Carly 2

When I walked into the viewing room, Cherry was surrounded by her usual coterie and already in high drama, exclaiming (in hushed tones, of course) to some woman I’d never seen before.  Cherry always had epitomized everything I hated about being female, embracing with determined abandon the look, feel, and sounds of the forced and fabricated versions of femininity that had permeated our childhood.  I was glad I’d brought Fred along.  Since this was all about Cherry’s husband’s family, I could more easily keep my distance, but that was easier to do in a pair than alone.

I glanced around the room, not seeing anyone else from the Randall family that I recognized.  There weren’t even many people there yet and, except for the two guys by the coffin, they were dispersed throughout the room, like magnets aiming at each other with opposite poles.

Taking Fred’s hand, I guided him toward the casket, following custom.  It was odd to find myself comforted by the path of least resistance, but somehow death is like that.  It’s one thing to push back, negotiate, rebel against life.  But death doesn’t work like that, and for the moment I was content to leave the rituals around death unquestioned as well.

Derek 2

I understand the sociological, even anthropological, significance of funerals as the markers of a death, the change in a family or community status.  That doesn’t mean I like going to them.  IMHO, in their current form they’re pretty useless.  To keep on the good side of the relations, I decided to go.   But no way would I stay more than 15 minutes.

Sitting in that funeral home, though, I regretted my generosity.  None of these people were the least bit interesting.  I looked at my watch – 10 more minutes.  The group of women chattered away, and the two guys I didn’t know just stood at the coffin – killing time, I guessed, and staying away from the chattering women.  I checked my watch again – 8 minutes to go.

Madeline 2

I was to be the distant cousin from out of town, on his mother’s side.  Cherry had coached me on my supposed lineage, so I figured I could get by if anybody quizzed me.   I had done this plenty of times before, but yeah, I had a few nerves.  We didn’t know if Borkfield would even show up – might just be a waste of time.  But might not.

I checked my makeup in the rearview mirror, tucked a few stray hairs into place, grabbed my purse and headed for the funeral home entrance. 

It was still early for the viewing, but there were about 10 cars already in the parking lot. No one outside, though. I walked through the doors, the blast of A/C sending my carefully arranged scarf back over my shoulder – damn.  Inside, like most of these places, it was rather dark, especially after the bright AZ sun, and plush, with dark yet subdued colors, comfortable chairs, lots of flowers, hushed voices.  I hate these places.  They’re like death – not the kind where you actually die, but the kind where your soul gets slowly sucked out and you eventually are - well, generic, I guess.

I glanced in a mirror in the hallway to rearrange the scarf, then headed purposefully toward Parlor C – Randall.  From the doorway – only seven people in the room, with Cherry in a group with three other women, one skinny, twitchy guy sitting in a corner looking at his watch, and the remaining two at the coffin.  Viewing.  Two tall, good-looking guys, side by side, looking down on the deceased.  Brothers, I guessed.  I headed for Cherry.

She looked up as I moved, and gasped slightly.  As if I was a surprise.  I almost rolled my eyes, but I was a good girl.

“Hello,” I said, as we had rehearsed.  “Are you Cherry?  I was so sorry to hear about Manfred.”  I waited a beat.  “Oh, I’m Marian, Marian Stragthorn.”  I extended my hand.