The Funeral Makers (24 page)

Ed thought of his father, a man with quiet intelligence who headed the school when it was a two-room wooden building and inaugurated the new brick building in 1940, coughing with tuberculosis but too stubborn to die until he saw the work done and his son safely enthroned as principal. It was a phenomenal feat, his managing to raise the money and the town's consciousness high enough over the years to do what was thought to be nearly impossible. Even Watertown, with all its 2,000 people, had only acquired a brick building in 1938. But once a consciousness in Mattagash was raised, it was likely to fall with a thud. After they proudly finished a school they hadn't even
wanted
until Lester Lawler came to town, they soon went back to their rackety gossip about him.

Ed had none of the old man's tenacity. He wasn't as driven. He often wondered if the incident that brought Lester Lawler to grief had been the thorn in his side that kept him fidgety, kept him on his toes, an achiever. Ed himself knew little of what had happened. Sicily had asked him once, shortly after they were married, what his father had done to that young girl in his Current Events class that had made it impossible for him to continue as a teacher in Massachusetts. It was the first time Ed had ever heard of it. Sicily had heard it from old Mrs. Feeny, Sarah's mother, who said teaching Current Events in school instead of the Bible was the cause of such goings on. It never came up again until Amy Joy came crying into his office one day because Raymond Caulder, who wanted the very swing on the playground that Amy Joy had gotten to first, had said to her, “Your grampie was a no-good womanizer,” and had sent the little girl to her father's office in tears. Ed could do nothing. For another child, he would have brought the slanderer into his office and demanded an apology for the injured party. But he realized that for him, as principal, to insist on an apology to his daughter would only perpetuate the gossip concerning his father. He could see Raymond's mother, Beatrice Caulder, a god-awful woman with a tongue that could level cities, banging on his door the very next morning, her ironing board beside her as a battering ram.

If he had reacted with typical Mattagash strategy, he would have said to Amy Joy, “You go out there and tell him that his mother goes to the Watertown Hotel on Saturday nights and begs men to dance with her.” But he refused to become a part of their microcosm of social warfare. Instead, Amy Joy was told to turn the other cheek, to ignore nasty people, and was sent unappeased back to the playground, that land mine of past and present bombs that could explode at any moment, little Molotov cocktails made at home by their mothers and fathers and given to their children each morning as they left the house, like goodies in a lunch pail.

Amy Joy was born several years after her grandfather died. She had never met him, yet she was being taunted about an incident that happened in another state. In the 1920s. By a boy in Mattagash who was also born several years after Lester Lawler died. It was a strange inheritance. “No matter that Lester Lawler had built them a school, turning up early every morning, hacking and wheezing,” thought Ed. “No matter he watched every brick that went into the building to ensure their children a decent place to receive an education. The education they got at home, the oral histories and biographies, was more important.”

Before Ed found the courage to ask his father about the incident, Lester Lawler went to his grave with the truth about the girl student. The truth may die, but the myth lives on, an evil vine sprawling and spreading, growing larger and longer. Ed surmised the truth couldn't have been too serious, or there would have been legal consequences. An infatuation, he thought. Maybe some stolen kisses after school. What more could it have been? He felt a kinship to his father, realizing that he had very nearly followed in his footsteps. He understood what being trapped in a marriage for life before you were old enough to avoid it could do to a man.

Ed was young during those years in Massachusetts, too young to remember the trouble. Or it had been cleverly hidden from him. He wondered if his father felt the same apathy toward him that he felt toward Amy Joy. Ed's mother had grown old young, tight-mouthed with anger, her hands wrinkling before their time because of the fists she made. Only after she died did she allow herself to relax. Ed and his father had become bachelors again, but they kept a clean house and learned to cook for themselves. His father never remarried and it was difficult for Ed, after his marriage to Sicily, to readjust to a woman bustling about the house. A woman's things were breakable and fragile, and he had come to think the same of Sicily. But he wouldn't be responsible anymore if she broke with him not there in the house. He had broken himself and he hadn't asked anyone to pick up the pieces. It wouldn't be so hard on Sicily. Not as hard as a divorce would be. Any woman in Mattagash would prefer the suicide of her husband to divorce. Divorce might mean another woman.

