Edgar and Lucy Read online

  Dominic thought of the tunnel, that otherworldly realm where he and his friend had worked as young men. Death, to an unbeliever, was probably like being trapped in such a place—moving endlessly past the dim amber lights without ever being released to the pleasures of New York City or the homeward-leaning Weehawken. Dominic suspected it was where he’d end up when he croaked—underwater, in that exhaust-filled tube forever. Distractedly, he thumbed Florence’s hand, removing some of the camel cream concealer the undertaker had neglected to set with powder.

  “Come faccio a dire arrivederci?”

  And now he did the unthinkable (Edgar was still watching him like a hawk): he leaned down into the butter dish and kissed Florence’s face.

  When he finally stood, it was not without difficulty. He touched his lips and moved away from the casket. When he saw the redhead and the little bird-boy beside her, he knew who they were. Yet he said not a word. A small nod of the head—returned, in kind, by the woman. The boy only furrowed his brow.

  * * *

  “I guess we can go now,” said Lucy. “Are you ready?”

  Edgar considered the question, but could find no reasonable answer. The room seemed a hundred times heavier, like it was filling with sand. When his mother stood, he did the same. It was so strange, though, to be leaving Florence up there in a box. Where would they take her now? Who would take her? And would they be nice, would they treat her gently? Or would they knock her about like the men who loaded trucks?

  “I’ll be right back,” said Lucy.

  Edgar was surprised to see his mother return to the casket. She proceeded slowly, her limp more pronounced than usual. As she stood before Florence, Edgar could see her shoulders moving up and down like they were being jerked by strings. The boy stopped his own tears so that his mother could take her turn.

  The butcher was waiting at the back of the room, just outside the archway. He stepped forward as Lucy and Edgar made their way to the exit.

  “You’re still here?” Lucy said, with more confusion than gratitude.

  “I wanted to make sure that guy didn’t come back. How you doing, Eddie?”

  Lucy replied for the boy, who was crying again. “We’re good now, Ron. Thanks for … doing that before.” She just wanted to get past him, get outside. A quick cig in the parking lot, and then home, and sleep. The kid was dead on his feet, she could tell. “It’s way past his bedtime,” she said to the butcher.

  “No it’s not,” said Edgar, sniffling. He had no wish to sleep, afraid to find his grandmother gone in his dreams, too.

  Lucy brushed the boy’s hair from his eyes. When she turned back to Ron, he was looking at her with a sad affection that seemed genuine.

  “I’ll give you a call,” he said. “Maybe, like, in a few days? Give you a few days to…”

  “I’m gonna have a lot to do, so…” Lucy hesitated. “We’ll just play it by ear.”

  As the butcher leaned in toward her, she lifted her shoulders in defense. “Not in front of…” She gestured vaguely, not sure who she was referring to. The living or the dead.

  The butcher backed off.

  After a formal goodbye, shaked hands all around, mother and son headed off into the Phantom of the Opera lobby, with its Empire urns and ornamental candlesticks. Gloomy lighting emanated from shaded wall sconces, while a dusty unlit chandelier gently tinkled in a flow of refrigerated air.

  “I’m going to stay up when we get home, okay? Okay, Mom?”

  “What, baby?”

  “I’m going to stay up, okay? I don’t have to go to sleep.”

  Lucy stopped in the middle of the room. The child obviously needed something from her. She suddenly felt anxious. Because what would they do, the two of them, at home?

  “We could have some tea,” Edgar said.

  “What?” Lucy said. “When?”

  “When we get home.”

  “You drink tea?”

  “Not the keep-you-up stuff,” the boy said. “The kind with flowers on the box.”

  Lucy smiled tightly and touched her brow. She was sure to make a mess of things.

  “Ron,” Lucy called out. He was standing by the entrance, talking to Henry and Netty Schlip.

  “It’s herbal,” the boy said.

  “One second, baby. Ron.” She called louder this time, and the man turned.

  “Something wrong?” he said.

  “No, I’m sorry, I just…”

  The butcher waited patiently.

  “No, I was just, uh, wondering about the meat.”

  “The what?”

