A. Homes - May We Be Forgiven

“Are you asking for my approval?”

I think of Nixon’s funeral. He had the stroke at home in New Jersey on a Monday night, right before dinner. His housekeeper called an ambulance, and they drove him into New York City, paralyzed but conscious. The initial prognosis was good, but then his brain swelled; he went into a coma and died. Nixon’s coffin was flown from New York to Yorba Linda, where people wound through the quiet streets on a chilly night, waiting for hours to see him. I was going to go, make a kind of pilgrimage the way Mormons flock to the mountain or groupies to a Grateful Dead concert.

Instead, I watched on TV.

Forty-two thousand people viewed Nixon’s coffin over a twenty-hour period. The fact that I was not among them is something I regret. I watched on television, but I felt nothing. I didn’t have the actual experience, the shared night out in the cold. I only made it to Yorba Linda once, years after Nixon’s death.

“How do I tell people at school?” Ashley asks.

“They probably already know,” Nate says.

“That’s not fair,” Ashley says.

I pass Ashley some Gummi Bears.

Jane’s sister sees and hurries over from their side of the room. She sits in the pew right behind me, leans forward, and whispers.

“Since when do you know about things like snacks?”

“I don’t,” I say without even turning around.

I don’t like kids, but I feel guilty; worse than guilty, I feel responsible; worse than that, I think their lives are ruined.

And me, under stress I reminisce about the stories of a life that is not my own. I suck on a sweet; I pop a couple of Gummis into my mouth, without offering any to Susan.

“Where are the twins?” I ask Susan.

“With a sitter,” she says, her Botox so fresh her face doesn’t move.

An older woman leans in and tugs on Ashley’s hair. “You poor children and your beautiful hair.”

Music begins to play.

The rabbi appears. “Friends, family, parents of Jane, her sister, Susan, and her children, Nathaniel and Ash.”

“No one calls her Ash,” Nate says flatly.

“How does one make sense of a death such as this, a life interrupted? Jane was a mother, a daughter, a sister, and a friend — and she was also the victim of a crime, denied the natural course of life.”

“I never liked George,” her mother says loudly during the service. “George was an asshole from the first date.”

The rabbi continues: “Out of Jane’s death comes a break with tradition; when a Jew dies, no one questions if there will be a ritual washing or a funeral, but what of the body? Jane’s family chose organ donation, so that the parts of Jane which remained strong, viable, could save the lives of others — they did the mitzvah of giving Jane to others. One of the purposes of the funeral ceremony is to help the friends and family adjust to the finality of their loss. And while the circumstances of Jane’s death leave us searching for logic, we celebrate her life and the life she will now give others. HaMakom yinachaim etchem batoch shar avlai Zion v’Yerushlayim. May God comfort you together with all the other mourners of Zion and Jerusalem,” the rabbi offers. “This is the traditional Jewish expression of condolence.”

“Are we orphans?” Ashley asks.

“Kind of.”

“Yit-gadal v’yit-kadash sh’mey raba, b’alma di v’ra hirutey, vyam-lih malhutey b’ha-yey-hon uv’yomey-hon uv’ha-yey d’hol beyt yisrael ba-agala u-vizman kariv, v’imru amen.” the rabbi intones.

“Were we always Jewish?” Ashley asks.

“Yes.”

The ceremony concludes, and one of the guests turns to me and says, “Given the circumstances, I think the rabbi did a very good job. What did you think?”

“It’s my policy not to review funerals.”

“If the guests would stay in their places until the family has had a chance to exit it would be appreciated,” the rabbi says.

Jane’s casket is rolled past us; the anchorman from Thanksgiving is one of the pallbearers.

Jane’s parents exit with Susan between them. I notice that when she cries her expression doesn’t change — tears of a clown.

Nate, Ashley, and I follow after the coffin, climbing into the limo as Jane is lifted into the hearse.

“I hope I never have to do this again,” Nate says.

“Can we go home now?” Ashley asks.

“No,” Nate says. “There’s like an after-party thing?”

“From here we go to the cemetery. At the graveside, a few words are said and the coffin is lowered into the ground.” I wonder if I should tell them the part about shoveling some dirt on your mother, or if some things are better left unsaid. “And after the cemetery we sit shiva at Susan’s house. People who knew your mom will come and visit, and there will be food for lunch.”

“I want to be alone,” Nate says.

“It’s not an option.”

“Who sends these cars? And do they work other jobs?” Nate asks.

“Like what?”

“Like driving rock stars, or do they just do funerals?”

I lean forward and ask the driver, “Do you just do funerals, or funerals and rock stars?”

The driver glances at us in his rearview mirror. “Me, I do funerals and airports. I don’t like rock and roll. They’ll sign you up for a two-hour job, and four days later you’re still parked outside of some hotel, waiting for the guy to decide if he wants to go out for a burger. I like regularity and a schedule.” He pauses. “You got lucky with the weather. Hope you don’t mind me saying but there’s nothing worse than working a funeral when the weather is crap. Puts everyone in a bad mood.”

In the limo en route to the cemetery, the children are on their electronic devices. On the one hand, it’s not appropriate to play computer games while driving to bury your mother; on the other, who can blame them? They want to be anywhere but here.

Jane’s plot is between her aunt and her grandmother, between ovarian cancer and stroke. She is with her people. They have died of illness and old age, but never has there been the victim of domestic violence. It’s different — it’s worse.

The children sit on folding chairs behind their grandparents. Despite its being a nice day, it’s chilly, so everyone keeps their coats on, hands in pockets. As the casket is being lowered, a hushed set of whispers, a current of surprise, sweeps through the group.

“Daddy’s here,” Ashley says.

We all turn to look, and, sure enough, he’s getting out of the back of a car, with two burly black men in scrubs on either side of him.

“That takes a lot of nerve,” Jane’s mother says.

All around us people are whispering, rustling, turning.

“She was his wife.”

“Until death did them part.”

“He should at least have waited until we left,” Susan says.

“He still has rights,” someone says.

“Until he is found guilty.”

The timing is off. George should have stayed in the car, hidden until everyone was gone. He stays in the distance, until the graveside service is done.

“Should we go talk to him?” Nate asks.

“Not right now,” I say. “We’ll see him soon.”

As the funeral procession is pulling out of the cemetery, we pass George on his knees at the grave, sunglasses on, his handcuffed hands in front of him. I see him pushing dirt barehanded into the grave, both hands at once, joined at the wrist.

There is someone with a long lens taking photos.

“Grandma and Grandpa hate us,” Nate says.

“They’re upset.”

“They’re acting like it’s our fault.”

The shiva is at Susan’s house. It’s far, an hour from the cemetery. After we’ve been driving for about forty-five minutes, the kids start to complain. I ask the driver if we can make a pit stop. The long limo drops out of the procession, waits until all the cars have passed; then we slip into a McDonald’s.