Page 18 of Don't Tell Me How to Die

The crowd was probably anticipating one of Father Connelly’s go-to hymns, like “Alleluia! Sing to Jesus”or“Amazing Grace,” but he was merely officiating. Mom was running the show.

The organ came to life—not a somber chord, but a driving gospel rock beat. The choir began swaying, clapping, and oohing. Two of the singers thumped tambourines, and for the next five minutes, that requiem became a joy fest as the choir, and eventually every man, woman, and child in that church, stood and sang “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough.”

No dirges for Kate McCormick. This was her love song to my father. This was the send-off she wanted, and she’d planned every inch of it.

The only thing she knew she couldn’t control was the parade of women who would come by to comfort my father as soon as she was in the ground.

ELEVEN

“Lions don’t hunt,” Lizzie said to me one afternoon about three weeks after the funeral.

It was the lull between lunch and happy hour, and we were sitting in a booth at the rear of the restaurant, giving in to our midday sugar cravings—Lizzie with a slice of pecan pie, me with a dish of rice pudding.

“Sorry,” I said. “I was debating whether or not I should go back to the kitchen and add some whipped cream to my sins. What did you say about lying?”

“Not lying. Lions. The kings of the jungle. The male of the species. I said they don’t hunt.”

“How do they eat?”

“Mama brings home the bacon,” Lizzie said. “The females do 90 percent of the hunting. Usually, they go after gazelles or antelope or zebra—something they can take down on their own. The only time the males help out is if the prey is too big for the lioness to handle on her own, like a giraffe or an elephant. The rest of the time, old Leo just sits around on his fat ass waiting for the little woman to bring home dinner.”

Like a lot of teenage girls in the nineties, I was tuned into the feminist movement—especially the part about equal pay for equal work. But at sixteen Lizzie was obsessed with girl power, and more than a little angry at men for, as she put it,keeping women down since the beginning of time.

“I love you, Elizabeth,” I said, “but can we go through one afternoon without getting into gender politics.”

“I’m not talking politics. I’m talking about lions. I saw it on one of those Animal Kingdom shows last night, and I couldn’t fall asleep. I kept thinking about Dad.”

“And you think Dad is a fat-ass lazy lion?”

“No, Maggie.” She popped a forkful of pie into her mouth and made me wait for the kicker. “Dad is a gazelle.”

I inhaled sharply and forgot to let it out. My mind raced, and I knew where she was going. Worse yet, I knew she was right.

“Breathe,” Lizzie said, quoting one of our mother’s favorite mantras. “Repeat if necessary.”

I breathed.

“You’re back there in the kitchen,” she said. “I’m up front day after day watching the lionesses stalk him. And they’re not bringing casseroles. They’re wearing push-up bras, painting their nails, and dabbing their pulse points with Eau d’ Gold Digger.”

“Mom warned us this would happen,” I said, scraping the last of the rice pudding from the sides of the bowl. “But she didn’t exactly tell us what to do when it did. I don’t know how we’re supposed to keep every single woman in Heartstone from?—”

“They’re not even allsingle,” Lizzie said. “A couple of them are married but looking for an upgrade. And then there’s Mrs. Umansky.”

“Oh my God. She’s like seventy years old.”

“Right. But she’s sure her daughter Velma can bring Dad the same happiness he had with Mom. And I’m not making that up. She said it to my face.”

“How is Dad handling all this?”

“Watch one of those nature films, Maggie. The gazelle doesn’t figure it out until the lioness has pounced and is ripping his throat out. Dad is basically clueless. He just keeps thanking them for their concern, and when they leave, he tells me how kind and caring everybody has been. It’s getting harder to watch. I’m thinking about asking him if I can work in the kitchen and wash dishes.”

“Pardon me, ladies, but what are a couple of nice young girls like you doing in a dump like this?”

I looked up. It was Dad, a meat loaf sandwich in one hand, a bottle of Bud in the other. I slid over, and he sat down.

“You look intense,” he said. “What are you two talking about?”

“Lizzie was telling me about a documentary she saw last night.”

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