  “That you sent to the house.”

  “Oh, yeah. Sorry about that. I thought you were having a repast afterwards, so…”

  “No. No. It’s just gonna be the two of us.”

  “I guess you can freeze some of it.”

  “The freezer’s full,” Edgar said quietly.

  “What’s that, Eddie?” the butcher said.

  “Nothing.” The boy looked down.

  “I mean, if you wanna come over and have something,” Lucy said. “Have a drink or…”

  Edgar’s heart sank.

  “I could do that,” the butcher said.

  “Otherwise it’s gonna be a waste. This one eats like a bird.”

  The boy yanked his hand away from his mother’s. A comment like that deserved retaliation. “And they can come, too, can’t they?”

  “Who?” said Lucy.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Schlip,” the boy said with aggressive enunciation.

  “Oh.” Lucy saw that they were standing right there, looking at her. “Oh yeah, of course. Yeah, yeah. Would you two like to…” She wanted to strangle the kid.

  “It’s late,” Henry Schlip replied.

  “Yes, I guess it is,” Lucy said, relieved.

  “But we could come for a little while, I suppose. What do you think, Annette?”

  “Well, if it’s no imposition…”

  “Not at all,” Lucy said, smiling as she fell into the pit. “Florence would have…”

  Henry nodded. “A very gracious woman.”

  “You know, dear,” Netty said quietly, approaching Lucy, “I just wanted to say that I understand that people get upset at these things…”

  As Netty faltered, Henry forged ahead. “What she’s trying to say is, she knows you didn’t mean to hit her before.”

  “On purpose,” added Netty.

  “Of course not,” said Lucy.

  The Schlips looked at each other and visibly relaxed. “Yes, oh good, well, that’s what we thought,” said Netty. “And Henry and I do hope you’ll continue to come to the shop. Florence always got her slippers there.”

  “Sheets and towels, too,” said Henry.

  “We don’t get too many customers these days,” explained Netty.

  The butcher rolled his eyes—and for this Lucy was grateful.

  * * *

  As the adults made their plans, Edgar drifted away. He crossed the lobby and wandered down a short corridor until he came upon the entrance to viewing room 1. How had he not noticed it before? Not far from his grandmother, there was a whole other catastrophe being staged, with a completely different cast. It appeared to be a much better show. Ten times more crying—and all of it spilling out into an enormous room with newer carpet and a stained-glass window that appeared to have lightbulbs behind it. The man in the coffin was wearing a tuxedo—while his grandmother had been dressed in something that looked like a gray blanket with sleeves. For the first time in his life, Edgar wondered if he was poor.

  “There you are,” his mother said, striding down the corridor. “Come on, we’re leaving.”

  “It’s not fair,” said Edgar.

  “What’s not fair, kiddo?”

  “There’s another coffin here.”

  “Other people die, Edgar.”

  “On the same day? How can he be dead on the same day?”

  “Do the math,” said Lucy.

  As she took the boy’s arm, a tall w
oman in a diamond necklace emerged from viewing room 1.

  Edgar gasped.

  “Stop playing games,” said Lucy.

  “I’ll be right back,” the boy said. “I forgot something.”

  “Edgar.”

  But he was off and running.

  “I’m not chasing you,” Lucy shouted. “I’m going to the car. I want you outside in two minutes.”

  13

  Honey

  “Stealing is a sin.”

  Edgar froze, but did not drop Florence’s hand, from which he’d been trying, without success, to remove her rings. Certainly his grandmother would have wanted him to have them—the diamond, especially.

  “I’m not stealing.” Without looking behind him, he made one last attempt to twist off the jewelry. His nose was running; he wiped it with his shoulder.

  “I may be old, but I’m not blind.”

  It was a line Edgar had heard before, from the very woman whose cold hand he was now trying to maneuver back into its placid, hand-over-hand arrangement.

  When he turned to face his accuser, he was already defeated—a self-hating sinner, all the more so for failing to accomplish his sin. He was certain it was a man who’d caught him, due to the husk of the voice—but he’d been deceived.

