Rosa’s Last Look

By

Curtis Urness, Sr.

Rosa listened to their voices traveling through the flower-perfumed air.  She wished she could move her stiff limbs, rise up from this silk-lined horror and give them a piece of her mind.  Mr. Schiller, the director, spoke in a practiced cadence — his tone by turns suave, apologetic, understanding, but always reinforced by a business-like resolve.  He knew where the money was coming from and whose wishes had to be honored.  Rosa had known Schiller all her life — and then some — and knew he wouldn’t make a mistake in that regard.  It was Rae Leigh — the daughter who wasn’t a daughter, the big-butted, buck-toothed pilferer of pension checks and insurance money  — who would get the surprise.  Rae Leigh will have a different opinion of Jason then.  Jason, the looked-down-on one who had always been his mother’s favorite, will be standing head-and-shoulders above her.  Well, Rae Leigh would have a different opinion of her mother, too.  Rosa savored that.  She wished she could get up and tell it to her face.

But Rosa could not.  For once she could not get up and tyrannize her children.  She would have to wait for Jason, the weaker of the two, to arrive and stand up for her against Rae Leigh’s wrath.  Jason had the tool, the written document, but would he be up to implementing it?  Rosa stared at the ceiling with rage.  That was all she could do: Stare at the ceiling and a little section of the dark, paneled wall and the top of the out-of-place rococo painting.  Pollen from the sprays of roses and orchids floated over her face, inter-mingling with dust motes.  Dust!  She’d have to get used to that.  That and the scurrying of small creatures, like the mice behind the baseboards.  They had run across her body the night before.  Pecked at her flesh.  It made her feel so grim that she wished she could count the beads of the rosary Schiller had fixed in her hands for reassurance.

Schiller’s voice sounded like the scurrying of mice, coming as it did after Rae Leigh’s ranting.  Oh, Rosa wished she could get up and talk about the indignities she’d suffered from him the day before, the liberties he’d taken with her body, handling and washing her in places that she would never have allowed him to touch when she was alive.

Rosa had known Schiller when they were both children.  His family was in the funeral parlor business back then, too.  She remembered her ruined, eighth birthday party — when he’d told all her guests that worms eat the bodies after they were put in the ground.  She had remembered that comment even in junior high school when she had to write a report on “The Conqueror Worm.”  Now worms were all she had to look forward to.  Worms and dust and this box and ashes to ashes and centuries of immobility and confinement.  Where were heaven and hell?  Where nirvana?  And worse than the below-ground worms she knew she had to face were Rae Leigh and Schiller worming their ways against each other.  She wished Jason would arrive.  Then again, he was a worm, too — a bookworm, a hide-in-the-ground worm.

Rosa heard Rae Leigh interject the word “cremation” and wondered if she shouldn’t have opted for that.  To end it all in a purifying blaze released through the charnel chimney.  But it was too late.  She could not rise up and change things.

Look at those rodent teeth.  I always thought he looked kind of like a rat with that narrow jaw and those squinty, Tartar eyes.  But I never noticed his teeth.  Small and yellow and pointed.  All the hair mousse and bland ties and double-breasted suits in the world couldn’t make him look less like a rat.  They only make him look as dead as — Well!  I never should have let Jason talk me into taking Mom here.  Mom always detested him.  That Schiller looks like a rat waiting for a piece of cheese, or a piece of pie — my pie.  Good Lord, I shouldn’t think that.  No, I shouldn’t.  But it looks like he wants to take a big bite out of what little Mom left with all these frills.

“Mrs. Richardson, I understand your concern,” Schiller said.  “I don’t know how much of a legacy your mother left but a cremation would certainly be less expensive.  Mr. Frazier was adamant that your mother be buried in a style that reflected her dignity.”

Rae Leigh looked down on him as he nodded his head and attempted a reassuring smile.  She answered with a condemning frown.

“Are you saying cremation is undignified?” she asked.  “Human beings have cremated their dead since time began.  I’m sure Mother would have preferred it to all this . . . fuss.”  She gestured toward the ornate rosewood casket.

