Going Home Part 23

"Yes," I lied, because I didn't think she could handle the truth, and I knew I couldn't handle an explanation. What difference did it make anyway?

"Would you step this way, please?" and she led me into a little room with a red light lit up over the door, and a sign on the door that said "Do Not Enter." And there was Chris, dressed as he had been that morning, lying stretched out on a gurney, looking peaceful, one side of his face sandy, but no visible part of him bruised. They were wrong. He wasn't dead, he was just sleeping. I brushed the sand off his face and smoothed his hair. I leaned down to kiss him and great horrible gulps of air got caught in my throat and made odd gurgling sounds. I leaned my face down to his and held him. But he felt strange, and his skin felt funny. The body of Christopher Caldwell Matthews. No longer Chris.

The nurse had been standing in the corner, watching, and I didn't give a d.a.m.n. I forgot she was there. She walked up to me slowly, and held my elbow, propelling me very professionally toward the door. I kept looking back over my shoulder at Chris, watching to see if he'd move, or get up, or open an eye and wink. This was just one of those really ugly jokes, like Tom Bardi's phone call. . . . Look, really, Nurse, I know he's just putting you on. . . .

She kept holding onto my elbow, and moved me down the hall, back to the main desk again. "Would you sign this, please? . . . And this?" She held out a ball-point pen. I signed Gillian Forrester twice, and turned around, not knowing where to go next. I looked up at her and asked what had to be done after that.

"Have you called a funeral home?"

"No, not yet." He wasn't even cold yet.

"Well, there's a phone booth across the hall. If you look in the yellow pages, it might give you some idea." That's it, find it in the yellow pages, let your fingers do . . . oh G.o.d.

Hobson's . . . Hobson's . . . that's the one . . . George Hobson's . . . "put your loved ones in our hands." . . . I knew the guy who had done their ad campaign.

I looked their number up in the book in the phone booth and called.

"Hobson's Home," in a mellow voice . . . oh Christ.

"This is Mrs. Forrester. I'd like to speak to someone about. . . ."

"Certainly, one moment please."

"Yes?" A deep muted voice hit my ears. He had to be a f.a.g. And I found out later that he was, when he minced across the lobby of Hobson's with a plastic grin, and a very tight black suit.

I told him the story. He said there was no problem. One of their cars would pick up Mr. Matthews at three. Would that be all right? I said yes, it would be.

"And will you meet us here at three-thirty, Mrs. Forrester, to make the arrangements?"

"Yes, that'll be fine."

"Are you the sister of the deceased?"

"No, I'm his wife."

"Oh, I'm so sorry, I understood 'Forrester,' " and he was all unctuous apologies.

"That's right, Forrester. I'll tell the hospital you'll pick up Mr. Matthews at three." I didn't give one holy d.a.m.n what he thought. I was Chris's wife, wedding or no wedding.

I told the nurse at the desk that a car from Hobson's would pick Chris up at three and then went back to tell Tom.

"Do you want to go back to the city now? I'll drive you in; someone else can take my car."

"No. I'll wait. But you can go back now, if you want. There's no point in your waiting here too."

"I'll stay." It sounded very final. I was grateful, so I didn't protest.

"Do you want to lie down or something?"

"No, I'm okay."

"Sure?"

"Sure. Thanks." And I tried a smile for his benefit. He didn't smile back but walked over to the group of people who had seen Chris last and talked to them in a low voice. They all stood up, one by one, looked over at me, and then away again, quickly, and shook hands with Tom. I saw him hand his keys to someone, and then they were gone. The silent mourners, gone.

"Tom, I can ride back in the car from Hobson's. I'd sort of like to do that."

"No you can't. How do you think Chris would feel about that?" That was a hit below the belt, and I flinched.

"Okay."

"Come on, there's a place to eat across the street. I'll take you over for a hamburger."

"I couldn't. . . ." I got nauseous just thinking about it.

"Then you can drink a cup of coffee. Come on."

We sat, and drank coffee, and smoked, and the time pa.s.sed, and we never said more than ten words to each other. This friend of Chris's whom I had never seen before was sitting there with me, the closest friend I had at that time. I needed him there, I clung to him, and barely even spoke to him.

The car from Hobson's finally came, a long maroon car with a man driving who looked like a chauffeur. It was a hea.r.s.e. A hea.r.s.e for Chris.

Chris came out on a narrow metal stretcher, covered with what looked like a green tarpaulin, and strapped onto the stretcher. They slid him into the back of the hea.r.s.e and snapped the door shut, and the driver looked at me and said, "Okay, want to follow me, or meet me there?"

"We'll follow," I said before looking at Tom. I wanted to follow Chris.

I looked up at Tom and realized that I had been squeezing his hand the whole time we watched Chris being put in the car. My nails had dug into his hand and he had never said a thing. I don't think he noticed.

We got into Chris's car, and Tom started the motor. . . . "Watch the choke," I told him, Chris's words . . . "watch the choke" . . . the first day we'd been back . . . watch the choke, and I threw my arms around Tom Bardi, and cried and sobbed and choked.

"Ready to go?" The driver of the hea.r.s.e wanted to know. Tom looked at me and I nodded. I lay back in the seat and wished I had taken the Librium Peg had suggested. But no, I wanted to "handle" this on my own, no Librium. But thank G.o.d for Tom Bardi.

34.