  The old woman approached slowly, relying heavily on a scratched-up rubber-tipped cane. It was her only unfortunate accessory. Earrings of dangling pearls and a tiny veiled hat, sparkly bracelets and hard-candy rings, all gave proper honor to her dress: a spectacular black gown bandaged at the waist with a swath of pink silk—artfully knotted in a huge butterfly bow. On the shoulders, delicate embroidered wings echoed the lines of the bow and infused the dress with a touch of poetry.

  As the decrepit woman made her way to the front of the room, Edgar stepped aside to let her peer into the coffin.

  “I see you’ve made a mess of her,” she said, bending down awkwardly to straighten Florence’s sleeve.

  “I didn’t do it,” said Edgar.

  The woman turned. Even through the veil, he could see the suspicion in her eyes.

  “An old man did it,” Edgar mumbled. “He touched her first.”

  “I can’t hear you, child.”

  “An old man,” the boy repeated with as much force as he could muster. “He kissed her.”

  “Did he?” The visitor harrumphed. “Well, she always had a lot of admirers. Even with those awful hands. Pity she had to work in that laundry. A real sweatshop. I knew a girl—lost a finger there.”

  Edgar followed the woman’s gaze; watched how it moved up and down the length of the coffin as if his grandmother’s body were something on a sale rack. It was true: his grandmother’s jewelry was nothing compared to the splendid stones on the visitor’s twiggy fingers. Still, he’d desperately wanted that small diamond on Florence’s hand. Possessing it seemed a matter of life or death. Without it, nothing would stand in the way of a darkness that was spreading across the Earth with alarming speed.

  “Horrible dress,” the visitor said.

  Edgar wondered if the woman had strayed into the wrong room. Maybe she’d meant to go to viewing room 1, where the rich people were.

  “Smells like mothballs.” The woman reached into her purse, pulled out a small bottle of perfume, and spritzed it into the air over the coffin. “Mothballs are poison. One should always use cedar.”

  The boy felt a wayward droplet of the perfume land on his cheek. It was not Chanel Nº 5.

  “Though perhaps the best thing would have been to let the moths eat that dreadful shmata.” The woman shook her head and turned to Edgar. “Did you know Florence?”

  What an extraordinary question. “Yes,” the boy said, confused. “She—”

  “Speak up, speak up. It’s bad manners to mumble.”

  “I know her,” Edgar said. “I’m related to her.”

  “Are you? And what is your relation to the deceased?”

  “To who?”

  “To her,” the interrogator said, pointing a pink-lacquered finger that matched the bow of her dress.

  “I’m her grandson,” Edgar replied.

  “Oh. Yes yes yes, of course. Oh my goodness. I read about you in the paper.”

  “About me?”

  “Years ago. That awful accident. Oh my goodness. You’re a very lucky young man.”

  Edgar suspected she was confusing him for Frank. “I’m her grandson,” he repeated.

  “Yes, yes, I heard you the first time.” The old woman extended her hand. “I’m Honey. Honey Fasinga.”

  Edgar stared at the tan bejeweled fingers wiggling in his direction.

  “If you were brought up by this one, I’m sure you were taught better manners. When a lady offers you her hand…” She wiggled her fingers again, and a cautious Edgar latched on to a single digit and shook it.

  “From what I read, your mother saved your life.”

  Edgar wondered if the woman was drunk. He knew drunk from his mother. Honey seemed to be in that early, chatty stage of drunkenness that often resulted in inappropriate confidences. Once, his mother, at a similar level of inebriation, had told him she was worried her boobies were too big.

  “You know, I haven’t seen Florence in years. We were never really friends, but we knew each other as girls. Didn’t we, dear?” Honey turned to the casket and tapped the rubber-tipped cane lightly against its side.

  “Don’t hurt it,” Edgar said.

  “Trust me, darling—I can do no more damage than has already been done.”

  But Edgar didn’t trust her—mostly because of the veil, which covered her face and complicated her wrinkly eyes with a fine web of tiny felt dots.

  “Are you looking at my hat? You know, your grandmother made this hat. A long time ago, when veils weren’t just for weddings or funerals.” She patted the pillbox affectionately. “Do you like it?”