In his last moments, with only so many thoughts left inside his head before they ran out, Ed didn't want to waste them on Mattagash. He wanted to think of other things, of other people, people who had given him strength over the years, given him faith that all mankind was not a huge, haphazard, biological mistake, that some lives had been worth the living, had given the world
back
something before they went out. So he thought of the poets, of Chaucer, and Shakespeare and Pound. Of the artists, Michelangelo, Raphael, Goya. Of Cézanne, bloated with wine and leaving his masterpieces to rot in the fields where he created them. And he thought of the composers who had given the world music, of Beethoven, Chopin, and Bach. Of Plato and Socrates and Aristotle. Of explorers, the discoverers of serums, planets, and dinosaur bones.

For an hour he sat at his desk. Finally, he tore a sheet of paper from the scratch pad on his desk, wrote “I was here” on it, and tossed it among the clutter. It was what Amy Joy had written on the school building once when she was seven and was waiting outside for Ed to finish his work and take her home. His first reaction was to punish her. To take the chalk from her and demand she erase it. That she never write on the school again. But instead, he had simply taken her by the hand and led her home. “We're not drawing pictures of bisons in caves anymore,” he had thought. “We're out in the sun now and trying again.”

The gun in his hands, he suddenly remembered vividly the man from Watertown who had sold it to him, saw each button on his shirt, the day-old growth of beard, the color of his eyes, saw him as plainly as preachers swear one sees his Maker just before death.

As he held the gun to his head, he foolishly wondered if Kennedy would win the election, then hated himself for wasting a precious thought. Instead, he thought of ducks and drakes on the millpond behind the old house in Massachusetts, before the elusive girl in the Current Events class, who would be an old woman now if still living, before his mother's hands took up their angry statements. He thought instead of the pebble, smooth and cool in his hand, thought of the action needed to skip it just so, the pressure of the thumb and index finger, the exact angle of the wrist, the quick release that sent it skipping, spinning soundlessly across the black water until it was gone.

And they are gone: aye, ages long ago.

These lovers fled away into the storm.

—John Keats, “The Eve of St. Agnes”

The Greyhound bus left Watertown at nine fifteen each morning heading downstate, stopping in one forlorn, out-of-the-way place after the other, its final destination Portland. At eight forty-five, when the driver finished his coffee at LaBelle's Drugstore and came outside to unlock his bus, Violet was standing there, the first to buy a ticket. She bought one to Bangor and then helped the driver lift her two suitcases and cardboard box of costumes and knickknacks into the belly of the bus. He kept his eyes on Violet's breasts as much as he dared, letting her catch him once, just in case she was interested in a little frolic further down the line.

Violet's lips tightened as she pushed the box closer to her suitcases for protection. She worried about her Raggedy Ann on buses like these. Once, when she was scheduled to dance at a club in Paris, Maine, the box had been smashed by all the other luggage and the first thing she'd seen at the unloading was the doll's arm hanging painfully from the side of the box, like the arm of a drowning child. That same night she dreamed of babysitting children, strange children she had never seen before, and that she began to dance and while she was dancing, all the children swallowed nickels or safety pins. Violet was worried by what their parents might say and she woke up afraid and held Raggedy Ann and fell asleep holding her.

“Will you not pile any suitcases on that box?” Violet asked the driver, catching his stare this time.

“Whatever the lady desires,” he said, flirting. She'd seen this routine a thousand times from clerks, gas attendants, bag boys, policemen, doctors. She had come to the conclusion years ago that she looked the part. The showy red hair, the loud clothes, the absence of a wedding ring. She had considered buying a wedding ring just to see if it might discourage these advances, but soon changed her mind. A friend who was married, another dancer, told her it was only worse. It was a safety device to men already married, and most of them were. A single girl sometimes frightened a married man. Before he knew it she was in love and wanting him to divorce his wife and marry her. Have their own family. They gave men a real hard time around Christmas and Thanksgiving. But a married girl was a different story. She had as much at stake, as much reason to keep things under the table. No, a wedding band would only make it worse.

“Would you like a cup of coffee?” the bus driver asked her.

“No thanks,” said Violet. “Can I board now? I'd like to get a back seat before they're all gone.”

“I can bring it out to you,” he said, opening the door of the bus for her. “I'm Larry Beecham. They got paper cups for carrying out.”

“No thank you, Larry,” Violet said as, with her shoulder purse and the
Watertown
Weekly
under her arm, she made her way to the last seat on the bus and dropped wearily into it.

It had been a long night. After leaving the Albert Pinkham Family Motel, she had driven to Watertown to quit her job and pick up her last paycheck. Then she got herself a room upstairs, and the bartender, Jimmy, who had always been nice to her for no ulterior reason, helped her carry her suitcases and cardboard box up the long stairs.

