concentration.
“Good man, Arnold,” he said.
Opa nodded slowly, stretched his fingers out in front of him, studied his nails. “That he was. That he was.”
“Loved his family.”
“Yes he did.”
Kate shifted in my lap. “Can I take my shoes off?” she whispered. I pulled her Mary Janes off her feet, and she curled up completely, her head against my chest.
“How’s the little girl, then?” Gustofson asked, nodding toward Kate. “Not so good, I don’t think. Taking it pretty hard,” Opa said. “She’ll be all right,” Oma said. “Of course she will,” Gustofson assured her. “Give her a little time, of course she’ll be just fine. This young, may not even remember it.”
Oma nodded. “Maybe not.”
I stared out the window and went over it again to be sure. I heard a sound: It was the shot. I ran. I caught Kate running down the hall, her arms lifted up. I doubled over, tucked her into my rib cage. I pushed her skull into my right shoulder as I turned. She did not see. Her skull fit perfectly into the palm of my hand.
“Blue jay,” she said, and I turned to look. She giggled. “Silly. There’s no blue jays yet.”
I was fairly sure she did not see.
A small figure in a black coat walked out of the Methodist church, pulled its collar around its neck, and tucked its nose into its scarf. Slowly, with a cane, it made its way down the steps and out of view.
Arrangements were made. My coffee cup was filled. The flowers would be white and blue. There would be no lilies (the scent of them was making me dizzy even now), and there would be no carnations. The senior pastor at Grace Lutheran would speak, not the strange new one from out east, but the old one who knew them.
“Baptized Arnold, he did,” Opa said.
“‘Ashes to ashes,’” Oma said, nodding in agreement. “It’s fitting.”
“Yes it is,” Gustofson said.
The pastor would speak of hope, and would not speak of sin or Hell, which would cause talk. In lieu of flowers, donations should be sent to the Shriners’ Children’s Hospital, which also seemed fitting. The reception would be held at Oma’s house directly following. The obituary would say he was a good man who loved his family and lived in the faith of Christ. It would not mention that he would be missed, which would seem to belabor a point. He was preceded in death by his sister, Rosalina Schiller, and survived by his mother and father, Mr. and Mrs. Elton Schiller, his loving wife, Claire Jacobs Schiller, and his two children, Esau age twelve and Kate age six.
An open casket would not do.
Readings with references to death would not do.
Roses would not do.
They were looking at me expectantly. I looked back at them.
“Dear, what do you think about music? ‘Amazing Grace’?” Oma asked.
“No,” I said, louder than I meant to.
Kate petted my ear. “Mom-mom-mom-mom,” she sang softly.
“He was fond,” I said, trying to look friendly and sane, “of Mozart.”
They looked at me sadly, worried. “Anything else?”
Suddenly I saw him, just a few years younger, leaned back in his La-Z-Boy, his undershirt torn and sweaty from work in the garage, a beer on the TV table to his left. Leaned back like that, eyes closed, conducting an invisible orchestra to the rising swell of Mozart’s Requiem.
Hearing my skirt shirr. Opening his eyes midphrase, smiling at me. Glancing around for the kids, reaching out his arms. Wrapping his arms around my hips, kissing my belly, looking up at me and whispering, “Listen! Listen!” He closed his eyes again and pointed to a place I couldn’t see.
That terrifying rapture.
Mozart would not do.
Oma, making dinner, leaned her hands on the counter next to the stove, bent her head, and said, as if startled, “Oh.”
Kate, who was helping, stood on the footstool. She paused in her stirring of cake batter in kind, as if to wait for Oma. A raw roast sat in the roasting rack amid a naked-looking pile of peeled carrots and
“Good man, Arnold,” he said.
Opa nodded slowly, stretched his fingers out in front of him, studied his nails. “That he was. That he was.”
“Loved his family.”
“Yes he did.”
Kate shifted in my lap. “Can I take my shoes off?” she whispered. I pulled her Mary Janes off her feet, and she curled up completely, her head against my chest.
“How’s the little girl, then?” Gustofson asked, nodding toward Kate. “Not so good, I don’t think. Taking it pretty hard,” Opa said. “She’ll be all right,” Oma said. “Of course she will,” Gustofson assured her. “Give her a little time, of course she’ll be just fine. This young, may not even remember it.”
Oma nodded. “Maybe not.”
I stared out the window and went over it again to be sure. I heard a sound: It was the shot. I ran. I caught Kate running down the hall, her arms lifted up. I doubled over, tucked her into my rib cage. I pushed her skull into my right shoulder as I turned. She did not see. Her skull fit perfectly into the palm of my hand.
“Blue jay,” she said, and I turned to look. She giggled. “Silly. There’s no blue jays yet.”
I was fairly sure she did not see.
A small figure in a black coat walked out of the Methodist church, pulled its collar around its neck, and tucked its nose into its scarf. Slowly, with a cane, it made its way down the steps and out of view.
Arrangements were made. My coffee cup was filled. The flowers would be white and blue. There would be no lilies (the scent of them was making me dizzy even now), and there would be no carnations. The senior pastor at Grace Lutheran would speak, not the strange new one from out east, but the old one who knew them.
“Baptized Arnold, he did,” Opa said.
“‘Ashes to ashes,’” Oma said, nodding in agreement. “It’s fitting.”
“Yes it is,” Gustofson said.
The pastor would speak of hope, and would not speak of sin or Hell, which would cause talk. In lieu of flowers, donations should be sent to the Shriners’ Children’s Hospital, which also seemed fitting. The reception would be held at Oma’s house directly following. The obituary would say he was a good man who loved his family and lived in the faith of Christ. It would not mention that he would be missed, which would seem to belabor a point. He was preceded in death by his sister, Rosalina Schiller, and survived by his mother and father, Mr. and Mrs. Elton Schiller, his loving wife, Claire Jacobs Schiller, and his two children, Esau age twelve and Kate age six.
An open casket would not do.
Readings with references to death would not do.
Roses would not do.
They were looking at me expectantly. I looked back at them.
“Dear, what do you think about music? ‘Amazing Grace’?” Oma asked.
“No,” I said, louder than I meant to.
Kate petted my ear. “Mom-mom-mom-mom,” she sang softly.
“He was fond,” I said, trying to look friendly and sane, “of Mozart.”
They looked at me sadly, worried. “Anything else?”
Suddenly I saw him, just a few years younger, leaned back in his La-Z-Boy, his undershirt torn and sweaty from work in the garage, a beer on the TV table to his left. Leaned back like that, eyes closed, conducting an invisible orchestra to the rising swell of Mozart’s Requiem.
Hearing my skirt shirr. Opening his eyes midphrase, smiling at me. Glancing around for the kids, reaching out his arms. Wrapping his arms around my hips, kissing my belly, looking up at me and whispering, “Listen! Listen!” He closed his eyes again and pointed to a place I couldn’t see.
That terrifying rapture.
Mozart would not do.
Oma, making dinner, leaned her hands on the counter next to the stove, bent her head, and said, as if startled, “Oh.”
Kate, who was helping, stood on the footstool. She paused in her stirring of cake batter in kind, as if to wait for Oma. A raw roast sat in the roasting rack amid a naked-looking pile of peeled carrots and
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