George Saunders - Pastoralia

…

Lobton’s funeral parlor is just a regular house on a regular street. Inside there’s a rack of brochures with titles like “Why Does My Loved One Appear Somewhat Larger?” Lobton looks healthy. Maybe too healthy. He’s wearing a yellow golf shirt and his biceps keep involuntarily flexing. Every now and then he touches his delts as if to confirm they’re still big as softballs.

“Such a sad thing,” he says.

“How much?” asks Jade. “I mean, like for basic. Not superfancy.”

“But not crappy either,” says Min. “Our aunt was the best.”

“What price range were you considering?” says Lobton, cracking his knuckles. We tell him and his eyebrows go up and he leads us to something that looks like a moving box.

“Prior to usage we’ll moisture-proof this with a spray lacquer,” he says. “Makes it look quite woodlike.”

“That’s all we can get?” says Jade. “Cardboard?”

“I’m actually offering you a slight break already,” he says, and does a kind of push-up against the wall. “On account of the tragic circumstances. This is Sierra Sunset. Not exactly cardboard. More of a fiberboard.”

“I don’t know,” says Min. “Seems pretty gyppy.”

“Can we think about it?” says Ma.

“Absolutely,” says Lobton. “Last time I checked this was still America.”

I step over and take a closer look. There are staples where Aunt Bernie’s spine would be. Down at the foot there’s some writing about Folding Tab A into Slot B.

“No freaking way,” says Jade. “Work your whole life and end up in a Mayflower box? I doubt it.”

We’ve got zip in savings. We sit at a desk and Lobton does what he calls a Credit Calc. If we pay it out monthly for seven years we can afford the Amber Mist, which includes a double-thick balsa box and two coats of lacquer and a one-hour wake.

“But seven years, jeez,” says Ma.

“We got to get her the good one,” says Min. “She never had anything nice in her life.”

So Amber Mist it is.

We bury her at St. Leo’s, on the hill up near BastCo. Her part of the graveyard’s pretty plain. No angels, no little rock houses, no flowers, just a bunch of flat stones like parking bumpers and here and there a Styrofoam cup. Father Brian says a prayer and then one of us is supposed to talk. But what’s there to say? She never had a life. Never married, no kids, work work work. Did she ever go on a cruise? All her life it was buses. Buses buses buses. Once she went with Ma on a bus to Quigley, Kansas, to gamble and shop at an outlet mall. Someone broke into her room and stole her clothes and took a dump in her suitcase while they were at the Roy Clark show. That was it. That was the extent of her tourism. After that it was DrugTown, night and day. After fifteen years as Cashier she got demoted to Greeter. People would ask where the cold remedies were and she’d point to some big letters on the wall that said Cold Remedies.

Freddie, Ma’s boyfriend, steps up and says he didn’t know her very long but she was an awful nice lady and left behind a lot of love, etc. etc. blah blah blah. While it’s true she didn’t do much in her life, still she was very dear to those of us who knew her and never made a stink about anything but was always content with whatever happened to her, etc. etc. blah blah blah.

Then it’s over and we’re supposed to go away.

“We gotta come out here like every week,” says Jade.

“I know I will,” says Min.

“What, like I won’t?” says Jade. “She was so freaking nice.”

“I’m sure you swear at a grave,” says Min.

“Since when is freak a swear, chick?” says Jade.

“Girls,” says Ma.

“I hope I did okay in what I said about her,” says Freddie in his full-of-crap way, smelling bad of English Navy. “Actually I sort of surprised myself.”

“Bye-bye, Aunt Bernie,” says Min.

“Bye-bye, Bern,” says Jade.

“Oh my dear sister,” says Ma.

I scrunch my eyes tight and try to picture her happy, laughing, poking me in the ribs. But all I can see is her terrified on the couch. It’s awful. Out there, somewhere, is whoever did it. Someone came in our house, scared her to death, watched her die, went through our stuff, stole her money. Someone who’s still living, someone who right now might be having a piece of pie or running an errand or scratching his ass, someone who, if he wanted to, could drive west for three days or whatever and sit in the sun by the ocean.

We stand a few minutes with heads down and hands folded.

Afterward freddie takes us to Trabanti’s for lunch. Last year Trabanti died and three Vietnamese families went in together and bought the place, and it still serves pasta and pizza and the big oil of Trabanti is still on the wall but now from the kitchen comes this very pretty Vietnamese music and the food is somehow better.

Freddie proposes a toast. Min says remember how Bernie always called lunch dinner and dinner supper? Jade says remember how when her jaw clicked she’d say she needed oil?

“She was a excellent lady,” says Freddie.

“I already miss her so bad,” says Ma.

“I’d like to kill that fuck that killed her,” says Min.

“How about let’s don’t say fuck at lunch,” says Ma.

“It’s just a word, Ma, right?” says Min. “Like pluck is just a word? You don’t mind if I say pluck? Pluck pluck pluck?”

“Well, shit’s just a word too,” says Freddie. “But we don’t say it at lunch.”

“Same with puke,” says Ma.

“Shit puke, shit puke,” says Min.

The waiter clears his throat. Ma glares at Min.

“I love you girls’ manners,” Ma says.

“Especially at a funeral,” says Freddie.

“This ain’t a funeral,” says Min.

“The question in my mind is what you kids are gonna do now,” says Freddie. “Because I consider this whole thing a wake-up call, meaning it’s time for you to pull yourselfs up by the bootstraps like I done and get out of that dangerous craphole you’re living at.”

“Mr. Phone Poll speaks,” says Min.

“Anyways it ain’t that dangerous,” says Jade.

“A woman gets killed and it ain’t that dangerous?” says Freddie.

“All’s we need is a dead bolt and a eyehole,” says Min.

“What’s a bootstrap,” says Jade.

“It’s like a strap on a boot, you doof,” says Min.

“Plus where we gonna go?” says Min. “Can we move in with you guys?”

“I personally would love that and you know that,” says Freddie. “But who would not love that is our landlord.”

“I think what Freddie’s saying is it’s time for you girls to get jobs,” says Ma.

“Yeah right, Ma,” says Min. “After what happened last time?”

When I first moved in, Jade and Min were working the info booth at HardwareNiche. Then one day we picked the babies up at day care and found Troy sitting naked on top of the washer and Mac in the yard being nipped by a Pekingese and the day-care lady sloshed and playing KillerBirds on Nintendo.

So that was that. No more HardwareNiche.

“Maybe one could work, one could baby-sit?” says Ma.

“I don’t see why I should have to work so she can stay home with her baby,” says Min.

“And I don’t see why I should have to work so she can stay home with her baby,” says Jade.

“It’s like a freaking veece versa,” says Min.

“Let me tell you something,” says Freddie. “Something about this country. Anybody can do anything. But first they gotta try. And you guys ain’t. Two don’t work and one strips naked? I don’t consider that trying. You kids make squat. And therefore you live in a dangerous craphole. And what happens in a dangerous craphole? Bad tragic shit. It’s the freaking American way — you start out in a dangerous craphole and work hard so you can someday move up to a somewhat less dangerous craphole. And finally maybe you get a mansion. But at this rate you ain’t even gonna make it to the somewhat less dangerous craphole.”