Dad ignored them. This only made her more angry with him. She was furious that he’d never come back from the hospital to bring them to see Mom. Mrs. Klauser had gotten them all bathed and into fancy clothes, like they were getting ready to go onstage. Then they’d been forced to hang around the house, not allowed to go play outside because they’d get dirty. After three hours of waiting the phone rang. Mrs. Klauser told them they weren’t going to the hospital. Only Irene knew what that meant.
Dad should have taken them that morning. Mom wouldn’t have cared what they looked like. But because he was so worried about appearances Irene wasn’t allowed to say goodbye to her mother. None of them were.
Well, at least now the act was over. There was no Amazing Telemachus Family without Mom. Now they could be just like everybody else.
The graveside service wasn’t nearly as crowded as the viewing the night before, or the church service that morning, but there were still over a hundred people gathered around the coffin. Dad got out of the limousine without looking back, leaving the boys to Irene. “Put the coloring book in the car,” she told Buddy. “Tuck in your shirt,” she said to Frankie.
“You’re not the boss of me,” he said.
“Stop it,” Irene hissed at him. “This is Mom’s funeral.”
“Is it? I hadn’t noticed.” Frankie had been a jerk from the moment they’d made him put on a tie.
The funeral home worker led them into a tent over the grave site, then to the front of the crowd, right next to the hole. They sat on white folding chairs while most everybody else stood.
Someone put a hand on Irene’s shoulder. She glanced up and saw that it was a red-haired woman she’d never seen before. “I’m so sorry, honey,” the woman said. “If you need anything, you can call on us.”
“Anything at all,” said the man beside the red-haired woman. It was Destin Smalls, huge as ever.
Later, Irene wished she’d said, “All I want is for you to leave our family alone.” But at the time she only said, “Thank you,” and turned back around.
The priest said yet more words, but Irene was beyond listening. What was left to say? Mom was gone, and Irene was trapped here, the next available adult in charge.
Finally it was time for the coffin to be lowered into the ground. Irene took Buddy’s hand, for herself as much as him. A couple of funeral home workers in black suits squatted beside the metal frame that surrounded the coffin and flipped some latches. The priest kept talking as the men worked the thick straps that held up the nickel-colored coffin. The box lowered a few inches, then stopped.
The funeral workers looked at each other. They lowered the straps some more, but the coffin wasn’t going down. It hovered, unsupported. A murmur ran through the crowd. Dad didn’t seem to notice anything was wrong. He was looking off in the distance, chewing at his lip.
Irene turned to Frankie. Tears coursed down his cheeks. He was standing stiffly, fists clenched.
Irene leaned close to his ear. “Stop it,” she said.
Frankie shook his head.
“It’s okay,” she said. “It’s okay. Just…let her down easy, okay?”
The coffin suddenly plunged two feet, and the metal frame shook. Someone in the crowd shrieked.
“Stop telling me what to do!” Frankie shouted, and ran for the car.
There was nothing to do but shut the door and wait for Matty to come back into his body. Graciella saw that something was wrong. “Everything okay?”
“He’s going to be eating later,” Irene said.
Dad dealt out chicken parts. “A leg to the gentleman with the Ninja Turtle shoes! A breast to the strapping young man across the table. And a lovely pair of thighs to Cool Hand Luke.”
Irene grabbed him by the arm. “Could you step outside for a second?”
“Wait your turn, my dear, these boys are—”
“Now.”
Dad finally looked her in the face and twigged to her mood. “Uh, Graciella, could you introduce your lads to the miracle that is Brown’s coleslaw? We’ll be right back after this brief interruption.”
Irene led him into the backyard. Buddy was unspooling a red cable, laying it across the lawn as if he was installing a sprinkler system. When he noticed them, he dropped the cable and walked toward the garage.
“Stop!” Irene said. “This is for both of you. Did you know about Matty?”
Buddy put up his hands and backed away.
“Come back here, Buddy.” He slipped into the garage via the side door. “Damn it!”
“What are you talking about?” Dad asked.
“Astral travel,” Irene said. “Remote viewing. Whatever you call it—Mom’s old stunt.”
“You’re saying Matty is psychic?”
“Don’t you Trebek me, Dad.”
“What are you talking about?” he asked innocently.
“You’re still doing it!”
Dad glanced at the house. “Perhaps we should keep our voices…? I mean—ahem—let’s keep our voices down.”
“Did you know about this?”
“I’ve recently learned that, yes, the boy has some ability. He’s had a few experiences, evidently.”
“He’s up there right now—” She waved in the direction of the attic room and the air above it. “—flying around in space! When the hell were you going to tell me?”
“Soon. Matty thought you wouldn’t take it well. He asked Frankie’s advice, and then I—”
“He told Frankie?” Suddenly those sleepovers made sense. “What’s next, getting the act back together?”
Teddy raised his eyebrows. “Do you think Matty would be willing to do that?”
“No!” Irene shouted. “It doesn’t matter what he wants. He’s fourteen!”
“You were nine when we started. Buddy was only five.”
“You do not get any parenting awards for that.”
Graciella opened the back door. “Chicken’s getting cold.”
“We’re not done talking about this,” Irene said to her father. “Not by a long shot.”
Irene stormed into the house. “Graciella. I want to start Monday afternoon. Because Monday morning I’m moving out of this house.”
“Okay…” Graciella said.
“Monday’s a holiday,” her oldest son, Julian, pointed out.
“I work holidays,” Irene said.
“Who’s moving?”
Matty had appeared at the doorway to the kitchen. Heads swiveled.
“What?” he asked. “What did I miss?”
“You, me, outside,” Irene said. “Now.”
“Can I get some chicken first? I’m starving.”
Irene took a breath. “One piece.”
Irene sat on the front porch—the new front porch, with its too-smooth tiles—and wished she had one of her son’s joints to smoke.
Matty’s father liked a good smoke. Irene did, too, back in the day. But that was just another bad habit she’d given up along with Lev Petrovski. She’d never told Matty why she didn’t marry his father. Maybe it was time to remedy that.
She’d only wanted two things from the man. (Man. Hardly. He was nineteen then, not even drinking age except in Wisconsin.) The first was a certain quality of DNA, by which she meant normal, unexceptional DNA full of dominant genes that would swamp whatever wild-ass trait the child might inherit from his mother and grandmother. She didn’t want a gifted child, an Amazing Telemachus. She wanted a normal son or daughter who would never be tempted to show off on a national talk show.