“Oh, no, Mrs. Richardson, don’t misunderstand me.  Cremation can be a very dignified method of . . . method of burial.  We provide cremation if the family requests it.  We always try to honor the wishes of the bereaved and the testament of the deceased.  In this case, Mr. Frazier made all the arrangements.”

“Jason has no idea what anything costs.  He’s so sentimental he’ll want everything regardless of whether we can afford it or not.”

“I did provide your brother with cost estimates.  I even offered some less expensive alternatives.  However, these are the options he chose.  He was very particular.  As I said before, we try to honor the wishes of the bereaved.”

You mean you try to prey on the bereaved.  Take advantage of my scatterbrained brother any way you can.  Rat!

“Why wasn’t I consulted?  I called you and asked you when we could meet to make arrangements.”

“Mr. Frazier stopped by without an appointment.  He felt that it wouldn’t be necessary to call.”

“Did he have Sharon with him?”

“Yes.”

That bitch!

“So you allowed my brother and his wife to make all the arrangements concerning my mother’s funeral without consulting me?”

“Mrs. Richardson, I wish to respect the wishes of all parties.  As I said, Jason – Mr. Frazier – came by unannounced.  Since he is the legal representative, I have to defer to him.”

“Legal representative?  Mr. Schiller, I’m the executrix of my mother’s estate.”

“I don’t think so, Rae Leigh.”

“What?”  Rae Leigh turned away from Schiller, too distraught to say anything.  ‘I don’t think so, Rae Leigh.’  Where does he get off calling me by my given name?  We’re not meeting in church or at the supermarket.  And my dead mother is lying in the alcove.  What does he mean?  Well, he’ll find out who is who.  He might take advantage of Jason but he is not taking advantage of me.  She walked toward Rosa’s body.  Schiller followed at a respectful distance.

Rae Leigh knelt at the pre-dieux before the casket.  Rosa seemed lost in the profusion of white lace and padding that lined her coffin.  She was clad in her wedding dress, which finally fit again, now that the cancer had eaten away her body.  Rae Leigh examined Rosa’s hairstyle and makeup.  She noticed that Rosa’s eyes were not completely shut and made a mental note to mention that to Schiller.  It took away from the expression of peace she associated with the dead.

“She’s in a better place, Rae Leigh,” Schiller said from behind her.  “She has her eternal rest.”

Rae Leigh could not help feeling disturbed by Rosa’s steady gaze.  She reached and felt the cold, rubbery eyelids.  She pushed them shut.

Don’t they sew them shut or something?  Something is wrong here.  No wonder people used to put pennies on the eyes.  Oh, Mother, you never even allowed yourself to have a hair out of place.  I can’t let them botch your final appearance.  A closed casket and cremation would have been better.  Damn Jason and his damned sentiments.

A door opened and Rae Leigh heard the shuffling of feet.  She heard Schiller turnabout and walk abruptly to meet the newcomers.  Rae Leigh turned around, too.  Just long enough to glimpse Jason walk in with his head down, Sharon holding her purse primly in front of her, and their son, Willie, shrinking against the wall.  Rae Leigh turned back to Rosa.  She folded her hands together and leaned her head against them in a semblance of prayer.  She even tried to pray.  Prayers never came to mind.  She could only think about Jason and Schiller and what she had to do.

I should have brought Harold with me to deal with them.  I hadn’t realized things were so far out of hand.  Then again, Harold would never assert himself for me.  He’s as bad as Jason is.  What is a husband good for if he can’t stand up for his wife?  What good is a man, period?

“My God!  Don’t let her do that!” Rosa screamed, but nobody heard her.  “Don’t let my last look at this world be of her hateful face.  And she is hateful.  Look at how mad she is.  Maybe I shouldn’t have left Jason in charge.  This is my punishment for it.  Maybe this is a precursor.  Maybe I’m going to hell.”

Rae Leigh’s fingertips felt hot to Rosa’s skin.  Hot with the heat of anger.  It was momentary.  The coldness of death — the coldness of the universe — quickly absorbed the heat.

“And to think I named her ‘Rae,’” Rosa said to herself, since there was no one else who could hear her, “because I thought she was my little ray of sunshine.”

