Лиза Макманн - Gone

Cabel raps on the door. He’s carrying a potted plant and a bakery box from the grocery store.

“Hey,” he says. “I didn’t have time to make you, like, a casserole or whatever. But I stopped by the store and brought you this. I’m so sorry, Janers.”

Janie smiles and her eyes fill up. She takes the box and the plant, sets the plant near the window. “It’s really pretty,” she says. “Thank you.” She opens the box. “Oh, wow—doughnuts.”

She laughs and goes to him. Hugs him close. “You rock, Cabe.”

Cabel shrugs, a little embarrassed. “I figured doughnuts are good comfort food. But I’m going to fix you ladies some dinner, too, so you don’t have to mess with it.”

Janie shakes her head, puzzled. “What for?”

“That’s what you do when somebody dies. You bring them casseroles and KFC and shit. Charlie got all kinds of food when Dad died in the clink, and nobody even liked my dad. I was in the hospital but Charlie snuck me some . . . God, I’m rambling.” Cabel shuffles his feet. “I’m just going to shut up now.”

Janie hugs him tightly again. “This is really weird.”

“Yeah,” he says. He strokes her hair. Kisses her forehead. “I’m really sorry about Henry.”

“Thanks. I mean, we all knew he was going to die. He’s really just a stranger,” Janie says. Lies.

“Still,” Cabel says. “Anyway, he’s your dad. That’s gotta feel bad, no matter what.”

She shrugs. “I can’t . . .” she says. Doesn’t want to go there. She’s got other immediate things to think about now.

Like how to get her drunk, nightgown-wearing mother to a funeral.

5:59 p.m.

Instead of heating up the house even more by cooking, Cabel picks up dinner. Apparently, the scent of fried chicken and biscuits penetrates the Portal to Sorrow, as Dorothea appears and silently helps herself to the food before retreating once again.

The director from the funeral home calls. Janie first writes things down frantically, then discusses arrangement options with him. She’s relieved to hear that Jews have their funerals as soon as possible. That suits her just fine. And with no relatives to contact, they set the service for the next morning at eleven.

After she hangs up, Janie whips through clothes hampers and gets some dirty laundry together for the Laundromat. She shoves the basket at Cabel, and then she remembers that she promised Cathy a note. She scribbles something on a piece of paper and hands it to Cabe, along with a roll of masking tape. “Can you drive out to Henry’s and stick this on his front door?”

“No problem,” he says. He heads out the door while Janie irons a dress and then wipes the dust off of a pair of ancient, rarely worn flats.

“It’s not fair,” she mumbles. “It’s totally not.”

8:10 p.m.

Cabe shows up at the front door with the laundry—fresh, clean, and almost, sort-of folded.

“Note’s on the door, laundry is finished.”

Janie grins and takes the basket. “Thank you. You’re wonderful.”

Cabel grins. “Laundry’s not my strongest area of expertise, but I get by. Can I keep the panties?”

He grins and backs out of the house.

“Uh . . . you’ll have to ask my mother.” Janie laughs.

Cabe cringes. “Oof. Fuck and ugh. Hey, I’ll let you get stuff done . . . and give you your space.

Call me if you need me. I’ll pick you guys up tomorrow for the funeral, if you want.”

“Thank you,” she says. “Yes, that would be great.”

Janie watches him go.

WEDNESDAY

August 9, 2006, 8:46 a.m.

Cabel knocks on the door. “I’m sorry to bug you,” he says. “I’m not trying to. I know you need space. But here’s a little breakfast so you don’t have to mess with it.”

Janie bites her bottom lip. Takes the tray. “Thanks.”

“Back later.” He sprints across the yards back to his house.

Janie knocks firmly on her mother’s bedroom door.

“What now?”

“Mother? I’ve got some breakfast for you,” she says through the closed door. “Cabel made it.

He’s going to be back here at ten thirty to pick us up for the funeral, so you need to be ready.”

Silence.

“Mother.”

“Just set it on my dresser.”

Janie enters. Dorothea Hannagan is sitting on the edge of her bed, rocking back and forth. “Are you okay?”

“Set it there and git outta here.”

Janie glances at her watch, sets the plate on the dresser and leaves the room, a sinking feeling in her gut.

She hops into the shower and lets cool water wash over her. It’s not as hot outside today. That’ll be a relief at the funeral, standing out by the grave site in the sun.

Janie’s only been to one other funeral in her life—her grandmother’s in Chicago a long time ago.

That one was in a church and there were lots of blue-haired strangers there. They had ham buns and sugar cookies and orange drink afterward, she remembers, and Janie ran around the church basement with a bunch of distant cousins until the old people made them stop. That’s about all

Janie remembers.

Janie chose a grave-site service for Henry. It’s harder for people to fall asleep when they’re standing around outside.

Even the drunk ones.

9:39 a.m.

She remembers now why she’s not fond of dresses.

9:50 a.m.

Janie knocks tentatively on her mother’s door.

There’s no answer.

“Mother?”

With only forty minutes to go before Cabel picks them up, Janie’s getting nervous. “Mother,” she says, louder this time. Why does everything have to be so hard?

Finally, Janie opens the door. Dorothea is sitting on the bed, a glass of vodka in her hand. Her hair is still greasy. She’s still wearing her nightgown. “Mother!”

“I’m not going.” Dorothea says. “I can’t go.” She doubles over, wraps her arm around her stomach like it hurts, still holding the glass. “I’m sick.”

“You are not sick, you’re drunk. Get your ass into the shower—now.”

“I can’t go.”

“Mother!” Janie’s losing it. “God! Why do you have to do this? Why do you have to make everything so fucking hard? I’m turning the shower on and you are getting in it.”

Janie stomps to the bathroom and turns on the shower. Stomps back to her mother’s room and grabs the drink from Dorothea’s hand. Slams it down on the dresser and it splashes all over her hand. Pulls her mother up by the arm. “Come ON! They are not going to delay this funeral for you.”

“I can’t go!” Dorothea says, trying to sound firm. But her frail body is no match for Janie’s strength.

Janie pulls her mother to the bathroom and pushes her into the shower, still wearing her nightgown. Dorothea yells. Janie reaches in and grabs shampoo, washes her mother’s hair. It’s so greasy that it doesn’t lather. Janie takes another handful and tries again.

Dorothea claws at Janie, also now sopping wet in her dress. Janie holds her mother’s head back so the water runs over her, rinsing out the shampoo. “You ruin everything,” Janie says. “I’m not going to let you ruin this. Now,” Janie says as she turns the water off and grabs a towel, “Take off that ridiculous nightgown and dry yourself. I can NOT believe this is happening. I am so done with this.” Janie turns abruptly and stalks off, soaking wet, to her own room to find something else suitable to wear.

All Janie can hear is some shuffling around in the bathroom. She runs a brush through her hair and fixes her soggy makeup. And then she goes to Dorothea’s bedroom, takes out the dress and undergarments, and carries them to the bathroom. Finds her mother still drying off.

Janie looks at her mother, a bedraggled rat, so thin her bones poke through her skin. Her face is tired, dejected. “Come on, Ma,” Janie says softly. “Let’s get you dressed.”