Page 96 of Ebbing Tides
He led us to a room full of old furniture, decorated with floral wallpaper and a dark gray carpet that probably hadn't been replaced in fifty years. He sat behind the large wooden desk and gesticulated toward the two chairs on the other side. “Please, have a seat,” he offered graciously.
Lucy sat while Grace turned to me, waving her hand toward the empty chair.
I shook my head and told her to sit, that I was fine standing, and the director said, “You can feel free to pull over one of the other chairs.”
With a turn of my head, I saw the chairs he was talking about. Four of them, lined up along the wall, beneath an old painting of what I assumed to be the funeral home in its heyday. They didn't match the chairs my sisters sat in. They were plainer, less comfortable-looking, and as I grabbed one and carried it over to sit beside Lucy and Grace, I couldn't help but think of what a visual analogy this was.
The two princesses, atop their thrones, and the bastard son, cast aside to sit on his rickety chair made of sticks and twine.
What am I doing here?I wondered, folding my hands on my lap and dropping my gaze to study my worn, calloused fingers.
And I continued to wonder as the director—whose name was Shawn and who was an incredibly cool, nice guy, as it turned out—assisted us in making the arrangements for our father's funeral Mass. From picking out the casket to the flowers to the Mass cards, my sisters flipped through books of examples like they were shopping from a Sears catalog, pointing at the thingsthey liked, wrinkling their noses at the things they didn't, and asking for my opinion when they thought it was necessary.
“Do you have any input, Max?” Shawn asked, his brow pinched after my sisters made the last of the decisions on the flower arrangements.
I shrugged with my hands and gave my head a slight shake. “Nope, I, uh … I think it's good. Everything … yeah, everything's good.” I was stammering, uncomfortable and on the spot.
Truthfully, I wished I'd been left out of this altogether, just as I had requested. But I had come to offer support, to give my sisters a shoulder to cry on, if need be. But was I there for my own well-being? Absolutely not.
For fuck's sake, for much of my life, my father hadn't welcomed me into his home for Christmas dinner. I could count on two hands the number of times the man had wished me a happy birthday. Why the fuck would I have any opinion on what color the goddamn box he was buried in should be? Why the fuck would he want me to?
“Okay,” Shawn replied, unsure, even as he nodded. “Then I'll get this all settled for you guys.”
“Thank you so much,” Lucy said tearfully, dabbing at her eyes.
“Will you be at the Mass?” Grace asked.
Shawn shook his head with a kind smile. “No, I'll be here, manning the fort. My friend and business partner, Abraham, will be handling the Mass and burial. But I promise he's just as nice as I am, and he will ensure your father is given the respect and dignity he deserves.”
I had to bite my tongue to keep myself from snickering.
Lucy wrote a check from Dad's bank account to pay for the funeral and handed it over. We exchanged pleasantries with the man, he thanked me again for serving my country, and then we were on our way.
Together, we left the funeral home and stood on the steps of that old Victorian, squinting up into the wintry gray sky. At moments like this, I knew some families would converge somewhere, have dinner, spend time reminiscing on the good old days … but we weren't one of those, were we?
“Max, do you want to find clothes for Daddy to wear?” Lucy asked, looking toward me.
I huffed at the suggestion. I imagined dressing the old bastard in the same clothes he'd worn when he came home from work, right before taking off his belt and beating the shit out of me with it.
Maybe I can ask good old Shawn to put the belt in his hand and not around his waist, I thought with an unamused smirk.
“You don't want me to be in charge of that,” I said, shaking my head.
“Okay,” she said with a sigh. “I'll do that too.”
“Lucy, if you want me to do something, I will,” I said, realizing she was annoyed. “But you don't want me to pick out the clothes he's going to wear for all of eternity. You won't like what I pick.”
“I just want him to look nice,” she said, her voice warbled with a sudden burst of emotion.
“But hewasn'tnice,” I countered, keeping my tone soft. “Not to me.”
Her lips parted, as if she was going to say something more, and then she stopped herself and nodded. “Okay. I'll go to his house tomorrow, and—”
“Or I can do it,” Grace offered with a shrug. “I don't mind.”
“Okay, yeah. You do that, and, um … I'll call the church, put together the readings for the Mass, decide on pallbearers …” She looked up at me, a questioning look in her eyes.
I shrugged my reply, as if to say,Do I have a choice?