From there she went to Al Mersey's car lot. Al had been over to the Watertown Hotel often to see her dance. He reminded her of a stuffed toy, the way his stubby arms and legs jutted rigidly from his short, fat body, as though bending them in the act of drinking a beer or smoking a cigarette might cause them to burst and spew batting about the room.

After her show was over and she walked past his table, he was forever pulling her down close to his round face and wheezing into her ear, “You need a car? You come see Al.” She had driven from the Watertown Hotel to Al's lot and waited in the parking lot for him to finish with a customer. He beamed when he saw her, all of his teeth suddenly appearing beneath his thick lip like Chiclets. As if some higher power had summoned them all to show themselves.

“I need to sell the Volkswagen, Al,” she told him. He put one arm on the car and leaned down to her. For one second, Violet thought the action might tip the car, and smiled at the thought. She looked up at him and listened to what he was saying, but she was struck by how many tiny hairs were growing inside his enormous nose, as though it were a terrarium. There were white ones and black ones, long and short, some reaching out, others turning inward. “Probably all cars he's sold,” she thought.

When Al was done telling her what the book price was on a 1955 Volkswagen in perfect condition, she said, “How much can I get, Al?”

He stepped back and gave the car a long look. One of those understanding looks that car dealers give cars, as if to say “Come on, you can tell
me.
What's the state of things?” and then listens as the car sobs, “I got higher mileage than my gauge reads. I stall and my brakes are about to go. It's been hell. They've really abused me.”

Al walked slowly around the Volkswagen. Finally, he came back to her window, leaned down, and said, “We're talking one hundred bucks.” Violet looked calmly at the Chiclets.

“You've got to be kidding,” she said.

The Chiclets came closer.

“If you've got an hour to spare we're talking a hundred and fifty. A few little extras and you might even get old Al to say two hundred.”

Violet stared straight ahead, her knuckles white on the steering wheel. She would not say anything. She would leave this town and go somewhere to start over. And to leave town she had no choice but to take Al up on the offer. She needed the money.

“It's yours for a hundred bucks,” she said.

“I always took you to be a good businesswoman. Knew a good deal when you heard of one,” Al said. He felt pressured. He had always assumed—hoped—he'd get Violet into bed someday. It was his only chance of an affair, even for one night. Watertown had no other women as morally loose as Violet La Forge. At least none that still looked as good as she did. With his physical deficits, sex wasn't something he could wallow in. Violet went inside his office and he followed her. Sitting behind a desk was a small woman with clipped gray hair layered like feathers.

“Mother, write the lady a check for a hundred dollars,” Al said. “Violet La Forge.”

“Your
mother
, Al?” asked Violet. “How very, very nice to meet you, Mrs. Hersey,” she said, shaking the old lady's wrinkled hand until the ancient arm threatened to leave its socket. “But, Al, you did say that for those
little
extras
the car had, it was worth at least two hundred, didn't you?” A moment passed before the Chiclets disappeared for good.

Outside, Violet gave Al the title and gathered her personal belongings from the car: a comb, a mirror, some letters, chewing gum.

“I'm cashing the check when the bank opens in the morning, Al. If it's been stopped, I'm taking your mother to lunch.”

“You whore,” Al said. “What difference does it make to you how you get the two hundred bucks? How can you be so uppity? I know where most of your money comes from. Everyone knows.” Violet was several feet away. She stopped and turned around. She looked at Al slowly from head to foot, letting him know what she thought of his appearance.

“Al,” said Violet softly, “I don't charge. I may have lost a million bucks, but I don't charge. Besides, you got what you wanted. You wanted to get screwed, and in the office a minute ago, I screwed you.” She waved the check at him and crossed the street to the drugstore to ask about the bus schedule. Al went back into his office and watched her go.

“Who was that loud woman?” asked Mrs. Hersey, licking a stamp for an envelope.

Violet boarded the bus and settled down in the backseat as Watertown came to life around her. A few passengers got on. At nine fifteen the vehicle was almost full and the driver had taken his seat. Violet caught his eye in the mirror. “A bus length away, over all these heads, and he still manages it,” she thought.

A young soldier took the seat in front of hers and kept his nose pressed against the window like a sad puppy dog. Violet looked out her own window to see what interested him so and saw a young girl standing by the drugstore, holding a baby in her arms. Violet noticed the round swell of her stomach.