  “It’s pink,” said Edgar, aware that certain colors were inappropriate in the face of death.

  “Yes, to match the dress, silly. Which still fits me perfectly.” With the aid of her cane, the woman did a lopsided turn to better present the gown’s splendor. Her impressively high heels, clamped onto shaking legs, added to the death-defying breathlessness of the fashion show. At the halfway point, Edgar was shocked to see a plunging V that exposed a large portion of Honey’s tanned, chicken-boned back.

  “She made this, too, you know.”

  “Made what?”

  “The dress,” Honey said, completing her clackety turn. “You’re a little slow, aren’t you, dear? But I like you, don’t get me wrong. That hair! You know, I used to have platinum locks myself. Not shock-white like yours, of course. A nice shade, though. Winter Wheat or something. Well, we were all bottle blondes back then.”

  The woman’s thick hair was currently the color of chestnuts, unnaturally lustrous.

  “Yes, it’s a wig, dear. Otherwise, I’d have hair like this one.” She gestured breezily toward Florence. “And who, may I ask, put her in that getup? The fabric looks like something you’d cover a couch with.”

  “She’s not a couch,” muttered Edgar.

  “See, you’re doing it again. Why must you mumble? If you have something to say, just say it. The thing is, darling, the mumbling makes you seem mentally defective. If you want to avoid giving people that impression, I suggest you speak up, argue your case. If people don’t like what you have to say, screw them.”

  “I said, she’s not—”

  “Up up up, louder. With gusto!”

  “She’s not a couch!”

  “Excellent. Bravo. Who’s not a couch?”

  Edgar felt trapped, a contestant on some evil game show. The ancient hostess with the pink wings leaned in, waiting for an answer.

  “You said her dress looked like something you’d cover a couch with.”

  “Well, doesn’t it? What a pity to put her in that. Does she not make her own clothes anymore?”

  “She doesn’t make clothes,” Edgar said.

&nb
sp; “Oh, but she did. She did. Wonderful, wonderful things. Such a talented girl.”

  Edgar was close to tears again. He thought to call for his mother, but he was exhausted.

  “I bought a number of her dresses over the years. She used to do them for a few girls, for extra money. And she charged almost nothing! I would have bought a hundred of them—but unfortunately we had a little malentendu. Before that, though, I actually suggested we open a shop. Didn’t I, Flo?” Here, she turned again to the casket, proving to be as effortlessly loquacious with the dead as she was with the living. “I wanted to call it the Butterfly Boutique, ha ha ha, but you were horrified, oh my goodness, you looked at me like I was insane. But it made perfect sense, you see,” she said to Edgar. “Because your grandmother—you said she was your grandmother, yes?”

  The boy had barely opened his mouth before the woman plowed on.

  “Well, you see, she often put these little stitched wings on her dresses. Look here, on mine, near the shoulders, these little swoopy things. Lovely, aren’t they? Well, they were Florence’s thing—what do you call it?—her emblem. Her signature. She really was a genius, your grandmother, when it came to style. Quite the contrast to her social persona. She was very proper, you know, a bit uptight. We’re speaking here as friends, I hope. Because I respected her. I just didn’t have the patience for all that self-effacing nonsense the lower-class Italian girls were brought up with. She was just so damn timid. And the absurd thing was, she was prettier than any of us, had every right to own the world, but she had that light-under-a-bushel problem a lot of Catholic girls have. I mean, I was Catholic, too, but my family was never medieval about it or anything. And then I was exposed to rather advanced spiritual ideas when I went to Bryn Mawr. Do you know Bryn Mawr?”

  Edgar wondered if it was a school for witches. There was something vaguely sinister about the oversized pink bow and the black veil.

  “And the funny thing is, for all her hemming and hawing, I could tell the idea intrigued her. A little shop of her own. And we could have done it easily. My father would have given us the money in a heartbeat. Rather ridiculous, really, that I was suggesting a partnership with Snow White here—but we both loved clothing.” Honey sighed. “I could have been her great impresario. Nous aurions été formidable!”