Read Online Being Dead by Vivian Vande Velde - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Vivian Vande Velde
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and I guessed but didn't want to hear spoken: that Kevin's body wasn't fit to be seen.
Aunt Lise put her arm around my mother's waist. "It's better this way, Maggie," she said. "Remember him the way he was."
"That's easy for you to say," Mom snapped at her, jerking away. "Try to imagine how you'd feel if it were Dwight."
I cringed from the savagery of her words, but Aunt Lise only answered, with a calm certainty which reminded me she had lived through a war in her own homeland, "I would still feel the same."
Mom began to cry. "We don't even know for sure if it's him," she protested. "Mistakes can be made. How can we know?"
My father swore and walked out of the funeral parlor.
Don't leave me,
I thought.
But he already had.
Aunt Ida told me, "I need some air. Walk outside with me?"
Aunt Ida was, of course, as sturdy and steady as always. But being a coward, I played along so that I could get out of there.
We were just in time to see Dad's car tearing out of the parking lot, Uncle Jack in the passenger seat, clutching the dashboard for dear life.
By the time we came back in, Mom had settled down. Of course, Aunt Ida timed our return to coincide with the arrival of other people besides the immediate family, so that might have had something to do with Mom's improved demeanor.
Dad came back shortly afterward. I overheard Uncle Jack telling Uncle Bud that they had had a couple beers to "take the edge off." I saw Mom's disapproving expression, but I don't know if that was for the beers or for leaving her to cope with Mr. DiVincenzo on her own.
Dwight sat next to me and behaved himself as well as a thirteen-year-old boy can—until he told about the time he had gone camping with our family and how Kevin, using the bushes as a bathroom, had sat down in poison ivy.
As soon as the people Dwight had been talking to had moved on, I hissed at him, "That's not the kind of thing to be telling at a funeral."
"Why not?" Dwight asked. "It was funny. It defined the
whole
camping experience for me. Kevin thought it was funny, too, by the next year."
The people he had told the story to were talking to another couple and laughing, though discreetly. I wasn't sure how I felt about people laughing at Kevin's funeral. But the more I thought about it, the more I thought Kevin would have approved.
Which made me cry.
But when I got over that, I decided that I needed to tell people funny stories about Kevin, too. Still, I left the poison-ivy bathroom incident for Dwight.
There were two afternoons and two evenings at the funeral parlor—and Dad had a couple beers before each of them. He had a beer before the funeral, too, which was at ten o'clock in the morning. Mom grumbled at him that it was getting so you could smell the beer on his breath. Dad just shrugged.
At the cemetery they didn't lower Kevin into the ground while we were watching. From TV I thought they'd do that, and we'd have to throw handfuls of dirt onto the coffin, and the headstone would already be there with his name and the date he had died. I'm not sure I could have handled that. But the headstone wouldn't be ready for a couple months, and after Father Boyle gave the blessing, we were told that we should all go home. Mom started to argue, and Dad told her to just get in the car. They bickered all the way home, but at least they stopped then, not wanting to snarl at each other in front of guests.
I was feeling miserable, wishing everybody would leave, wondering what was the matter with them—expecting us to entertain them when Kevin was dead. And yet I was also dreading when we would be alone, just the three of us, our redefined family unit.
But when everybody left, even the aunts and uncles, my parents didn't resume their quarreling. Instead Mom went to bed, though it was only one o'clock in the afternoon, and Dad sat on the couch and drank beer after beer. I took pity on Spartacus, whom Dad had ignored ever since we'd gotten the news about Kevin, so I took him for
Aunt Lise put her arm around my mother's waist. "It's better this way, Maggie," she said. "Remember him the way he was."
"That's easy for you to say," Mom snapped at her, jerking away. "Try to imagine how you'd feel if it were Dwight."
I cringed from the savagery of her words, but Aunt Lise only answered, with a calm certainty which reminded me she had lived through a war in her own homeland, "I would still feel the same."
Mom began to cry. "We don't even know for sure if it's him," she protested. "Mistakes can be made. How can we know?"
My father swore and walked out of the funeral parlor.
Don't leave me,
I thought.
But he already had.
Aunt Ida told me, "I need some air. Walk outside with me?"
Aunt Ida was, of course, as sturdy and steady as always. But being a coward, I played along so that I could get out of there.
We were just in time to see Dad's car tearing out of the parking lot, Uncle Jack in the passenger seat, clutching the dashboard for dear life.
By the time we came back in, Mom had settled down. Of course, Aunt Ida timed our return to coincide with the arrival of other people besides the immediate family, so that might have had something to do with Mom's improved demeanor.
Dad came back shortly afterward. I overheard Uncle Jack telling Uncle Bud that they had had a couple beers to "take the edge off." I saw Mom's disapproving expression, but I don't know if that was for the beers or for leaving her to cope with Mr. DiVincenzo on her own.
Dwight sat next to me and behaved himself as well as a thirteen-year-old boy can—until he told about the time he had gone camping with our family and how Kevin, using the bushes as a bathroom, had sat down in poison ivy.
As soon as the people Dwight had been talking to had moved on, I hissed at him, "That's not the kind of thing to be telling at a funeral."
"Why not?" Dwight asked. "It was funny. It defined the
whole
camping experience for me. Kevin thought it was funny, too, by the next year."
The people he had told the story to were talking to another couple and laughing, though discreetly. I wasn't sure how I felt about people laughing at Kevin's funeral. But the more I thought about it, the more I thought Kevin would have approved.
Which made me cry.
But when I got over that, I decided that I needed to tell people funny stories about Kevin, too. Still, I left the poison-ivy bathroom incident for Dwight.
There were two afternoons and two evenings at the funeral parlor—and Dad had a couple beers before each of them. He had a beer before the funeral, too, which was at ten o'clock in the morning. Mom grumbled at him that it was getting so you could smell the beer on his breath. Dad just shrugged.
At the cemetery they didn't lower Kevin into the ground while we were watching. From TV I thought they'd do that, and we'd have to throw handfuls of dirt onto the coffin, and the headstone would already be there with his name and the date he had died. I'm not sure I could have handled that. But the headstone wouldn't be ready for a couple months, and after Father Boyle gave the blessing, we were told that we should all go home. Mom started to argue, and Dad told her to just get in the car. They bickered all the way home, but at least they stopped then, not wanting to snarl at each other in front of guests.
I was feeling miserable, wishing everybody would leave, wondering what was the matter with them—expecting us to entertain them when Kevin was dead. And yet I was also dreading when we would be alone, just the three of us, our redefined family unit.
But when everybody left, even the aunts and uncles, my parents didn't resume their quarreling. Instead Mom went to bed, though it was only one o'clock in the afternoon, and Dad sat on the couch and drank beer after beer. I took pity on Spartacus, whom Dad had ignored ever since we'd gotten the news about Kevin, so I took him for
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