Forty-Six

The casket rested at the head of the small funeral parlor, flowers covering its oak lid, which remained closed tight against the horror of my mother’s remains. They told me that someone had broken the front window while she slept and poured lighter fluid down the drapes. A single match and the mountain of paper did the rest. She hadn’t made it five feet from her bedroom before she had been overcome by smoke. They assured me that she was dead before she felt the heat of the fire. A small blessing.

I sat next to the casket, wearing a black suit and accepting the condolences of a line of fellow mourners. Auntie Rosa, my mother’s sister, sat next to me. The mourners had formed a line that snaked from the room’s front door past the casket and on to me. The women talked quietly together and looked at the name cards on the flowers. The men stared straight ahead, lacing their fingers together to form an empty basket that they let hang in front of their suit pants.

They each knelt in front of the casket, the married couples often kneeling together, and, perhaps, said a short prayer. Some reached out and brushed their fingers across the polished oak, murmuring last wishes to my mother, maybe encouraging her on her new journey. Finally they stood, gazed upon me with sorrowful eyes, and offered their condolences.

“I’m sorry.”

“Thank you.”

“She was a great lady.”

“She was.”

“How are you holding up?”

“Okay.”

“It’s a terrible thing.”

“I know.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Thank you.”

“Sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you.”

“She was a great lady.”

“She was.”

“What can you do?”

“Remember her, I guess.”

There were handshakes and kisses on the cheek for me and hugs for Auntie Rosa, the surviving sister and the last surviving child of Luciano and Belinda Testa.

The initial rush of mourners passed. I sat staring into space, trying to remember how many times my mother had dragged me through a mourning line. I had knelt next to her, my father refusing to get close to the dead. While my mother whispered a Hail Mary next to me, I folded my hands and peered closely at a real dead body, its lips pressed together, prayer beads clasped in its hands. I couldn’t fathom the stillness of the dead, and I’d have sworn that the chest rose and fell in tiny increments. Then my mother would grab my hand, and we’d share our condolences.

“You look sad. Would you like some candy?”

A little girl stood before me in a blue, frilly dress. She held out her hand, displaying an orange funeral home candy.

“Maybe candy would make you feel better,” she said.

Maybe she was right. I took the candy.

“Thank you,” I said. “What is your name?”

My Auntie Rosa intervened. “This is your cousin Maria.”

“I was going to tell him that, Nonna.”

I said, “Nonna? You’re Auntie Rosa’s granddaughter?”

Maria said, “My daddy is over there.” She pointed at Sal, who held forth in a small knot of men that included, improbably, Hugh Graxton.

Auntie Rosa said, “You don’t remember Maria? She’s our little surprise.”

I covered, “Well, she was so small the last time I saw her.”

Maria said, “Yes. I’m older now. I’m nine.”

I smiled, couldn’t help myself. “Wow! You’re an old lady. Sal is my cousin.”

“I know that. Daddy said that Auntie Angelina who died was your mom, and that you were his cousin. You look really sad.”

“I am really sad,” I said, deciding to change the subject. “If Sal is my cousin and you’re Sal’s daughter, then I guess you’re my second cousin?”

“No, silly. You are my first cousin, once removed.”

“I am?”

“Yes. If you have a baby, then the baby would be my second cousin.”

I turned to Auntie Rosa, pointed a thumb at Maria. “She’s only nine?”

Auntie Rosa said, “She’s a smart one.”

Maria said, “If you have a baby boy, then I could marry him because we’d be second cousins.”

I said, “Really. Would you like to marry a baby boy with the name Tucker?”

“Well, sure. But I think I should babysit for him first to see if I like him.”

“That’s an excellent plan,” I said.

Maria said, “Bye-bye,” and ran to join a small knot of kids around the candy dish.

The orange candy melted and filled me with artificial orange goodness. The goodness spread through me and lifted the weight from my mind. I looked around the room, at all the mourners, most of whom I did not know, who had made time to come here and provide a featherbed of support for Auntie Rosa and me.

This was my family. These people had made the time to pay their respects to my mother and offer their support to me. I had done nothing to deserve this other than to be born to Angelina Testa, who had married John Tucker to give birth to me. The orange candy melted away, leaving nothing but sweetness.

I cast my eyes around the room and saw movement at the entryway. A new mourner, someone who was clearly not at home in the traditions of an Italian wake. Lucy wore a blue dress and held her purse to her chest. I rose, waved, and met her at the doorway.

Lucy gave me a peck on the cheek. “Tucker, I’m so sorry about your mother.”

“Thank you,” I said by rote.

“I’m sorry I’m late. I had a little trouble finding the funeral home.”

“I’m glad you’re here. It’s good to see you.” I took Lucy by the arm and brought her into the parlor. It was time to share this family, such as it was. I walked up behind Sal, who was gesticulating at Uncle Walt. Sal turned. I said, “Let me introduce Lucy. Lucy, this is my cousin Sal.”

Lucy shook Sal’s hand and said, “Hi. I’m Tucker’s girlfriend.”

My heart jumped in pleasant surprise. Girlfriend? Well, what do you know about that.