The woman pounded on the window again. I looked at her, and even as I understood what Susan’s voice was telling me on the phone, even as I was already thinking, No, no, no, this can’t be true, I thought, Aren’t you determined to get your pound of flesh.
The woman stomped her foot in the muddy gravel, yanked her glasses off, pointed her finger at me, and yelled, “Roll down your goddamned window!” and spit away the rainwater running over her mouth. I cranked the window down and looked her in the eye. Rain poured through the window into the car, spattering the steering wheel and dashboard, drenching me. The woman must have seen something in my face, because she did not launch into the tirade she’d clearly intended. I held up the phone, allowing the rain to pelt it, as if it might be an adequate explanation.
“My daughter,” I said. “This — that’s my wife saying my daughter just died.”
The woman frowned and her face went slack and she slapped at the car door. She slicked her hair back and pointed her forefinger at me and dropped it.
“Oh, God,” she said. “You’d better not be — Oh, God. Go; go.”
I have remembered many times the sight of that woman in the rearview mirror, standing in the rain and looking at me, clearly unsure whether she’d been duped or I had told her the truth. That was the first thing I remember seeing as I was thinking, I had a daughter and she died.
THE MORTICIAN WHO TOOK care of Kate’s funeral was the son of my grandparents’ next-door neighbors. On the day Susan and I went to make arrangements for Kate’s cremation and funeral, he wore a charcoal gray suit. He had close-cropped, receding hair that had turned mostly white over the course of the four times I had met with him in my life: when my grandfather died, when my grandmother died, when my mother died, and now when my daughter died. He smelled faintly antiseptic. He held his hand out and I shook it. His hands were very soft and clean, as if he regularly scrubbed them with pumice. His nails were manicured.
“Hello, Susan, Charlie,” he said. “Come right into the office. Would you like anything to drink, coffee, spring water?”
“No, thank you, Rick.” I was embarrassed to call him Rick. The family had always referred to him as Ricky, as if he were still a little kid, the son of the neighbors, Ricky Junior. I didn’t know what name he went by as an adult. It occurred to me that I had no idea what name I’d called him when my mother had died, which was the first time I had dealt with him directly, as the person making all the decisions about services and burial. When my grandfather had died, my grandmother had made the arrangements, and when she had died, my mother had done so, calling Rick Ricky, I remembered clearly, but as one adult speaking familiarly and affectionately to another with whom she had shared some of her childhood.
“Please, sit,” he said, waving his hand at a burgundy-colored leather sofa. Susan and I sat.
“We have taken care of everything. I just need to ask you about an urn, and if you could bring us something loose-fitting and comfortable for Kate to wear, pajamas or something similar, for the cremation.”
Susan said, “She liked to sleep in a T-shirt and cotton pajama pants — I don’t know what you call them. Ha, they’re those things the kids wear to bed but to school, too, if you let them.”
“Yes, yes, I know all about those. Lounge pants.” I didn’t know whether Rick was married or if he had children. There was a gold wedding band on his left ring finger. If he had children, they’d be my age. So, I reasoned, if he knew about kids wearing pajama bottoms and fleece slippers to school, it would be because he had grandchildren Kate’s age or even older. I nodded. I had no idea what to say. Susan continued.
“And the slippers, too. Fleece-lined, open-back things. She tried to wear those to school, too.” Kate’s favorite clothes to sleep in had been a white pair of pajama pants with different flowers and their Latin names written under them in black, and a thin, soft T-shirt silk-screened with the word SUPERGIRL on it, both of which I knew must be on the floor next to her bed, because she’d been wearing them the night before she died, when she’d come downstairs to use the bathroom between three and four in the morning while I was watching a late Red Sox game. She’d have changed out of the pants and shirt and into her bathing suit and denim cutoffs and bright green, short-sleeved polo shirt, the clothes in which she’d died, it occurred to me, and in which she must still be dressed, unless the morticians had removed them.
“Can she wear the slippers, too? Can we get her slippers?” Susan asked. “We’ll go get the clothes right now.”
“Yes, of course, Susan. That’s fine. And we can talk about the urn when you come back.”
“Great. That’ll be great. Perfect.”
Susan and Ricky stood up, and I followed. They shook hands and I put my hand out to Rick and took two steps in his direction. He stepped toward me and put his left hand lightly on my shoulder for a moment and shook my hand.
“Very good, Charlie. Just let me know whatever we can do.”
“Thanks, Rick. I’m sorry, I can’t really talk. I really don’t know what to say—”
“It’s okay, Charlie. That’s fine.”
When we arrived back at the house, Susan went to the basement to get the clean laundry from the dryer. She said she’d washed Kate’s underwear.
“Will you go and get her T-shirt and pajama pants?” she asked.
I went up to Kate’s room. There were some flowers for pressing on her desk, chicory and a magenta-colored zinnia and an orange tiger lily, and some seashells she must have picked up at the beach. I opened the middle drawer of her bureau. I looked at her small, colorful, neatly folded T-shirts and my knees gave out. I almost dropped to the floor. I squeezed the edge of the drawer and closed my eyes for a moment and took a couple of deliberate, deep breaths and opened my eyes again and took a top and a bottom from each pile, without looking at them more than to confirm that neither had cartoon characters or some other inappropriate design on it. What could be inappropriate, though? I thought. What’s appropriate? Who at the funeral parlor’s going to undress and dress her? Rick? Some guy in a rubber smock and gloves? There might well be health codes or laws about what clothes people can be cremated in. Ricky might have been humoring us and he won’t even put Kate’s slippers on, just throw them out. Who, I thought, is going to trundle my daughter into the fire? Then my legs really did give out and I sat down on the rug in the middle of Kate’s room. I sat with my legs under me and the clothes I’d chosen for her in my lap. My body shook and I could not hold myself up. I lay down on my side until Susan found me, fifteen minutes later.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“I can’t do anything,” I said.
“We need to, Charlie,” she said. She came into the room and knelt next to me. She’d been crying. She combed her fingers through my hair. “We have to do all this stuff.”
“I don’t think I can, Sue. I want to, but I can’t even get myself to move.”
SUSAN’S PARENTS AND HER sisters were gigantic Finns from Minnesota. Sue herself was tall, but not as tall as her parents and siblings. Her dad was six foot five and her mom was five foot eleven. Both of her sisters were nearly six feet tall. Sue was the shortest in the family, at five nine (“Five nine and three-quarters, Charles,” she’d remind me), and that was still two inches taller than me. Her family skied and biked and hiked together and looked people straight in the eye and were in intimidatingly good physical and moral health. They were always affectionate toward me but I was certain they were disappointed that their daughter had taken up with me. I felt like I must look puny and sound as if I did nothing but mumble to them. My deeply ingrained habit of proceeding by irony was lost on them, and when I was with them I deliberately had to make an effort to be straightforward. Luckily for me, Susan was just enough unlike them to want to keep a loving but firm distance. When we visited Minnesota or they came east, they mobbed her and tried to get her to go off on some alpine excursion or other. Or so it seemed. Her sisters, both of whom looked like Olympic athletes, would get on either side of her and take her by the elbows as if they were going to whisk her away to a ski lodge. “Sue,” they’d say, “you look pale; you need to get some oxygen in your blood.” Susan’s father, a tree of a man, with a white mustache and a white halo of hair running from ear to ear and a perennially sunburned and freckled bald-topped head, used to look around at my stacks of books and maps and say, “The scholar. Charles Crosby, you need some exercise, too. You’ll get water in your lungs.” He’d give me a pat on the back with his huge hand that felt like being belted with a wooden oar.