didn’t do anything to you,” Louis said.
“Didn’t say you did.”
“Mom give you a hard time or what.”
“Let’s just not talk about it.”
“Yeah. Well.”
“I’m going to go sit with Peter, OK?”
She left him standing in the middle of the ballroom, ten paces behind the last row of chairs. The lights shone more brightly on him than on the fifty or so assembled mourners, more brightly even than on the ashen moderator, who, after a nod of appreciation to the sweating and victorious pianist, looked squarely at Louis and said, “We may be seated.”
Louis held his ground, arms crossed. The woman closed her eyes with raised eyebrows. Then she put on a pair of glasses that were chained to her neck.
“We’re assembled here today,” she said, reading from the lectern, “to honor the memory of Rita Damiano Kernaghan, a mentor unto many of us and a friend unto all. Can you hear me in the back row?”
The only person in the back row, Bob Holland, gave the woman a captain’s salute.
“My name is Geraldine Briggs. I was a friend of Rita Kernaghan. I knew her well. At times, we were as sisters unto one another. We laughed together, we wept together. We were as little girls, sometimes.”
The pallid mourners were listening raptly, their heads like so many compass needles pointing at the lectern. The men with Melanie, Mr. Stoorhuys included, sat with their fingers pressed into their foreheads.
“When first I met Rita at the Empowerment Center in Danvers in 1983, she had just penned a book entitled Beginning Life at 60, familiar to many of you, I’m sure, and seemed, she did, a perfect embodiment of the principles limned therein. Rita had learned that the soul is eternal and youthful, gay and joyous, filled with glad melodies. Age is no impediment unto the soul. Nay, death itself be no impediment. She had been a simple peasant girl, a gatherer of flowers and scented herbs, in Napoleonic times. Why should she not then make glad melodies even now when, a careworn widow, there was nought to be wrought of life but, nay, begin it again? Why should not we all? In her workshop, we hearkened unto her message. We learned. We grew. We laughed. We became as young again. We were healed, healed not as the modern world would have us healed, but spiritually. Nay. A new world was opened up unto us by her.”
Louis, standing rocklike, watched Mr. Tabscott bury his face in both hands. His jeweled watch gleamed.
“But nay. what is the new but that which is most ancient? And what. What is death but the beginning of new life? Another turn in the eternal cycle? A young babe born? Let us therefore tell glad stories today. Each one of us as so desires, let them stand and celebrate with glad stories the eternal life of Rita Damiano Kernaghan and, nay, of us all!”
Here Geraldine Briggs paused and a woman in the front row popped up from her seat. She immediately sat down again, withered by a look.
“I see among us,” Geraldine Briggs continued, reading, “friends of Rita’s. Family of Rita’s. Friends from her years of labor as a secretary. Friends and loved ones from all walks of her life. And so, friends, the Empowerment Center, which I’m proud to direct, has in accordance with Rita’s express wishes requested that in lieu of flowers donations be made in Rita’s name to the Empowerment Center. The name of the fund is the Rita Damiano Kernaghan Fund. This is fund number 1145. Envelopes for giving are still available by the coffee urn. But nay, nay, let us now. Let us now hear glad stories!”
The first glad story was delivered by Mr. Aldren, who rose halfway from his seat and spoke in a guarded monotone. “Rita Kernaghan was an employee with us at Sweeting-Aldren Industries for some twenty-four years and was the, uh, wife of the principal architect of what is known to be one of the Commonwealth’s hightech and high-finance success stories of the, uh, last couple decades, and I and some fellow officers are here to, uh, pay our respects. She was a fine—fine woman.”
Mr. Aldren dropped back into his seat and Geraldine Briggs, eyes closed, slowly nodded. Then the eager woman in the front row popped up and faced the congregation. Once, she said, after a class at the Empowerment Center, Rita Kernaghan had given her a bronze amulet to wear on her neck. The amulet had cured a large wen that was on her chest. Out of gratitude the woman had sent Rita a box of Harry and David’s pears. Six months later, at a festival of the vernal equinox held at Rita’s estate, the woman was taken into Rita’s living room. For six months the box of Harry and David’s pears had been stored close to the focus of power of the Pyramid on Rita’s house. Rita and the woman pried the staples—the staples were copper and heavy-duty—pried the staples out of the box. The pears were not rotten. The woman and Rita shared a pear, trading bites. It was good. The woman sat down.
Geraldine Briggs smiled uncomfortably and coughed a little.
A man with dentures like carp teeth stood up and unfolded a clipping. It was an editorial from the Ipswich Chronicle. The editorial was a thanksgiving that explicitly invoked the Judeo-Christian god and thanked him that property damage in the recent earthquake had been minor. The editorial noted that Rita’s famous Pyramid, so much in the news in recent years, had not protected her when push came to shove; damage on the Kernaghan estate (still slight) had been among the most severe. The man folded up the clipping. He said that he had taken two of Rita’s workshops. He said Rita had never maintained that the Pyramid offered eternal life in the present existence. That was not the point. It was this man’s personal view that the Pyramid had in fact served to concentrate the earth forces in the neighborhood—
“Yes,” said Geraldine Briggs. “Yes perhaps. Other stories?”
A woman rose to describe an occasion on which Rita had cried upon hearing of the death of a young person.
Another woman rose and told of Rita’s refusal to accept money from a person ill able to afford a workshop.
Another woman rose and spoke of her friendship with Rita during the Ming Dynasty.
It was not clear what sort of story besides Mr. Aldren’s would have pleased Geraldine Briggs; certainly few of these stories did. But having opened the door, she was powerless to close it. The anecdotes poured out, ranging from the sentimental to the borderline insane, and their accreting weight slowly unmanned Louis, uncrossing his arms and bowing his shoulders, until finally he went and sat down by his father. His father seemed to be having a grand time, tossing his head back in delight, feasting on the dismal confessions as though they were popcorn. He went so far as to frown at Geraldine Briggs when, for the third time, she said, “Well, if there are no more …” She paused. It finally seemed as if there really might be no more. “If there are no more stories I think we’ll—” But yet again she was forced to stop, because Melanie had sprung to her feet.
Melanie smiled prettily, twisting her head around to meet as many eyes as possible, leaning back to catch a few more. The only ones she avoided were her family’s.
“I knew Rita Kernaghan, too,” she said. “And I wanted to tell you all that I firmly believe she’s already reincarnated! I believe she’s now … a parakeet! Isn’t that marvelous?” She clasped her hands in front of her and swung them like a happy girl. “I just wanted to tell you all how marvelous I think it is that she’s a parakeet now, how simply marvelous. That’s all I have to say!”
With an unfortunate little wiggle of her bottom, and with one hand on her hat to keep it on, she dropped back down between her protectors, Mr. Aldren and Mr. Tabscott. The protectors traded smirks. The drab crowd, with dawning outrage, turned to Geraldine Briggs for guidance, but she appeared to have something urgent to say to the pianist. Eileen and Peter were whispering and nodding, maturely pretending not to have particularly noticed what Melanie said. The crowd began to murmur: Honor the dead! Honor the dead!
Louis was looking at his father, who in turn was looking at his wife. Once the surprise had faded there was nothing amused or affectionate or even angry in Bob’s expression. It was pure disappointed