The sight of Rae Leigh running her hands across their mother’s face took Jason aback.  Will she never leave her alone?  No wonder Mother didn’t want her in charge of her effects.  Though I sure don’t want the job.  I’m glad Sharon knows how to handle these things.

He felt Sharon’s hand reassuringly squeeze his shoulder.  He turned back to see Sharon manage a smile.  A reassuring smile.  He tried to come up with one of his own but couldn’t quite manage.  He saw from the corner of his eye Rae Leigh pressing her thick fingers on Mother’s eyelids.

What is she doing?

Then he noticed a look of guilt, or at least something akin to guilt, something as close to guilt as Rae Leigh could manage — a faint blush, a flicker (not a down-turning but a flicker) of her lashes — in his sister’s face.  He remembered that look from so many instances in their childhood: when money was missing from the stash in his drawer; after she’d kicked him when his mother’s back was turned; when she sneaked out the back door to meet that boy Mother didn’t like; after she’d told everyone in the neighborhood that he liked the ugly girl down the block and it was true; when, after, when, etc.

Incredulously, he watched Rae Leigh cross herself and kneel down to pray.  He nodded to Sharon.  Sharon’s eyes were narrowed to where he could just barely see a flash of her green pupils, and her head was held back.  He glanced down to Willie, who had backed up against the dark paneling.  Willie’s face was pale, his mouth opened, exposing his braces, and eyes wide open, too, his pupils luminous orbs of blue floating on expanses of white.  He reached to pat Willie’s hair, almost like he would the collie at home.  Willie jerked his head away and advanced a couple of steps forward.

Jason glanced at his wife again but received no reassurance this time.  Sharon was staring straight ahead.  Some mixture of worry and defiance troubled her expression.  She was a statue, planted on a pedestal of her own making between him and his son.

Jason heard the funeral director approach.  He stepped away from his family toward the small, purposeful man.  He extended his hand, which Schiller took in both of his.  Schiller’s hands felt warm but dry, like they had been sweaty but he’d dusted them with talcum powder.

“Ah, Mr. Frazier,” Schiller said.  “Everything is ready.  Did you see Mr. Whiggins at Resurrection?”

Jason thought back to his interview with the overfed, crew cut sales manager at the Catholic cemetery that morning.  The man had been immense, dwarfing the battered desk and cramped office in the former caretaker cottage.  He wore a shiny, black suit that strained to contain his flesh.  Jason and Sharon had interrupted his lunch.  A plate with gnawed chicken bones, a lump of potato salad and a balled-up napkin sat on the desk next to the grave marker brochure the Fraziers had just perused.

Jason watched the man’s thick fingers, banded with gold rings, tear through a binder until they found Mother’s lot number next to Father’s.  Mr. Whiggins held his index finger on the spot, marking the place forever with a puddle of chicken grease.

“Agony in the Garden,” Mr. Whiggins said.  “Yes, the plot’s all paid for.  You’ll need to pay for the marker.  It’ll be a few months before the grave has settled and we can place it.  Let me see — this is the one you wanted?”

“Yes,” Jason said, after a quick glance at his wife.  “The one with the Virgin Mary.  We want the inscription to read: ‘Beloved Wife and Mother.’  That’s what Mother wanted.”

“Uh-huh.”  Mr. Whiggins took a ledger bound in green plastic and penciled some numbers in it.  He scratched his head and then his chin.  He listed all the charges and named a price.

“That’s okay,” Jason said.  “Isn’t it, Sharon?”

Sharon answered him with a nod.

“We have to wait until next week after the will is read.  Then we can take the money from Mother’s estate.”

“That’s fine,” Mr. Whiggins said.  He hesitated a moment, his mouth open like a hungry fish.   He leaned forward, imposingly enough that even Sharon scooted back in her seat.  Jason watched him thump the desk with his heavy index finger.  Whiggins’s face was swollen with flesh.  His pig-eyes, dingy with red veins, would have been lost in it except for their intensity.  “We can wait for the money for the marker and the services.  But you have to pay the gravedigger today.”

Jason shifted in his seat and stammered something agreeable.  Sharon eyed him coldly and fished the checkbook from her purse.

