disappears from view. Once he’s turned onto the boulevard Hayden announces, “We’re stopping at a funeral.”
“Oh, Grandpa!” moans Joey and buries his head in the space between the backseat and the car door. With Rosamond on his side of the battle Joey’s been more open about objecting to Hayden’s never-ending quest for information on dying. “It’s the same stuff over and over again—rest in peace, blah, blah, blah.”
“It’s Cyrus,” Hayden says softly. “I know he told us not to bother, but I have to show respect to the family.”
“Oh,” says Joey. “Sorry.”
“Is that okay?” Hayden says to Rosamond. “Cyrus was your neighbor in the hospital—the man responsible for introducin’ us.”
“Of course,” says Rosamond.
The synagogue is set back behind a crowd of billboards in a neighborhood that was once predominantly Jewish and is now largely made up of Islanders from Jamaica, Barbados, and Trinidad. Hayden places a yarmulke on his head and passes one to Joey but decides against handing Rosamond the black headscarf. For one thing, it won’t show up against the black veil atop her wimple, and furthermore, it seems a rather overt clash of faiths.
Hayden settles Rosamond and Joey in the second to last pew and then makes his way to the front and speaks with Cyrus’s widow, Hannah, and her daughter, while the rabbi and a few relatives huddle at the nearby dais. But all that Hayden can think of is how dismal Cyrus would have found the proceedings. His friend had wanted to be cremated and for there to be a big party, culminating with his ashes being launched in a rocket of red, white, and blue fireworks on the Fourth of July. Only Hannah wouldn’t hear of such a “cockamamy scheme.”
Rosamond has never attended a funeral outside of the convent, where they are long solemn affairs in Latin performed by the attending priest. Thus she’s astounded by how social the event is, despite the sad circumstances. People mill around talking, hugging, crying, calling to one another to come over, and even smiling upon exchanging heartfelt condolences or news of babies, engagements, and graduations. The mourners seem to find as much solace in their busy exchanges as the nuns found in their silent contemplation.
Finally a serious-looking man in a dark suit goes around asking people to take their seats and then taps the microphone, apparently more in an effort to get the service under way than to make sure it’s working. What follows are a few philosophical musings about death by the rabbi and a long-winded speech about “how short life is and that God is in the small things” by a cousin whom Cyrus despised. This is certainly not what Cyrus would have wanted, thinks Hayden. He considers stealing the corpse after the funeral and bringing it to his friend who works at the crematorium. It would easily fit into the station wagon. But he no longer possesses the strength for such endeavors. And besides, Diana would definitely have him institutionalized if she caught him grave robbing.
Instead Hayden privately resolves that the next night he and Joey will sneak into the cemetery and light a couple of rockets atop Cyrus’s plot. At least it’s something . . .
“Are they poor?” whispers Rosamond as they wait for people to exit by row. “They certainly didn’t spend much on a casket.”
“No, no. Cyrus left the family in fine shape. It’s a pine box, sort of a FedEx coffin. The Jews have a special next-day delivery deal with God.”
“Oh.” Rosamond is aware that as the mourners slowly leave they all stop in mid-step for a few seconds when they notice her nun’s habit. And for those who are in danger of missing the spectacle, a few well-placed whispers, nudges, and nods bring it to their attention. “I feel like a penguin escaped from the zoo,” she whispers to Hayden.
“Don’t worry,” he tells her. “Think of it as a little quid pro quo. The Orthodox Jews always try to get into
“Oh, Grandpa!” moans Joey and buries his head in the space between the backseat and the car door. With Rosamond on his side of the battle Joey’s been more open about objecting to Hayden’s never-ending quest for information on dying. “It’s the same stuff over and over again—rest in peace, blah, blah, blah.”
“It’s Cyrus,” Hayden says softly. “I know he told us not to bother, but I have to show respect to the family.”
“Oh,” says Joey. “Sorry.”
“Is that okay?” Hayden says to Rosamond. “Cyrus was your neighbor in the hospital—the man responsible for introducin’ us.”
“Of course,” says Rosamond.
The synagogue is set back behind a crowd of billboards in a neighborhood that was once predominantly Jewish and is now largely made up of Islanders from Jamaica, Barbados, and Trinidad. Hayden places a yarmulke on his head and passes one to Joey but decides against handing Rosamond the black headscarf. For one thing, it won’t show up against the black veil atop her wimple, and furthermore, it seems a rather overt clash of faiths.
Hayden settles Rosamond and Joey in the second to last pew and then makes his way to the front and speaks with Cyrus’s widow, Hannah, and her daughter, while the rabbi and a few relatives huddle at the nearby dais. But all that Hayden can think of is how dismal Cyrus would have found the proceedings. His friend had wanted to be cremated and for there to be a big party, culminating with his ashes being launched in a rocket of red, white, and blue fireworks on the Fourth of July. Only Hannah wouldn’t hear of such a “cockamamy scheme.”
Rosamond has never attended a funeral outside of the convent, where they are long solemn affairs in Latin performed by the attending priest. Thus she’s astounded by how social the event is, despite the sad circumstances. People mill around talking, hugging, crying, calling to one another to come over, and even smiling upon exchanging heartfelt condolences or news of babies, engagements, and graduations. The mourners seem to find as much solace in their busy exchanges as the nuns found in their silent contemplation.
Finally a serious-looking man in a dark suit goes around asking people to take their seats and then taps the microphone, apparently more in an effort to get the service under way than to make sure it’s working. What follows are a few philosophical musings about death by the rabbi and a long-winded speech about “how short life is and that God is in the small things” by a cousin whom Cyrus despised. This is certainly not what Cyrus would have wanted, thinks Hayden. He considers stealing the corpse after the funeral and bringing it to his friend who works at the crematorium. It would easily fit into the station wagon. But he no longer possesses the strength for such endeavors. And besides, Diana would definitely have him institutionalized if she caught him grave robbing.
Instead Hayden privately resolves that the next night he and Joey will sneak into the cemetery and light a couple of rockets atop Cyrus’s plot. At least it’s something . . .
“Are they poor?” whispers Rosamond as they wait for people to exit by row. “They certainly didn’t spend much on a casket.”
“No, no. Cyrus left the family in fine shape. It’s a pine box, sort of a FedEx coffin. The Jews have a special next-day delivery deal with God.”
“Oh.” Rosamond is aware that as the mourners slowly leave they all stop in mid-step for a few seconds when they notice her nun’s habit. And for those who are in danger of missing the spectacle, a few well-placed whispers, nudges, and nods bring it to their attention. “I feel like a penguin escaped from the zoo,” she whispers to Hayden.
“Don’t worry,” he tells her. “Think of it as a little quid pro quo. The Orthodox Jews always try to get into
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