The helicopter hovered noisily, in and out of sight through the windshield, always audible, always there. An OCTD bus groaned ahead of them and cut straight into the cortege, Dennison’s face smiling back at them through clouds of black exhaust. Two young motor officers provided escort alongside his truck. They never once looked over.
From the chapel in the hills, Weir could see the city below them, the Pacific beyond that, a faint horizon dotted with sails. The aroma of flowers was so heavy that he had trouble drawing breath. Everything seemed to be happening slowly and every movement brought him a rush of pain. The Cruz clan sat across from them, shapes in black, many already sobbing. Ernesto and Irena sat in the first pew on the left, motionless and reduced. Raymond remained erect in a black suit, his face locked safely around something terrible. When Irena turned to look at him, Jim was met by a sadness too complete to behold. He looked away, sat down beside Virginia, and took her big knotted hand in his.
The obituary was offered by the Rev. Matthew Martell, then eulogies by friends. Jim sat, sunk by the ballast of mourning, and considered the black-clad figure of Becky as she stood at the podium, looked out from behind a veil, and cleared her throat.
“One of the blessings of my life,” she said, “was to know Ann Cruz.” A blessing she counted as a great one. Her voice to Jim sounded brittle as glass, ready to crack. But he knew she wouldn’t: Becky was always toughest in a clinch. Behind the black netted veil, her eyes were a dark, wet brown, and her lips below were red as apples. To Jim’s mind, assaulted by the cruelty of reminiscence, staggered by the heavy smell of the flowers, surrounded by the people with whom he had grown up in this crowded small-town neighborhood, she seemed to be talking only to him. He lost himself in her.
“We were girls, then women together. When I was confused, Ann was clear. When I had doubt, Ann had certainty. When I was undecided and afraid, Ann had judgment and courage. And when there was something I had to do, and right and wrong weren’t clear, I could always ask myself what Ann would do, and know that that would be right. She loved me with generosity and good humor; she felt my sadness and shared my joy. There was something at the center of her that I came to realize was in her blood, the blood of Virginia and Poon, the blood that rims... that ran through all their children. If I had to say what it was, I’d say it was dignity, the refusal to be diminished by the things in life that try to diminish us all.” Becky looked out to the mourners, her eyes pausing on Jim. “That, and a willingness to put herself on the line, to commit herself to what she believed and act accordingly. In the time I knew her, Ann was never cruel for the sake of cruelty. She never laughed at someone who didn’t have what she had. She never assumed that she deserved what she had — there was no arrogance in her, no pride. The one person she could always laugh at was herself, and she did that often. You...” Becky wiped a tear away with a slender finger slid up under the veil. She took a deep breath. “You all know what an honor it was just to hear her laugh, to see the sparkle of her eyes and the sparkle of her soul coming through. I think that... I think that where Ann goes will be a better place for her presence, and that what she leaves us is a place much lessened by her loss. To say that there are no words for all of this would be a lie. There are words, too many of them, too many thousands of words used over and over to express what we feel. They are not designed to carry such weight. That burden is left to us. I will just say one more thing, that I hope God in heaven will treat her with the gentleness and respect that is due to Ann, that He didn’t... offer her on this earth. That is my hope and my comfort. In honor of Ann, I will love and smile and laugh, and consider her, forever and in perpetuity, among us.”
Jim sat, asking himself the usual huge questions: Was there something he could have done or should have noticed; why was there such misery for the people whom God is supposed to care about as much as He does the birds of the air and the beasts of the field; is Ann really going to a better place or is that a fiction told by the living for themselves?
Irena and Nesto Cruz were sobbing openly as Becky stepped down. She fixed her eyes on Jim’s, as if they were the sole known coordinates in a storm, following them to her seat.
Raymond’s head was bowed; he was so still that he seemed to be a statue of himself. Weir felt the tremoring of grief inside, the tectonic shelves of one emotion shifting against another. Becky wrapped an arm through his. He put his head in his hands and his elbows on his knees and felt the tears welling into his eyes from a part of him that seemed filled with them.
Then everyone filed out and watched as Ann was put into the ground. The fresh dirt was covered by a black tarp. The grave was neat, precise, deep. Through the flowers and perfume and sweat, Jim could smell the city below, the smell of death and sea and muted sun.
Somehow he got them back to the big house for the gathering. Three different radio stations reported that toxic levels of the solvent 1,1,1-trichloroethane had been found in Newport Harbor. Beaches were closed until further notice.
Weir, Virginia, and Ray greeted the mourners at the door. Jim clasped hands, returned embraces and kisses, mumbled his appreciation of whatever was said. Each condolence seemed to take something out of him, open up a new grief. The odd, slow motion of the funeral service was still upon him, as if the afternoon were taking its rhythm from a time signature he’d never heard. Everyone looked bigger when he met them at the door — the solemn faces, the moist eyes, the unsure chins. Raymond stood straight beside him, his voice calm but somehow disembodied. His smile was withered; his usual animation and quickness were gone. Of all the people in the room, thought Weir, Ray’s the only one who hates this more than I do. When most of the people had arrived, he joined them, went to the bar, poured himself a double shot of scotch, downed it, and took a beer from the cooler.
As he looked around the room, the world seemed to divide into two camps — them and us. Us was himself, Virginia, Raymond and his family, Becky. Them was everybody else. There they were, standing in his home, Ann’s home. There they were, drinking Virginia’s booze, eating her food. There they were, dressed up, talking of who knew what, advancing their own private ambitions, seductions, concealments, and betrayals under the same roof that had protected the child Ann. There they were, all doing what Ann would never do again, all honoring her in death in a way that they would never honor her in life. You hypocrites, he thought, you latecomers, you fakes. You dispensable, minor, alien fucks. It was a sacrilege. He caught the eye of every cop he could and sent his clearest message: You changed the game last night; you will pay. He was not exactly sure how. He finished off the beer and poured another scotch. Mayhem was calling.
He watched Dale Blodgett come through the door, find the law-enforcement contingent in a far corner, then head in the other direction. Dennison’s droop-eyed Judas, thought Jim, odd man out. Was he one of the six from last night? There was no certain way to tell. Clever to have brought along a Jaguar. He took another drink, watching Virginia trail across the room to meet Blodgett, where they hugged for a long, almost motionless moment. Blodgett’s big, thick-featured body somehow complimented the wiry, wind-burned Virginia.