“Geez,” Jason had thought.  “I’d hate to have him pilot me across the River Styx.  My poor mother.”

“Did Mr. Whiggins take care of you?” Schiller said, snapping Jason from his unpleasant reverie.  Schiller placed one of his small hands on Jason’s elbow.

“Uh . . . yes,” Jason said.  “Yes, we saw him.”

“Good.  I’ve always found him very helpful.  I’ll give him a call and make sure all the arrangements are made.  I’ve talked with Father Halloran this morning.  The Mass of Christian Burial is set for Wednesday as you requested.”

Schiller’s fingers dug into Jason’s elbow.  He sighed and his face assumed a compassionate expression.  “If there is anything more I can help you with, Mr. Frazier, please don’t hesitate to ask.  My mission is to be of service during times like this.”

“Thank you, Mr. Schiller,” Jason said, touched.  He was grateful for the fatherly pressure of Schiller’s hand on his elbow.  Fatherly — yes, that’s the way Jason felt.  And why not?  Schiller had known his father, had buried his father.

I’m glad we took Mother here.  Schiller understands things.  It’s better that taking her to a stranger.  Mother always liked Schiller.  She said hello to him in church.

Jason felt Schiller’s hand find his own again and shake it.  He looked across the room to see Rae Leigh advancing, staring at them, her eyes wet with hurt and anger.  Rae Leigh turned away from them dismissively to give Sharon a cold glance.

Jason heard Willie’s muffled sobs.  He wanted to reach out to him again, but the boy moved farther away.

Schiller’s fingers encircled Jason’s elbow again.  “Perhaps you would like to spend some time with your mother if we have no more business to discuss,” he suggested.

Jason watched Rae Leigh’s advancing figure.  We still have business, he thought.  Can’t we bury Mother in peace?

Just then he heard Willie cry out, “Grandma!”  He saw Sharon reaching out in vain, like he himself had, to touch the boy.  He saw a flurry of motion as Willie raced across the plush, oriental carpeting and collided with Rae Leigh.  He saw his son’s arms wrapped around her ample waist.  He saw Rae Leigh’s eyes change expression from hurt and angry to uncertain to just hurt.  He saw Rae Leigh kneel down for the second time in one day.

“Oh, Grandma,” Willie sobbed into Rae Leigh’s best dress.

Oh, Mama.

Look at them, hugging and shaking hands and showing off their male camaraderie.  They look more like two men who’ve just won a team-bowling tournament that two people discussing the burial of another human being.  Just look at them.  One of them has botched my mother’s poor body and the other has botched his life.  I’m not letting Jason off the hook for this and I’m going to nail that rat Schiller.

Rae Leigh stepped away from Rosa’s coffin toward the group assembled near the doors.  She noticed Jason return her look with a startled expression.  He was shuffling his feet, like he would when they were children and she was getting ready to pound him.  Rae Leigh had always gotten the better of her twerp brother.

She saw Schiller admit a little frown before straightening his posture and steadying himself.  He appeared dignified and confident.

That’s okay.  I’m taking Harold with me to see the attorney next week.  Schiller might think he’s making a mint off of Mother but he’s got another think coming.

And look at Mrs. Jason.  Or should I call Jason Mr. Sharon?  Sharon’s clutching that purse like it’s the only thing holding her to this world.  She must think she is going to fill it with all the money Mother scrimped and saved for all her life.  Well, Barbie-doll, you got another think coming, too.

And look at that kid.  What a mess.  Can’t they do something with him?  He’s going to grow up to be worse than Jason.  What?  Oh, God –

“Oh, Grandma,” the small voice cried from her waistline.  “Oh, Aunt Rae Leigh, Aunt Rae Leigh, I want Grandma.”

Rae Leigh glanced once more at the configuration of adults.  Jason looked shaken and tired.  Mr. Schiller was trying to look away in a respectful manner.  But Sharon, Sharon was fixed in place and time, her face tormented with a mother’s anguish.  Rae Leigh knelt down before the boy.  She felt Willie embrace her, his body warm as it pressed against her.  She smelled the lime-scented soap Sharon had made him wash with before coming to the funeral parlor.  The boy’s slight frame convulsed against hers.  He sobbed uncontrollably, huh-uh-huh-uh-huh-uh-huh-huh-uh-huh-uh.

