“Isn’t that a shaman?” I whispered to Jack. I’d seen pictures of one once in a fashion magazine, what else? What was a shaman doing at MarySue’s funeral?
Eight
The shaman—if he was indeed a shaman—rang his bell and began to dance his way to the front of the room. The cleric left his post in a big hurry and sat down to watch, whereas Jim stood up and stared, his mouth hanging open. Clearly this was no old friend or relation. As far as Jim knew, he was an unexpected guest. When the shaman reached the podium, he began to speak in a strange language. The only words we understood were “MarySue” and “death.” So he was in the right place. No use pretending he’d gotten lost on his way to a Tibetan ceremony.
“Was MarySue a believer?” Jack asked me in an undertone.
“Not that I knew of,” I whispered. “Jim doesn’t look too happy about this, does he?”
Jack shook his head. Even from the back row I could see Jim’s face was ashen and sweat was pouring from his forehead. He kept opening his mouth as if to speak, but no words came out. The only sound was the ringing of the shaman’s bell.
As we all watched, Jim approached the shaman, reached out to touch him or take the bell, I have no idea. What I do know is that Jim clutched his chest and collapsed on the floor. After that there was pandemonium.
“Call 911,” someone shouted. Others including Jack, raced up to surround Jim.
The funeral director in the black suit told everyone to leave the premises except for the immediate family. There was a rush for the doors, but I found Dolce.
“What happened?” I asked her as we walked slowly to the parking lot.
“My best guess?” she said. “A heart attack.”
“He must have been overcome with grief or guilt or emotion,” I said.
“Who was that strange man in the orange robe?” Dolce asked when we got into her car.
“My best guess? He’s a shaman. A kind of holy man. A healer.”
“What was he doing there? Obviously Jim didn’t invite him.”
“I think he came to escort MarySue to the afterlife,” I said.
“Do you really believe that?” Dolce asked as she started the car and drove toward the exit. Before I could answer, an ambulance raced into the parking lot, sirens screaming. We watched the EMTs jump out and enter the building. Then we left. There was nothing more to be done.
“It’s just possible,” I said, following up on her question.
“I don’t know what to believe,” Dolce said.
“So no post-funeral celebration of MarySue’s life today,” I said as we drove past Portnoy’s Tavern, the place Jim had planned to have the party. “I wonder if Jim will make it.”
Dolce drove slowly down the street. “He looked awful,” she said.
We drove in silence for a few minutes. My mind was spinning. Finally I said, “If the shaman is really a healer, why didn’t he show up a little sooner like last week? If he cared about MarySue enough to come to her funeral and escort her to wherever she’s going, why did he let her die in the Adirondack chair?”
“So if these shaman have certain powers, maybe he’ll at least save Jim’s life,” she said.
“Maybe he will. I would have liked to ask him if he’s the one who saved me when I fell into that oak tree. How else did I survive with just a sprained ankle and a minor concussion?”
Dolce looked at me as if I’d had another concussion because the thought of being rescued by a shaman was as alien to her as it would be to everyone at the funeral. I couldn’t help hoping MarySue would have an escort to somewhere after what she did for me. Yes, she’d shoved me off the ladder, but then she’d taken me to the hospital—otherwise, I might be lying lifeless under her tree still today.
Later that week we heard Jim did indeed have a minor heart attack but he was “resting comfortably” as they say, in the hospital. Patti called Dolce to tell her that the shaman had paid Jim a hospital visit and assured him he’d live to see many more days. The holy man then confided he’d been invited to the funeral by MarySue’s cousin Beth who had spent time at his ashram in Tibet. Patti agreed with Dolce that maybe Jim should have been told about the shaman ahead of time. Patti then assured Dolce the celebration of life at MarySue’s favorite spot was still happening. Just as soon as Jim’s doctors gave him the okay. In fact, the event along with the shaman’s blessing had given Jim something to think about while in his hospital bed as well as an incentive to get well soon.
Around noon on Saturday when the crowd in the boutique had thinned out a little, Dolce suggested we work on a new outfit for me. Our customers often took a shopping break at a café across the street where they could have a house-baked pastry, a lovely sandwich on seven-grain bread or homemade soup, all on the outdoor covered patio. Instead of us taking a lunch break, she and I went through the racks of late arrivals.
“We have to find something for your Sunday night date,” she said.
“I was thinking of a filmy skirt,” I told Dolce. “With a knit top.” I didn’t mention the idea came from my nurse practitioner.
“I like it,” she said. “Relaxed elegance is what we’re after.” I was glad to see her so energetic and enthusiastic. Ever since MarySue’s funeral, she’d not been herself. I wasn’t sure if it was a lack of customers and sales or what. She spent more time in her office hunched over her computer, piles of bills on her desk, her brow furrowed. I was afraid to ask how bad the financial situation was.
She went to a rack of skirts and pulled out several for me to try. First was a bright floral print.
“It’s vibrant and eye-catching,” I said, blinking rapidly, “but . . .”
“A little too vibrant,” she said, reading my mind like a true fashion consultant would. “Absolutely right.” She immediately whisked the skirt back on the rack. Next up: a long skirt in creamy cognac. She held it up to my waist and stood staring at it before she snatched it away.
“Too utilitarian,” she decided. I had to agree. Not just because she was my boss, but the skirt just didn’t do anything for me. Finally we settled on a gray silk number with splashes of crimson handkerchief panels. I liked the way it swooshed around my calves. With a tight gray sleeveless sweater for balance against the gauzy skirt, I finally felt good about my selection. So did Dolce. She sat back on the padded bench in the middle of the room and looked me up and down.
“Ah, to be young again,” she said. “I had a skirt like that once. I wore it to a wedding.” She gazed off in the distance lost in her memory. What would I be doing at her age, I wondered. Would I be living alone above a shop somewhere, dressing others for parties and concerts I wasn’t invited to? Would I stay home and worry about my customers not paying their bills? Or would I marry a doctor, a gymnast or a police detective, retire and join the ladies who lunch and shop? I was too goal oriented to while away my days that way. Maybe I could do volunteer work feeding the poor like Detective Wall did. Or maybe I’d have a few children. I’d send them to an alternate school where they’d learn cooperation instead of competition. They’d be artistic and imaginative instead of driven by money and financial success. Since living the good life in San Francisco can be expensive, maybe a jolt of ambition was not altogether a bad thing. I pictured myself dressing the little darlings up and taking them to brunch on Sunday to the Garden Court of the Palace Hotel where they’d behave perfectly and display good manners.
I was still daydreaming when Dolce jerked me back to the present where although I was well dressed, I was still relatively poor and definitely single. She reminded me I was not completely dressed for Sunday. Not yet. “All you need is a tailored blazer and you’re good to go.”