At Hobson's, I was led into a small office with elegant, pseudo-Louis XV furniture. Tom waited outside. The man who belonged to the voice on the phone came in. I had already seen him in the lobby. "I'm Mr. Ferrari. Mrs. Forrester, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"Now . . . when is the funeral?"

"I don't know yet."

"Of course. We are going to put Mr. Matthews in our Georgian Slumber Room, which I will show you after you look over these papers. Then I will introduce you to our cosmetician and we'll go downstairs to look at a casket. And after that there will be nothing left for you to do. Let's see, today is Friday, so I would imagine that the funeral will be on Sunday, or perhaps Monday?" Sympathetic alligator smile, and a pat on my hand. . . . oh Christ, get your f.u.c.king hands off me. He sounded like a G.o.ddam social director on a Caribbean Cruise, "and now . . ." s.h.i.+t.

"Oh yes, and Mrs. Forrester, will you bring us a full suit of Mr. Matthews' clothes some time this evening? Including shoes." A suit? I wasn't even sure Chris had one.

"What for?" I had obviously shocked the man beyond all possibility heretofore known feasible.

"To lay him out." And that smile again, coupled with an expression that sympathized with my stupidity.

"Lay him out? Oh, in the coff . . . no, that won't be necessary. I want it closed. He can wear what he has on."

"Is he wearing a suit?"

"No, Mr. Ferrari, he is not wearing a suit. He does not own a suit, and I like what he's wearing." I began to snap back, and it made me feel better. "I'll have to check with his mother about some of the details. She's coming in tonight."

"From the East?"

"No, from Denver." But don't worry, we can pay for it, Mr. Ferrari. You'll get your money. That's what the papers were all about.

And he smiled at me, sure that Mr. Matthews' mother would agree with him about the suit. Maybe she would. She was his mother after all.

"Now, shall we go downstairs and look at the caskets?"

We stepped out of the cloistered little office and I saw Tom, still sitting there. It was rea.s.suring to see him still there.

"We won't be long," I said, and Tom nodded. Mr. Ferrari looked shocked. He was obviously prepared to give me the full show.

For some reason, in the elevator it dawned on me how I must look, in my jeans and sandals and Chris's old sweater. Poor Mr. Ferrari. What one had to deal with these days, but I thought it was just as well. Maybe the bill wouldn't be so high. I didn't know how well Mrs. Matthews stood financially and, while I could have paid for it with my savings, it would have left me pretty flat afterward. Funerals could run into thousands.

Mr. Ferrari opened a door and revealed a room full of caskets, displayed like cars in a showroom, on platforms, circled around the room, with crucifixes and without, with all sorts of adornments and hardware, lined with satin, velvet, and moire. And I saw Mr. Ferrari winding up to give me the full speech. An Automobile Salesman at His Best.

"I'll take that one."

"That one?"

"That one."

"Very well, but wouldn't you like me to show you. . . ."

"No. How much is it?"

He consulted a list and said, "Three hundred and twenty-five dollars."

"Fine," and I turned and walked out of the room, pressing the elevator b.u.t.ton before Mr. Ferrari had either caught his breath or rejoined me.

Upstairs, I shook hands with Mr. Ferrari and prepared to leave.

"Mr. Matthews will be ready at seven this evening. You haven't seen the room yet."

"I'm sure it'll be fine, Mr. Ferrari." I was exhausted and wanted to get out of the place. "You're sure about the suit?"

"I'm sure. Thank you," and with all my dignity, headed for the door, with Tom following me.

Once we got outside, he looked at me again. "You okay?"

"Much better. Let's go pick up Sam," and I gave him the address of the school. It was almost four-thirty and she'd be wondering what had happened.

At the school, Sam was drawing pictures in the office of one of the admissions people and looked perfectly happy.

"Where were you?"

"Busy. Let's go, sweetheart, it's time to go home." And she picked up her jacket and headed for the door, with her pictures all rolled up in one hand. After she was well out of the room, the admissions lady came around the desk to me and shook my hand. "I'm so very sorry, Mrs. Forrester."

"Thank you." I was going to have to get used to that. There would be a lot of "I'm sorry's" in the next few days.

Tom was waiting in the car when Samantha and I came out.

"Who's that?"

"A friend of Uncle Chris."

"Oh." That was okay then, in her book.

Tom and she chatted all the way back to the house, which left my mind free to wander as we drove home. I was so tired I was numb.

"Tom, I want to stop at the florist on the way home. There's one just up the street from us. Do you have time?"

"Sure."

"What do you want flowers for, Mommy? We've got enough at home."

"I want to send some to somebody." Oh G.o.d. It began to dawn on me that I'd have to tell her, what and how I didn't know. But I'd have to tell her something.

At the florist, I ordered two hundred dollars worth of wild flowers in varied colors to be delivered to Hobson's by seven o'clock. I couldn't stand the thought of all white or salmon-colored gladiola, not for Chris.

Outside, Sam and Tom were tickling each other in the car, and I gave a tired smile when I saw them. Tom had been unbelievable.

He drove us home and asked me if I wanted him to come in.

"You don't have to. I'm okay. But I could make you some dinner."

"No. I'll go home."

"Want me to drive you?"

"No. I live about six blocks away. I'll walk. I'll park the car for you."

Sam and I stood in front of the house while he did, and he walked back toward us, looking as tired as I felt. He stopped for a moment in front of us, not knowing what to say.

"Tom . . . I don't know how to say it, but . . . thanks. . . . You've been unbelievable . . . wonderful," and tears started welling up in my throat again.