Mark Rogers: The Dead

“How she kept loving your father.”

“He was a lovable guy.”

“I wouldn’t have been able to.”

“You weren’t married to him.”

“When you’re married, your husband’s supposed to act married-”

“That’s enough,” Gary said. “The man’s gone, and I don’t want to hear about it.”

“Okay,” Linda said.

In the silence that followed, Gary noticed the sign for the I-195 exit and swung into the far right hand lane.

“Why did all that piss you off so badly, anyway?” he asked angrily, almost without thinking. “It’s not as if he did anything to you.”

That’s it, jerk, he told himself. Start it up again…

“I have taken it awfully personally, haven’t I?” Linda admitted.

“Yeah.”

“Maybe it’s because I like your mother so such. Better each time I talk to her. She may be the only really good person I’ve ever met. Do you know what I mean?”

“Yeah.”

“I mean, if there’s a Heaven, your mother’s going.”

Linda said it innocently enough; still, it touched a nerve.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Gary demanded.

“That it’s much worse when somebody like that gets abused,” Linda answered. “What did you think I meant?”

“I thought you were comparing her to my father.”

“What?”

“Saying he’s burning in Hell, or something.”

“No,” she said.

Despite his anger, he believed her; now that he thought about it, she’d certainly said nothing of the sort. Strange how that idea had popped into his mind…

He paid up at the toll booth, and they continued on their way.

“Hell’s just a fairy tale, anyway,” Gary said.

“Did I say it wasn’t?”

He laughed, shaking his head. “No, you didn’t, did you? Guess all that 700 Club crap hasn’t sunk in.”

She laughed too. “I don’t watch the show that much.”

“Watching it at all is too much.”

“It’s not all that bad. The first part, with all the politics and stuff, is usually kind of interesting, even when I disagree with it-”

“Oh come on,” Gary broke in. “They also put on little old ladies who talk about God miraculously multiplying the leftover spaghetti in the refrigerator-” He paused. “What does Pat Robertson think about Hell, anyway?”

“Oh, he’s all for it,” Linda answered.

The white Pinto flew eastward, bound for the Jersey shore.

Taking the Squankum-Bayside Point exit, Gary drove south on Route 35. Lined with sandpits, defunct drive-ins, and fast food joints, 35 was punctuated every five miles or so by that murderous and peculiar Garden State phenomenon known as the traffic circle. Passing Squankum’s huge green River Rest Cemetery, Gary sped toward the Squankum Bridge, only to find that it was up. Bayside Point lay just across the river.

The Point was a small resort community located at the northern end of the long peninsula flanking Barragansett Bay. To the west, a canal courtesy of the Army Corps of Engineers formed the town’s boundary with Bayside Boro, connecting the Squankum River to the Bay; in effect, the peninsula was an island sliced off from the mainland.

Gary waited patiently for the bridge to come down. Finally the sailboat passed, and the span’s iron-grilled center descended slowly. The gate went back, and Gary and Linda were in Bayside Point a half-minute later.

On the left was a billboard reading, “Bayside Point, Crab Capital of the Jersey Shore.” The message had brought a smile to Gary’s lips ever since High School, when he had first learned about social diseases; he was of course smiling now.

Noticing his expression, Linda frowned as she always did when he had something nasty on his mind. He knew, however, that she secretly enjoyed a lot of his raunchier routines.

“Mad at me?” he asked, as he turned left onto fishery-lined Miami Boulevard.

“For what?” Linda replied. “Smirking at that stupid sign like you always do?”

“Yeah.”

“Nope. It’s just so boring, that’s all.”

“Love me anyway?”

“I suppose.”

He turned right on Atlanta Avenue. Bungalows and two-story houses slipped by on either side.

“I’m sorry I brought up that business about your dad,” Linda said.

“Forgot all about it.”

“I was really looking forward to giving him his first grandchild. I suppose I really loved him too.”

“As I said…”

She nodded. “He was a lovable guy.”

He turned left on Seattle Street, went half a block and pulled over just behind Max Jr.’s red Ford junker. Climbing out, they got their suitcases and went up the slate-paved walk toward the big two-story lemon-yellow house. The screen-door was locked; after knocking on it, Gary checked the mailbox, as he habitually did. There was the habitual nothing inside.

Max Jr. appeared, snickering when he saw his brother, opening the door. He towered over Gary by a full head.

“How you doing, jerk?” he asked, extending his hand.

“Just fine, wack-off,” Gary replied, shaking it. He smelled liquor on Max’s breath. “Feeling no pain?”

“Haven’t had that much, “ Max replied. “But Jack Daniels was made for days like this.”

“Yeah.”

“Of course,” Max went on, “Jack or no, it’s hard to be solemn when I see your foolish little face.” He turned to Linda. “Hi, Sis.” He wrapped his massive arms around her, bringing a gasp to her lips. She kissed him on the cheek.

They followed him into the living room and laid their bags down. The TV was on; a slightly overweight man with slicked-back dark hair and wearing a garish checkered suit was reading from a loose-leaf folder.

“The Holy Bible itself includes eroticism. Sex is depicted in the Song of Songs. Breasts are specifically mentioned…”

“Amen,” said Max.

“Isn’t that Mr. MacAleer?” Gary asked. “What’s he doing on TV?”

“Bought the local cable outfit,” Max said. “Mom told me last time I was up. He’s been making money hand over fist, but he’s also catching flak from his buddies in the Christian Businessmen’s Roundtable. Been running too many hot movies, etc. So he comes on between flicks sometimes, explaining why bringing Shannon Tweed to the viewing public is really very upright and biblical.” Max laughed. “The poor old Song of Songs. The sex peddlers always trot it out. I mean, if they’re going to do that, they should at least show babes with teeth like ewes pregnant with twins.”

“I always hated that line,” Linda said.

“How about those does feeding among the lilies…”

“Where’s mom?” Gary asked.

“Bedroom. Asleep.”

“How’s she been?”

“Not too bad. Today at least.”

“She take care of the arrangements?”

“Before I got here.”

“Mr. Van Nuys push her around?”

“Tried to sell her all the bells and whistles. Didn’t work. Mom’s pretty tough.”

“Is there going to be a viewing?” Linda asked. “I hate viewings.”

Gary felt his throat tighten. After that dream, he wasn’t particularly up for a viewing either.

“Two, Wednesday,” Max answered. “The funeral’s Thursday morning.”

“Uncle Buddy going to make it?”

“Absolutely.”

Gary winced.

“You don’t seem too delighted,” Max observed.

“ You’re looking forward to seeing him?”

“I’d rather have a root canal. You can always count on old Uncle Buddy to do something stupid. As a matter of fact, I know exactly what it’s going to be.”

“What?” Gary asked.

“You know those flowers Dad hated? The ones that look like they’re sticking their tongues out?”