Page 19 of Love at a Funeral and Other Awkward Conversations

I stop, realizing I can’t say that word here. Not now. I swallow it down and continue.

“I’m really, really mad. Because while Ray’s big heart killed him, we’re the ones left with a Ray-sized hole in our stupid, normal-sized hearts.”

I glance over to the side where Vince is standing with his arms crossed over his chest, but I catch him wipe a tear away from his cheek. He nods in encouragement, and I look back to the crowd in front of me, offering them whatever kind of smile I can muster. “Thanks again for coming today. On behalf of my family and brother, we appreciate and love you all.”

I take my seat quickly, sinking into the stiff chair as disbelief settles over me. I just gave the eulogy, the last words, about my big brother. He’s gone.

He’s really gone.

Mr. Mancini stands and gives instructions to exit. Vince opens the doors and directs everyone to where they should go to line up their cars. Mr. Mancini escorts me and my family out of the room, but I can’t take my eyes off the casket, and I stop walking as panic seizes me.

“Is it weird I don’t want to leave?” I ask him.

Mr. Mancini shakes his head. “Why don’t you stay here? Take your time. Go to the car whenever you’re ready.”

I step to the side, allowing the crowd to file out of the door next to me. Most of them stop to hug me or tell me what a wonderful job I did. Uncle David informs me he didn’t know I could speak so well. I shrug in response, not wanting to tell him I always spoke well; it’s only no one knew because my brother hogged up all the air in the room, leaving none for me. I didn’t mind, though. I was just as transfixed by him as everyone else was.

Once the room is empty, save for the pallbearers—some cousins and friends, including Vince—I walk over to my brother one more time. I trace his eyebrows, touch his shoulder, and knock my fist to his fingers. “See you ’round, Ray.”

Vince makes me aware he’s behind me by offering a soft, “You’re okay, Cass.” When I acknowledge him with a raised shoulder and quivering lip, he slides his hand along my shoulder blades and curls his fingers around my neck, stroking his thumb along the top of my spine. “You did everything you could, and you did it well. There’s nothing left except this last part, but it’ll be the hardest.”

Then, with his free hand, he lifts my left, twining our fingers together, and brings them to the lid of the casket. I feel the heat of Vince’s chest against my back, his mouth close to my ear, his breath slow and steady, a reminder for me to breathe too. Together, we close the casket, forever covering Raymond, and I immediately turn into Vince, crying into the lapel of his suit jacket. One of his hands tangles in my hair, cupping my head, while the other smooths up and down my back. He doesn’t say anything, simply holds me and lets me cry, while I try to remember what my brother looked like alive. His big smile, his goofy walk with big arm swings, his habit of biting his nails raw, I try to burn it all in my brain. Instead of the casket.

Vince eventually hands me a handkerchief, and it actually draws a soggy smile out of me. “What is this? Nineteen fifty?”

He shrugs, wiping my cheeks and under my nose when I don’t move to do it. “It’s all part of the vibe.”

I breathe out a waterlogged laugh and press my forehead to his shoulder. “It works for you.”

“Come on,” he says, slipping his hand to the back of my neck again. “I’ll walk you to the car.”

My parents, Aunt Joanie, Nana, and Pop are already seated inside the funeral car when Vince opens the door for me, and after he tips his chin to me, silently directing me inside, I hesitantly sit down. A few minutes later, we’re off on a slow-moving ride toward the cemetery. Out of the back windshield, the line of cars with blinking lights goes on forever, a depressing parade, creating traffic jams at every intersection.

At the cemetery, we make our way out to the spot below a slight slope, where a hole in the ground is waiting. Mr. Mancini tells us to have a seat, but I can’t. Not with my eyes trained on the two rows of baseball players lined up on either side of my brother’s casket as it is carried toward us.

Vince is right. This really is the fucking hardest part.

I can’t.

It’s too hard.

I can’t breathe.

I can’t.

Someone hands me a long-stemmed rose to place on the casket.

How stupid. Ray doesn’t care about flowers.

Nana wails next to me.

Mom’s hands are wrapped around the sides of the folding chair, knuckles white.

Dad’s head is bent, tears spilling down his face.

The crowd is gathered in a claustrophobic circle around us. I need to get away, and I push through them before it’s over, not able to stay there one more second. My limbs ache and throat burns as I run down a path to where a statue of an angel stands with huge wings and open arms.

I guess it’s supposed to be comforting, a waiting angel.

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