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MAISIE ZUMSTEIN’S funeral took place in the smallest parlor of the Huff and Metcalf Funeral Home on East Lansing Street. A smattering of folding chairs projected an underwhelming attendance while soft, completely forgettable, recorded music underpinned the few awkward conversations going on. Long shadows from the heavily draped windows contrasted with three harsh strips of sun and so dulled the three sprays of flowers displayed behind the deceased’s urn, that you couldn’t help thinking how quickly the flowers would suffer Maisie’s fate. The trail of worn carpet looping from the right-hand doorway, around the front, and back saddened me further, while the stuffy smell of clothing too long in the closet tempted me to hold my breath.
Chelsea and I waited our turn with the immediate family behind two elderly women in flowered hats and low-heeled shoes. They agreed that their Uber driver was “very nice” but he needed a haircut.
While the old sweethearts jabbered, I observed Eric in between greetings. Hands comfortably linked together below relaxed arms, he rocked gently forward and back on shiny, perhaps new, brown dress shoes. His pale gray summer suit was appropriately somber, and his downcast eyes suggested peace or contentment. What jarred me was his smile. Eric Zumstein was very pleased about something.
He could be thinking anything, of course, but the hint of self-satisfaction in his grin turned my imagination down a dark path. Was he secretly thrilled to have his grandmother gone? Was it possible Maisie’s doctor was right, that Eric had calculated this outcome and set it in motion?
The grieving grandson returned before the next person leaned forward to speak, but my discomfort remained. To dispel it I shifted my attention to Eric’s brother, Wynn, and their parents, Ida and Abe.
Abe caused one of the flowered-hats to stare and pout in response to her condolence, which piqued my curiosity about him.
"How do you know my mother?" he challenged when we faced each other and forward progress stalled. A flabbier version of his sons with a smoker's gray complexion, he seemed oddly inhospitable for the circumstances, so I was slow to reply.
Eric freed himself from a teary kisser just in time. "Ms. Barnes helped get Gram to the hospital when she fell, Dad. Her daughter, Chelsea, lives next door."
Abe's scrutiny seemed to intensify.
"You should thank her, Dad," Eric suggested, but that got a nod so curt I stepped aside to let the next person in.
Chelsea finished grasping Ida's small hands with both of hers. "Sorry about your mother-in-law," she murmured. Casting her own critical glance toward Abe, she pecked Eric on the cheek, shook Eric’s brother’s hand, then joined me in my search for a seat.
There were still plenty to be had; the gathering numbered a paltry fifteen including the undertaker. We chose the third row on the left, and behind us two septuagenarians gossiped about Maisie loudly enough for us to hear.
"That's the grandson been living with her," said Number One.
"Not married, then?" observed Number Two.
"Out of work."
"So that's how she got him to take care of her."
"Nah, remember that rabbit-fur jacket Lonny bought her? Made him sneeze something awful, but she wore that thing till it was almost bald as me."
"I'm not following you."
"I'm just sayin' Maisie had a way, that's all. Whatever she wanted always came out sounding like somebody else's idea."
The discussion ended with the appearance of a pseudo-clergyman in a black blazer who launched into a lengthy, and surprisingly cheery, homily that could have been about anyone. Then at last the mourners were permitted to stand and talk among themselves.
My daughter and I bolted for our car.
"Why did we do that?" Chelsea asked as she belted herself in.
"Good question." I refrained from speeding out of the parking lot sheerly by willpower. "Lunch?"
"You bet."
We chose an upscale eatery with leather booths and an inventive menu. I ordered iced tea and an Asian salad festooned with green shrimp. Chopped cashews and wasabi peas added texture. In my opinion it needed a side of sandwich to qualify as lunch.
"What was it with Abe?" Chelsea wondered aloud. "Did he think we were crashers or something?"
Since I was busy with a cashew, I shrugged.
"As if anybody would crash a funeral. What for? They didn't even offer water, and hey—it's eighty-eight degrees out there."
Watching Chelsea wrestle some Romaine into her mouth, it occurred to me that my daughter hadn't attended many funerals. Perhaps only her father's, and I wished to high heaven she hadn’t had to attend that.
I said, "Maybe Abe picked up my vibes."
Chelsea stopped what she was doing. “What were you thinking?"
"Tough man to have for a father."
Chelsea nodded hard, poked her salad, then kept poking until something stuck on her fork. "So do you feel even sorrier for Eric now, or is it just me?"
While I weighted my words, I waved our waiter over and begged for rolls.
I concluded that I should not share my misgivings about Eric with Chelsea. Not yet anyhow. She liked the man, and suggesting he might be less than admirable before I had proof would not be well received. With luck, I might never have to say anything.
However, I did agree that I felt sorry for him. "I can’t imagine an old grouch like Abe being thrilled with a son who sings.”
Chelsea slapped the table so hard I jumped. "I have a plan. You want to hear it?"
"Sure.”
“Eric can sing in a chorus, but solo—forgetaboutit."
“Okay...?”
Eyes glittering, my daughter pushed her salad aside and leaned in. "Stage fright is a phobia, right? And since psychologists help people get over phobias, I thought maybe you could ask Uncle Will to help. What do you think?"
What I thought was that most professionals hate being hit up for "freebies" from their friends, and why not? It’s presumptuous and rude. On the other hand, Will had willingly offered his expertise regarding Ronald Voight, so I only waffled a little.
"Maybe he could steer Eric toward the right kind of therapy."
"Yes!” Chelsea exclaimed. “So you'll ask him?"
Aloud, I answered, "Of course."