The bus pulled out and Violet opened the
Watertown
Weekly
. One letter to the editor was titled angry at paper! It seems a woman who had shot a moose was upset that the paper hadn't printed the picture of her sitting on her prey. Another man wrote that he was angry that only seven hundred moose were to be shot that particular season in an attempt to keep the population down. “There's that many on my lawn each morning!” he wrote. It seemed only the moose weren't angry. “These people are really serious,” thought Violet, and wondered why she had lingered so long in this land of pulp and guns. But she knew why. It was getting harder and harder to find a job. She had dropped her agent, who was booking her at bottom-of-the-barrel places and his young strippers at upscale ones. Now she was trying to phone club owners herself and the phone bill was topping her agent's fee.

But the real reason she had spent more than a month in Watertown was Edward Lawler, and the glimmer of hope that he might be the end of a long bumpy ride. She had dreamed of Ed the night before, of the last time she saw him. She dreamed she was stepping out of a huge clamshell, like the dancer named Aphrodite had done, and Ed stood up in the crowd with his arms outstretched and she went to him. But his flesh was icy cold and the men in the club began to jeer and taunt her. She woke up, said “Ed?” as though the name was a tiny pain wrapped up in one syllable, a sad song, and then she went back to sleep.

Violet threw the newspaper aside and eased her head back on the seat. The bus stopped in several little towns. An hour away from Bangor, Violet thought about what she would do. She would get a room in Bangor. Dye her hair as close to its natural color as possible until it grew back to dark brown. She would buy a couple of nice dresses. A cotton one, maybe. Or even a nice skirt and sweater. Then she would call her mother over in Kingsman, Maine, on the New Hampshire border. Her father had died five years before. Violet found out on Christmas day of 1956, when in a moment of holiday loneliness, she broke her vow never to call again and dialed the familiar old number. Her brother, who must have been up from Portland for the holidays, answered. When Violet said, “Bobby? It's Beth. I called to wish Mama and Daddy a Merry Christmas,” he had screamed at her into the phone. Had called her names. “Bitch!” he had shouted. “The old man's been dead for two years. Don't you ever call here again!” She heard her mother crying in the background, asking for the phone. Her mother loved her, she was sure, in spite of it all. It had been the old man, a self-styled Calvinist, who had banned her from the house when Bobby told them what Violet's real profession was. He had turned up one night at a club where she was dancing and was as embarrassed for her to see him there as he was at seeing her dance. “Poor Bobby,” thought Violet. “The first time he told on me I was four and I'd pulled up Mama's tulips. Then he told on me for skipping school and going to the circus when I was ten. For smoking when I was thirteen. For dating Freddy Walstrop when I was sixteen. I guess he was just in the habit of telling on me. On seeing Daddy whip me. You can get used to things like that. One day it just becomes a habit.” Her mother loved her. Now maybe they could start over. “With Daddy gone, we'll be good for each other. We'll get a big tree at Christmas and put up strings of colored lights and bake cookies. We'll do all the things we wanted to do but Daddy wouldn't let us.”

Violet reached inside her purse for her wallet. She pulled out the battered paper that told the story of the man and the butterfly. It had a phone number written on it. Walter Frontenac had written it there himself in 1955. It was his number. He was a butcher from a little town north of Bangor and had seen her dance at Vic's Playpen. She left with him that night, after the show was over, and all he did was take her for coffee and then walk her back to her room. He was a very quiet man. Even dull, Violet had thought at first. He had two fingers missing on his left hand, a hazard of his trade. Violet didn't want to see him again but he kept coming in to watch her dance. When she had no other offers, a cup of coffee with Walter Frontenac was better than going back to a cold motel room alone.

They would sit across from each other in the Bluebird Café, which stayed open twenty-four hours for truckers, and they would talk quietly. Once, Walter had reached over and squeezed her hand and Violet had noticed the stain beneath his fingernails, dark as blood. The hand with the missing fingers he kept hidden as much as possible, afraid it would offend her.

On her last night at Vic's Playpen, she made plans to go to an after-hours club with a trucker who had driven up from Boston the night before. Dancing, she could see Walter's face in the crowd. The trucker started shouting, “Keep something on for me to take off later, honey!” By the end of the night he was so drunk that he had passed out, head down, at his table. Violet was thankful. He had embarrassed her in front of Walter. But at the back door she found Walter waiting for her.

“Wally, you're as faithful as an old sheepdog,” Violet said and linked her arm in his. They went a final time to the Bluebird Café and sat among the noises of the night people, the coffee cups rattling on their saucers as yawning waitresses served their customers. The sounds of grill orders being called out, of truck drivers swilling coffee and boys playing the jukebox. It was not a romantic place, but in Walter's eyes, Violet sat in candlelight with rare wine. She put her hand under the table and touched his.