of the church watching Paul give the four men last-minute instructions, passing cars slowed and their occupants stared at us, probably thankful, unconsciously, that we were standing there and not them.

A rivulet of sweat ran down the small of my back, and I shivered.

I wondered if I needed to use the bathroom, but I couldn’t make up my mind.

Somewhere a police siren sounded, and it startled me because until that moment I hadn’t been aware of any sounds. Not from the traffic passing by, not from birds in the trees around us, not Paul Virag’s voice. Nothing. Until that moment, I realized, I’d been standing on the sidewalk shrouded in total silence.

Numb
, I thought.
That’s how I feel. Numb. But more than that. I feel like I’m not really here. Like I’m watching all this from somewhere else. Like I’m not even a part of it.

Don’t I wish.

I wonder if the kids are all right?
I asked myself.
I wonder if I should’ve brought Jennie? No
, I decided a second later.
I did the right thing leaving her home. This is no place for her. No place for me either
, I thought cynically.

But before I could take that thought any further, Paul left the four men and walked down the sidewalk towards us. “Mr. Herbert,” he said to me when he was still a few feet away, “the pallbearers will bring the casket in first. They’ll walk slowly down the center aisle of the church, two men on each side, and they’ll position the casket at the base of the steps in front of the choir stalls. You’ll follow the pallbearers up to the front of the church, and you’ll take the first pew on the right along with your parents, your mother-in-law and your wife’s sisters. I’ll bring your parents in now, and then I’ll come back for you.” He turned to my mom and dad. “Mr. Herbert? Mrs. Herbert? May I ask you to join me now?”