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Well, I know it now. And she knows I know. And she knows something else too, judging from the expression on her face… she knows I’ve got beard burn from making out—and more—with her ex-boyfriend.
Honestly, I can’t think about that right now. I look away from her, my cheeks on fire—and not from beard burn—and slip with Chaz into the front pew with the rest of my family as Father Jim goes up before the altar and the mass begins.
It soon becomes obvious that exactly what I feared was going to happen has happened: This isn’t a funeral for my grandmother. It’s a funeral for some woman with the same name as my grandmother.
But it could be any woman with that name. Because Father Jim didn’t know my grandmother. He didn’t know she hated tomatoes and mustard. He didn’t know she liked television dramas and AC/DC. He doesn’t know anything about Gran. She didn’t care about any of the things Father Jim is talking about. She certainly never went to church (except on Christmas Eve, to see her grandchildren and great-grandchildren perform in the nativity, and even then she kept a flask in her purse until Mom found it and confiscated it. And then she begged everyone to buy her beer afterward).
It’s not that the service isn’t nice. It is. The flowers are beautiful, and the sun slanting through the stained-glass windows in the sanctuary is lovely. Father Jim gives off an air of good-humored sincerity.
It’s just that none of this is about Gran. That reading Sarah just stood up and gave from the Gospel according to Luke? Nothing to do with Gran. At all. That nice song the choir just sang? So not something Gran would have liked.
But it won’t embarrass Rose. And I guess that should make her happy.
But it doesn’t say anything about the person whose life we’re allegedly gathered here to celebrate. It’s like the wax figure inside the coffin. It’s not Gran. Gran, like Elvis, obviously left the building a long time ago.
Which is good for Gran. But it’s not the way to memorialize her. It’s just not.
But as I look at the faces of my family around me, I can see that they’re all pleased with the way things are going. And why shouldn’t they be? This is probably the first family event we’ve ever had that Gran hasn’t ruined somehow. She wasn’t exactly the easiest person to live with… as I know only too well. As fun as she could be—how many times did she show up at my school, saying I was wanted urgently at home, only to take me to the movies in the middle of the day because some big blockbuster was opening that she wanted to see before everyone else did and spoiled the ending for her? — she could also be a huge pain in the butt. I should know… I’m the one who cleaned up after her enough.
And I’d already heard Mom and Dad talking about how they were going to turn Gran’s bedroom into a playroom for the grandkids. Which I can completely understand them wanting to do.
Still. It just seems like somebody could say something personal…
A hand settles over both of mine, which I’m clasping tightly together in my lap, and I look up to see Chaz smiling sympathetically at me, as if he’s reading my thoughts. He’s wearing a suit—the same one he’d been wearing that day outside his apartment building, when my heart had reacted so violently to seeing him. He left the baseball cap back in the hotel room. He’ll never be as handsome as Luke—at least, not in the conventional way that the rest of society thinks of as handsome. He doesn’t have Luke’s long eyelashes, and his eyes aren’t dark and sleepy-looking.
But my heart does another loop-de-loop as I look at him.
I’m gone. I know it now. I am in such deep, deep trouble.
And the worst part of it is, except for the trouble I know this is going to cause the people I care about—Shari, and of course, Luke—I don’t even mind.
Suddenly Rose is elbowing me, saying, “Your turn,” and I realize it’s time for me to take my place behind the lectern beside the altar. I slip my hands out from beneath Chaz’s and stand up, conscious of his whispered “Go, champ.”
Then I’m walking to the lectern, the sheet of paper with the words Father Jim and Mom have picked out for me to read—the Gospel according to John—printed on it crumpled in my slightly sweaty hands. I climb the steps to the lectern and mess around with the microphone until it’s the correct level, and then I look out at the sea of faces before me.
Wow. I had no idea Gran had so many friends.
Then I realize that she didn’t. These are Mom’s and Dad’s friends. I see Dr. and Mrs. De
The one face I notice I don’t see is my fiancé’s.
But that’s okay. Because we’re on a break.
And I’m sleeping with his best friend, anyway.
“Um,” I say. My voice reverberates throughout the church, sounding amazingly loud. I unfold the piece of paper Mom gave me. “A reading from the holy Gospel according to John.” What’s my gynecologist doing here? I mean, it’s true she’s Mom’s gynecologist too. And maybe Rose’s and Sarah’s also, for all I know. But did she know Gran? Was she Gran’s gynecologist? Did Gran go to a gynecologist? That is totally weird. I never thought about my grandmother’s vagina before. I don’t want to be thinking about my grandmother’s vagina. Not here, at her funeral. In a church. While I’m doing a reading from the Bible.
“Jesus said to his disciples… ”
Wow, my voice sounds loud. Why am I reading about Jesus? Gran couldn’t have cared less about Jesus. I mean, if there’s any justice in the world, she’s with Jesus now, but chances are, she’s with Elvis, like Chaz said, in hell. I mean, if there is a hell. And if Elvis went there, which I’m not saying he did. Hell probably is a lot more interesting than heaven. Less boring. I bet Gran would rather be in hell.
“‘Do not let your hearts be troubled.’”
I’d rather be in hell. I mean, if Elvis is there. And Shakespeare. And Einstein. And Gran. And Chaz.
“You know what?”
Oh God. Everyone is looking at me. Mom looks like she’s about to have a coronary. Oh well. She shouldn’t have asked me to do a reading. She had to have known this was going to happen.
“My heart is troubled,” I say, laying down the sheet of paper with the Gospel of John written on it. “It’s troubled because I don’t think any of this is what my grandmother would really have wanted to hear at her funeral. Don’t get me wrong, I think it’s very nice,” I assure Father Jim, who is looking alarmed (although I can’t help noticing that the altar boys seem delighted by this unorthodox turn of events—beneath their crisp white robes, their sneakers are filthy). “I just don’t think anything that’s been said so far actually has anything to do with my grandmother. Which is why I took the liberty of preparing an alternative reading earlier this morning.” From the pocket of the black vintage jacket I’m wearing, I pull another slip of paper, on which I’ve pe
And then, unfolding the slip of paper, I read: “‘Season ticket, on a one-way ride… ’”
I risk a brief glance up. I notice that the assembled congregation are staring at me, most with open mouths. My mother, in particular, looks stu
“‘Nobody’s go
Now a few more smiles have joined Dad’s. Angelo is smiling too. So is Chuck. Even Sarah has cracked a small one.