“Grandma’s in a better place now,” Rae Leigh said, knowing the inadequacy of the words.  It sounded like something Schiller would say.  It was something that she herself would hear from friends and relatives again and again over the next few days.

She stood up and grasped Willie’s hand.  “Come on, Willie.  Let’s go see Grandma.”

Willie’s eyes widened with incredulity but, when he seemed to realize that his aunt wanted him to go by the coffin, he refused to move.

“Willie,” Sharon called.

Rae Leigh ran the fingers of her free hand through Willie’s hair.  Willie submitted quietly.

“It’s all right,” Rae Leigh said.  She leaned down toward Willie.  “Let’s get something to wipe your eyes.  Okay?  You don’t want Grandma to see you crying.”

The boy shook his head.  Rae Leigh led him to an antiqued faux-walnut stand that had no purpose but to bear a box of facial tissue.  She wiped Willie’s cheeks with a tissue and smoothed his hair.

“Let’s say goodbye to Grandma.  All right.”  Rae Leigh glanced at Sharon, who nodded her head.  She led Willie quietly to the pre-dieux beside the casket.  Willie stood atop the kneeling pad and gazed down at the remains of his grandmother.  Rae Leigh felt a tug on her sleeve and inclined her ear toward Willie’s lips.

“Grandma’s eyes are open,” Willie whispered.

Rae Leigh looked down in amazement.  Rosa’s eyes hadn’t stayed shut.  It was as though the departed wanted one final look.

Oh, Mother!

“It’s okay,” Rae Leigh said.  “Do you want to touch her?”

Her nephew nodded.  He extended his hand toward Rosa’s face but couldn’t bring himself to feel her.  He stood over her with his hand above Rosa’s forehead like a priest healing the sick.

“You don’t have to,” Rae Leigh said.  “Just say a prayer for her.”

“Our Father, who art in heaven . . .” the boy began, saying probably the only prayer he knew.  A teardrop, a hydrogen-and-oxygen-and-mineral combination containing a tiny universe, dripped down his face.  “My Grandma.”

Rae Leigh stroked the boy’s hair.  She was mildly surprised that she was comforting the boy.  To her way of thinking, it should have been one of his parents.  Then again, sometimes it takes somebody outside the immediate family to act as a catalyst for feelings.  “It’s okay,” she said.  “Grandma loves you.”

“Don’t go to her!” Sharon thought, but it was too late.  Willie had eluded her grasp and rushed ahead anyway.  Sharon glanced toward Jason, who seemed to be awaiting a signal from her.  Then she heard her little boy’s sobs, the sobs that he’d been holding in all day, pacing around in his room, not touching anything, not saying anything, and especially not touching or saying anything to her.  How then could he run to that hag Rae Leigh — the enemy — when his own mother was standing next to him?

He hardly sees her.  She’s no aunt.  She never comes and visits.  Not that I would open my door to her anyway.  Not after the way she mistreated Jason when they were growing up.  She has a lot to answer for the way Jason is now.  She is not going to mess up my son the way she messed up my husband.

Sharon saw Rae Leigh look up at her and was taken aback.  She didn’t know that look, what to make of it.  She knew Rae Leigh was angry, especially if her sister-in-law had been talking to the slick salesman that ran this show.  Rae Leigh would see beyond his phony compassion — much better than Jason would, if Jason even could.

Then Sharon saw Rae Leigh nod toward her.  It was a nod of understanding or help or something else that Sharon hadn’t expected.  Rae Leigh knelt down to comfort Willie, and Sharon clutched her purse straps with both hands.

Why? she asked.  He hardly ever saw her except when we visited Rosa.  Maybe that is the connection.  Maybe he connects Rae Leigh to her.  He doesn’t know.  He doesn’t know how Rae Leigh “managed” Rosa’s pension while Rosa was lying sick with the cancer.  He doesn’t know all hell is going to break loose next week when the will is read, if not sooner.  Rae Leigh is someone he saw at his grandmother’s house and he connects her with Rosa.

