Anne Tyler - The Clock Winder

“But he didn’t,” Margaret said.

“What?”

“What’s the point?”

“Oh, Margaret, where are you, off in a daze some place? We were talking about—”

“I know what you were talking about. What’s the point? He didn’t refuse, he never said a word about it. He went right ahead and performed the services.”

“Well, I was only—”

“Funerals are for the living,” said Mrs. Emerson. “That’s what all the morticians’ ads say.”

“Of course, Mother,” Mary said. “No one denies it.”

“Well, Father Lewis was very kind to me. Very thoughtful, very considerate. I don’t want to disappoint you children in any way, but the fact is that I have never felt all that religious. I just didn’t have the knack, I suppose. Now, Father Lewis knows that well but did it stop him? No. He came and spent time, he offered his sympathy, he never even mentioned the manner of Timothy’s going. He was no help at all, of course, but you can’t say he didn’t try.”

“No, of course not,” Mary said.

“The trouble with ministers,” said Mrs. Emerson, “is that they’re not women. There he was talking about young life carried off in its prime. What do I care about the prime? I’m thinking about the morning sickness, labor pains, colic, mumps — all for nothing. All come to nothing. You have no idea what a trouble twins are to raise.”

“Can’t we get off this subject?” Melissa said.

“Well, it is on my mind, Melissa.”

“I don’t care, you’re making me nervous. All this talk about Timothy, who has just played a terrible trick on us and left us holding the bag. Hymns. Sermons. Religion. Why do we bother?”

“Melissa !”

“What. There’s nothing wrong with what he did, it was his own life to take. But we don’t have to sit around discussing it forever, do we?”

“That’s quite enough,” said Mrs. Emerson, and then she set her glass down and turned to Alvareen, who was just coming in with more rolls. “Everything is delicious, Alvareen.”

“How can you tell? You ain’t eat a bite.”

“Well, it looks delicious.”

“It is,” said Mary, taking over. “You must give me the recipe for the gravy, Alvareen. Is it onion? Is this something you get from your people?”

“All I done was—”

“Matthew,” Mrs. Emerson said, “I have to know. Was death instantaneous?”

Everyone froze. Instantaneous death, which sounded like something that happened only around police lieutenants and ambulance drivers, seemed undesirable; and before Matthew had thought her question out he said, “No, of course not.” Then when their eyes widened he realized his mistake. “Oh,” he said. “No, it was instantaneous. I didn’t—”

“Which is it? Are you keeping something from me?”

“Oh no, I just, you see—”

“Elizabeth? Where’s Elizabeth?”

“Here we go again,” Mary said.

“Here we go where again?”

“You’d think you could get along five minutes without Elizabeth.”

“Mary, for heaven’s sake,” Margaret said.

“She was on the scene ,” said Mrs. Emerson.

“Ha,” Mary said.

“Just what does that mean?”

There was a silence. Alvareen, who was propped against the wall with her arms folded as if she never planned to leave, suddenly spoke up. “All I done with the gravy,” she said, “was throw in a pack of onion soup mix. Lady I used to work for taught me that. You might like to write it down.”

“Oh, is that what it was,” said Mary. “Thank you very much.”

The silence continued. Forks clinked on plates. Billy’s head slid slowly sideways and his eyes rolled, half-shuttered, fighting sleep.

“I do a lot of extries,” said Alvareen. “Sometimes I cater for parties, I mention that in case you’re interested. I spread cream cheese over Ritz crackers, I dye it however they want. Green, like, to match the carpet. Pink or blue, to go in with the decor. Little things is what makes them happy.”

She went out through the swinging door, hands under her apron, probably telling herself she had done all that could be expected to liven this funeral party. Mary said, “I believe Alvareen is even stranger than Emmeline.”

“There was nothing wrong with Emmeline,” said Mrs. Emerson.

“What’d you fire her for, then?”

“What I mind about Elizabeth—” said Melissa.

Margaret said, “Oh, can’t we get off Elizabeth?”

“She’s creepy,” Melissa said. “Never says anything. I distrust people who don’t take care of their appearance.”

“Wake up, Billy,” said Mary. “Eat your beans. Well, I’ll say this about her and then we’ll drop it: I hate to see people taking advantage. It seems to me, Mother, that girl knows a good thing when she stumbles on it — settled down to live off a rich old lady forever, she thinks, and you should make it plain to her that you have children of your own to rely on. Plenty of your own without—”

“Well, I like her,” Margaret said.

“What do you know about it?”

“I’ve had to share a room with her, haven’t I? She talks to me.”

Melissa said, “I don’t hear Matthew speaking up.”

“What about?” said Matthew, pretending not to know.

“Aren’t you always hanging around Elizabeth?”

She smiled at him from across the table — a cat face, sharp and bony, with that thin, painful-looking skin that some blondes have. Who could have foretold that modeling agencies would consider her a beauty? Matthew decided suddenly that he disliked her, and the thought made him blink and duck his head. “Anyway, she’s going,” he said.

“Aren’t you going to mope around, or follow after her or something?”

“Stop it,” Mrs. Emerson said.

They looked up at her, all with the same stunned, pale eyes.

“Oh, what makes you act like this?” she said. “They say it’s the parents to blame, but what did we do? I’m asking you, I really want to know. What did we do?”

No one answered. Billy slumped against Margaret, his lids glued shut, exhausted from having so much to watch out for. Peter speared beans with all his concentration, and Aunt Dorothy began examining her charm bracelet.

“Just loved you and raised you, the best we knew how,” Mrs. Emerson said. “Made mistakes, but none of them on purpose. What else did you want? I go over and over it all, in my mind. Was it something I did? Something I didn’t do? Nights when you were in bed, clean from your baths, I felt such — oh, remorse. Regret. I thought back over every cross word. Now it’s all like one long night, regret for anything I might have done but no fresh faces to start in new upon in the morning. Here I am alone, just aching for you, and still I don’t know what it was I did. Was it me, really? Was it?”

“Mother, of course not,” Mary said.

“Then sometimes I think you were all in a turmoil from birth, nothing I did could have helped. Can you deny it?”

“Mother—”

“What about Andrew? What about Timothy? I was such a gentle person. Where did they get that from?”

Her face was blurring, crumpling, dissolving. And all the movements made toward her were bluffs. Some cleared their throats and some leaned suddenly in her direction, but nobody did anything. In the end, it was Matthew who stood up and said, “I guess you’d like to rest now, Mother.”

“Rest!” she said, with her mouth pressed to a napkin. But she allowed herself to be led away. The others scraped their chairs back and stood up. Alvareen, bearing a hot apple pie, stopped short in the doorway. “We won’t be needing dessert,” Mary told her. “Now, aren’t you an optimist. Have you ever known this family to make it through to the end of a meal?”