always maintained that there was a hierarchy to grief: widow first, young grandchildren second. The children and older grandchildren who knew how to cope were last, expected to help with the planning and management of grief. It was a pecking order that Eunice, the Grande Dame of Grief Decorum, had developed assiduously over the years, promulgating it at every funeral she staged. This time—this one time—the hierarchy would focus on her.
Cassandra, Howie, and Mary were prevailed upon to decide where things should go, which calls should be answered, and who else should be notified of events. The most emotional of the three, Cassandra was the least equipped for such work. But she didn’t want to disappoint her more stoic siblings, who were counting on her assistance. Between accepting hugs from near-strangers, sheanswered questions, took the phone, and tried to keep her mind focused on minutiae. Her eye sockets buzzed like lightbulbs, her body flew through space, numb and indefatigable. She had the sense that nothing could kill a person in grief.
In breaths, she found herself missing her daughter. “Where’s Elizabeth?” she asked the nearest person whenever it occurred to her. She got a different answer every time.
“Did you see that strange boy outside?” she heard someone ask.
Another puzzle Cassandra felt compelled to solve. But only after the phone stopped ringing and the well-wishers stopped dropping by.
L ATER THAT NIGHT , she sat on the large upholstered ottoman in her parents’ bedroom, an empty bottle of beer at her feet. She’d come out of some compulsion, some childish hope that she and her mother might talk, only to find Eunice already asleep and snoring, which was really just as well. Other people evolved, went through phases, changed, but Eunice had always been Eunice: uncompromising, profit-driven, short on tenderness, loud. Cassandra had had fifty-three years to accept it, yet for some reason she could not. She felt resistant to her mother’s personality, as though it were a medicine she’d taken too often as a kid. They simply didn’t fit together, they didn’t get each other. Even now, mourning the same man, they were probably better off apart.
The fact of her father’s death ambushed her once again. She closed her eyes and steadied herself, chanting her new mantra, Daddy is dead, Daddy is dead, until she felt she’d been convinced. Daddy is dead. Howard Fabricant is dead . She pictured his face, still and rigid, lids lowered over sightless eyes. Alvin had a colleague working on him already; he’d be a wax person, embalmed, a glowing memory picture by tomorrow afternoon. Daddy is dead. Howard Fabricant is dead. The words would make her believe it.
His name, though, was too much alive, and in repeating it, she couldn’t help herself; she began to feel she was somehow resuscitatinghim. It was as though they were still planning his party, and someone was keeping him away while she readied the cake and champagne. For a moment, she became convinced the body sprawled on the grass had been nothing but a shell, discarded for a ready-made replacement. He was still out there somewhere, suiting up: zipping his fresh skin into place, snapping a new spine to his core, getting dressed and excited for his party. She looked back at the bedroom door. I know what you’re thinking, woman, he’d say to Eunice as she led him into the hushed and crowded room, but your nagging will do you no good .
Cassandra heard the sound of footsteps approaching in the hall. She waited, her eyes still fixed on the door. After a moment, the knob turned and it opened. She held her breath as Elizabeth came in, holding two bottles of beer. Cassandra looked away, mortified. She’d actually been expecting her father. She’d been waiting for him ever since she’d looked out the bathroom window and seen him lying there at her mother’s feet. She had to stop forgetting and then remembering, forgetting and remembering. The
Cassandra, Howie, and Mary were prevailed upon to decide where things should go, which calls should be answered, and who else should be notified of events. The most emotional of the three, Cassandra was the least equipped for such work. But she didn’t want to disappoint her more stoic siblings, who were counting on her assistance. Between accepting hugs from near-strangers, sheanswered questions, took the phone, and tried to keep her mind focused on minutiae. Her eye sockets buzzed like lightbulbs, her body flew through space, numb and indefatigable. She had the sense that nothing could kill a person in grief.
In breaths, she found herself missing her daughter. “Where’s Elizabeth?” she asked the nearest person whenever it occurred to her. She got a different answer every time.
“Did you see that strange boy outside?” she heard someone ask.
Another puzzle Cassandra felt compelled to solve. But only after the phone stopped ringing and the well-wishers stopped dropping by.
L ATER THAT NIGHT , she sat on the large upholstered ottoman in her parents’ bedroom, an empty bottle of beer at her feet. She’d come out of some compulsion, some childish hope that she and her mother might talk, only to find Eunice already asleep and snoring, which was really just as well. Other people evolved, went through phases, changed, but Eunice had always been Eunice: uncompromising, profit-driven, short on tenderness, loud. Cassandra had had fifty-three years to accept it, yet for some reason she could not. She felt resistant to her mother’s personality, as though it were a medicine she’d taken too often as a kid. They simply didn’t fit together, they didn’t get each other. Even now, mourning the same man, they were probably better off apart.
The fact of her father’s death ambushed her once again. She closed her eyes and steadied herself, chanting her new mantra, Daddy is dead, Daddy is dead, until she felt she’d been convinced. Daddy is dead. Howard Fabricant is dead . She pictured his face, still and rigid, lids lowered over sightless eyes. Alvin had a colleague working on him already; he’d be a wax person, embalmed, a glowing memory picture by tomorrow afternoon. Daddy is dead. Howard Fabricant is dead. The words would make her believe it.
His name, though, was too much alive, and in repeating it, she couldn’t help herself; she began to feel she was somehow resuscitatinghim. It was as though they were still planning his party, and someone was keeping him away while she readied the cake and champagne. For a moment, she became convinced the body sprawled on the grass had been nothing but a shell, discarded for a ready-made replacement. He was still out there somewhere, suiting up: zipping his fresh skin into place, snapping a new spine to his core, getting dressed and excited for his party. She looked back at the bedroom door. I know what you’re thinking, woman, he’d say to Eunice as she led him into the hushed and crowded room, but your nagging will do you no good .
Cassandra heard the sound of footsteps approaching in the hall. She waited, her eyes still fixed on the door. After a moment, the knob turned and it opened. She held her breath as Elizabeth came in, holding two bottles of beer. Cassandra looked away, mortified. She’d actually been expecting her father. She’d been waiting for him ever since she’d looked out the bathroom window and seen him lying there at her mother’s feet. She had to stop forgetting and then remembering, forgetting and remembering. The
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