She breathed a little easier now that she had made the connection.  Sharon had the kind of efficient mind that needed to make connections, to make practical business sense of whatever confronted her.  She relaxed her hold on the purse strings.

Sharon’s purse was a slender model with three compartments and long straps.  It was not an oversized saddlebag to stuff everything she could put into it, like the saddlebag Rae Leigh carried.  Neither was it so small as a slinky pouch one would carry while in evening dress.  Sharon’s purse was made out of dark brown Italian leather.  It was professional, tasteful, and practical without appearing practical.

Inside her purse was a wallet, complete with credit cards of every color and design — rivaling the color of the family snapshots entombed in plastic envelopes, driver’s license, insurance and other cards, sixty dollars in new bills and two crumpled ones, five quarters, six pennies and a nickel resting in some lint dust; a leather checkbook containing blank checks numbered 15553 through 15575 with images of antebellum mansions in the colored backgrounds, a check register, more credit cards and folded scrap of yellow envelope with a phone number scrawled across it; a love letter she had meant to destroy; Dexatrim tablets; birth control pills in a plastic blister pack; a vial of perfume; Excedrin in a plastic bottle; a half roll of Tums; eyeliner; a black and silver hairbrush; eye pencil; lipstick; lip liner; mascara; a compact with a scented puff and a mirror; an extra pair of pantyhose; a love letter she had begun but wasn’t sure if she were going to finish; some chewing gum and mints for Willie; a pair of teardrop earrings; eye drops; tissue; an emergency whistle; an eyeglass case containing designer sunglasses; an appointment book filled with scribbled notes and aggravations; a half-gone package of Virginia Slims in a leather cigarette case and a hot pink Bic lighter; a manicure set; Jason’s balls on a silver charger; a small bottle of hairspray; and a funeral card with the Bleeding Heart of Jesus for Rosa, sitting atop some more lint dust.

She relaxed her grip on the purse strings but when she saw Willie and Rae Leigh walking toward the casket, she tightened it again.  She watched in horror as Willie reached out his hand toward Rosa’s face.  There were few things Sharon wouldn’t do; touching a corpse was one of them.  When Willie began his prayer but broke down in tears, Rae Leigh turned around and gave Sharon an imploring look.  Sharon set her purse down, without haste but gracefully, on the worn red fabric of a fake French Provincial armchair, and walked to where her son slumped before the coffin.  She massaged the boy’s quivering back, wondering if her long nails were scratching him through his shirt.

“Come on, honey,” she said.  “I’ll say it with you.  Our Father, who art  . . .” she began, not sure if even she knew the words.

“Who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name . . .” a masculine voice intoned behind her.  She felt a mild pressure on her shoulder.  Turning, she saw Jason standing there, one hand on her shoulder, his other hand on his sister’s shoulder.  Sharon noticed Rae Leigh look back, her expression still carrying a hint of suspicion mixed with the hint of gratitude.

“Thy kingdom come . . .” Willie said.

They all looked down on the frozen visage of their matriarch.

This is the last time I’m ever going to see Gramma.   Hot, salty water.  Pool on lashes.  Smooth slide on soft skin.  Drip.

Rosa saw the pink fingers, the smooth palm hovering over her face.  Touch me!  Touch me! she cried.  Then the hand withdrew, depriving her of even the momentary comfort of its shadow.  She felt very cold inside, colder than she had ever felt.  Then it came.  The big, shimmering teardrop, reflecting all the colors as through a prism, floating through the space between her and Willie, a small universe, adding planets as it collected the dust motes flying in orbits over her head.  It splashed down on her cheek, warming the rouge, burning the flesh, sending sparks throughout her body.  Rosa stood up, or fell down, or flew up, or sideways, or something.  Rosa didn’t know.  She only knew that she had escaped the gravity of her body somehow and was whirling through space.  She saw the combined faces of her family looking down on her corpse, on the old blood-pooled, stiff-limbed, embalmed prison that had been her.  Don’t cry!  Don’t cry, Willie, Jason, Rae Leigh, Sharon!  But she knew the crying was good.  She carried the warmth of Willie’s tear with her as everything became colder and much farther distant.