It was the first time I sat down all day, and I was determined to enjoy it. How to get past that smell though. I twisted around to open the cabinet under the sink with my foot. I scanned the labels of toilet scrubs and countertop disinfectants and spied something with lilacs on the label, tucked way back. It was old, the top rusty but a quick spray revealed it was still of high potency. In a few seconds, I was transported to a lilac chemical grove. Beautiful. I took a few inhales and leaned back, the tank cold against the small of my back.
This was my second wake this month, another one of my parents� acquaintances. They concurred it was an unusually busy month. This one was for Fred Butler, a member of the Eastwood Photography Club with my dad. I did my obligatory kneeling at the open casket. It was a good thing I came in with my parents as it was hard to remember what Mr. Butler looked like without a camera pressed up to his face. His wife gripped my hand. �Oh, he loved taking photos for your wedding, Carol dear,� she said. I was amazed by her memory, even if she got me mixed up with my sister. That wedding was nearly 30 years ago. I nodded and hugged her a one-arm hug.
Fred did take photos for my wedding, for the failed marriage one. The one and only one. I came across the photos in the back attic when I was moving in with my folks (again). The ex and I are hopefully and hopelessly young, no evidence at the corners of our mouths or eyes of the upcoming doom. He didn�t have that curious vacant and struggling look he later acquired. He doesn�t even look drunk in any of them, though chances are good that he was.
For my own comic relief, I flushed the toilet. �I�m gonna flush that man right outta my�,� I sang. I better get back in there, make another round. By then, my parents would be ready to go. It was nearly four o�clock and they ate dinner in about fifteen minutes. I sprayed again and thoughtfully left the spray on the top of the sink, next to the antibacterial soap.
Making my out of that room wasn�t easy. I got stuck on the rug almost immediately. The rug at the Holden Funeral Home is out of this world. The plushest, thickest pile ever. There must be a futon-thick carpet pad under there lifting it six inches off the ground. My heels were a measly two inches, the highest I own, but everyone else, the over-seventy group were in running shoes or orthopedic type shoes. I fell into tiny Mrs. Patrick, my first grade teacher, who was waiting outside the bathroom. We exchanged pleasantries after I made certain I hadn�t dislocated her shoulder.
�So nice of you to come,� she said. �Now where are you living?�
�I�m back with the folks,� I said. I�ve learned to just smile brilliantly and keep it short at this, instead of trying to explain, or lying, which is what I did the last time I moved home. That was after the aforementioned marriage disaster. �Nice to see you!�
�Lovely to see you dear,� Mrs. Patrick said and tottered into the bathroom at a slight angle, maybe because of the overpowering lilac bouquet.
Even though I was sure there was a completely reasonable explanation why she was at Mr. Bryant�s wake, I wondered momentarily if all my hometown cast of characters were going to start popping out to remind me of my boomerang life