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Authors: SUNSHINE O'DONNELL
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“Can you?”
Mem shakes her head. She isn’t allowed to chew gum.
Drunk
, Mem hears Aunt Binah say.
I can’t stand working with her. Her
sister actually brings a harmonica to the jobs to make sure they’re both wailing at C-sharp pitch. You can smell the Jack Daniels from the other side of the hole
.
Derasha flicks her head to the other side and her hair flows like an underwater creature, tails made of sunlight. “I’m going to be a famous actress,” she says.
They did such a shoddy embalming job that those awful phorid flies were everywhere
.
“Wow,” says Mem, very impressed.
It was six, no, seven before they changed the law last month
, says Aunt Ayin.
Now it’s only three at a time, not including children, thank god. But who’s checking?
“And my family’s from the House of Marcella in Rome where St. Jerome visited all the widows and taught them Hebrew,” says Derasha. “We’re a legend.”
At least we can get health insurance this year
, replied Aunt Binah.
My youngest just had chicken pox. Now they’re all going to get it
.
Mem is about to tell Derasha that her family is a legend, too, when she sees a polished gray hearse leading a slow caravan of cars into the cemetery. All the cars have neon orange stickers on the windows. They slowly snake around the hill at the bottom, and then stop. Mem’s mother moves behind the girls, nodding quickly to Mem as she passes. Doors open, doors shut, there are some murmurs, loud breathing. About a dozen whispering mourners make their way up the hills, all in black, shrugged together like stooped shoulders. Some of the women are wearing short skirts and pointy high heels that sink into the ground as they walk. They try to look serene and sad while they teeter and wobble up the hill. Mem gets nervous all over again and tries to make her face look somber. Mournful. She frowns and sighs and knits her brows.
“Stop making faces,” her mother says.
What happens next goes by very quickly, a gathering and a rustling, like fallen leaves settling. “That’s the widow,” whispers Derasha, nodding toward a woman wearing a stern black suit and black heels with buckles.The widow’s arms sag against other people’s arms, her hair straggling away from its bun. The other mourners follow, everyone wearing their serious faces, heads bent, hands clasped awkwardly.
Mem is able to make out the priest as he walks by because of his robe and the book he holds beneath his crossed arms. Although he might be a vicar or a minister, Mem doesn’t know the difference yet.
Don’t worry about it, they’re professionals, like us
, her mother has explained.
They’re at the jobs to make money, too. They’ll completely ignore you. Just ignore them back
.
The mourners arrange themselves around the hole, barely noticing that Wailers are there. Mem can’t see anything but legs and black shoes. Polished patent leather. Old loafers. Careful cuffs and stockings the color of smoke. When the priest begins to talk, he uses Hector’s humming voice. Mem can’t quite make out what he is saying. She strains to listen but all she hears clearly is the word
God
, over and over again. Her doole begins to soak up heat from the sun, trapping it between the starched layers. Her mother—all three of the mothers—is standing right behind them, in back of everyone else. They don’t say a word. Soft dandelion wishes pirouette past Mem, riding a breeze only they can feel. She wants to reach out and catch one, let its furriness collapse between her fingers, make her wish, let it go. She would wish to never inherit her grandmother’s curse, the horrible Sjogren’s syndrome that squeezes a Wailer’s lachrymal glands into hard, dry pits that cannot cry. What if, instead of leaking prosperity, Mem’s tear ducts block themselves up and only dribble, disappointingly, like a broken faucet?
“What are we supposed to do?” whispers Sofie, wide-eyed, panicked. Mem listens for some signal from the
Mem shakes her head. She isn’t allowed to chew gum.
Drunk
, Mem hears Aunt Binah say.
I can’t stand working with her. Her
sister actually brings a harmonica to the jobs to make sure they’re both wailing at C-sharp pitch. You can smell the Jack Daniels from the other side of the hole
.
Derasha flicks her head to the other side and her hair flows like an underwater creature, tails made of sunlight. “I’m going to be a famous actress,” she says.
They did such a shoddy embalming job that those awful phorid flies were everywhere
.
“Wow,” says Mem, very impressed.
It was six, no, seven before they changed the law last month
, says Aunt Ayin.
Now it’s only three at a time, not including children, thank god. But who’s checking?
“And my family’s from the House of Marcella in Rome where St. Jerome visited all the widows and taught them Hebrew,” says Derasha. “We’re a legend.”
At least we can get health insurance this year
, replied Aunt Binah.
My youngest just had chicken pox. Now they’re all going to get it
.
Mem is about to tell Derasha that her family is a legend, too, when she sees a polished gray hearse leading a slow caravan of cars into the cemetery. All the cars have neon orange stickers on the windows. They slowly snake around the hill at the bottom, and then stop. Mem’s mother moves behind the girls, nodding quickly to Mem as she passes. Doors open, doors shut, there are some murmurs, loud breathing. About a dozen whispering mourners make their way up the hills, all in black, shrugged together like stooped shoulders. Some of the women are wearing short skirts and pointy high heels that sink into the ground as they walk. They try to look serene and sad while they teeter and wobble up the hill. Mem gets nervous all over again and tries to make her face look somber. Mournful. She frowns and sighs and knits her brows.
“Stop making faces,” her mother says.
What happens next goes by very quickly, a gathering and a rustling, like fallen leaves settling. “That’s the widow,” whispers Derasha, nodding toward a woman wearing a stern black suit and black heels with buckles.The widow’s arms sag against other people’s arms, her hair straggling away from its bun. The other mourners follow, everyone wearing their serious faces, heads bent, hands clasped awkwardly.
Mem is able to make out the priest as he walks by because of his robe and the book he holds beneath his crossed arms. Although he might be a vicar or a minister, Mem doesn’t know the difference yet.
Don’t worry about it, they’re professionals, like us
, her mother has explained.
They’re at the jobs to make money, too. They’ll completely ignore you. Just ignore them back
.
The mourners arrange themselves around the hole, barely noticing that Wailers are there. Mem can’t see anything but legs and black shoes. Polished patent leather. Old loafers. Careful cuffs and stockings the color of smoke. When the priest begins to talk, he uses Hector’s humming voice. Mem can’t quite make out what he is saying. She strains to listen but all she hears clearly is the word
God
, over and over again. Her doole begins to soak up heat from the sun, trapping it between the starched layers. Her mother—all three of the mothers—is standing right behind them, in back of everyone else. They don’t say a word. Soft dandelion wishes pirouette past Mem, riding a breeze only they can feel. She wants to reach out and catch one, let its furriness collapse between her fingers, make her wish, let it go. She would wish to never inherit her grandmother’s curse, the horrible Sjogren’s syndrome that squeezes a Wailer’s lachrymal glands into hard, dry pits that cannot cry. What if, instead of leaking prosperity, Mem’s tear ducts block themselves up and only dribble, disappointingly, like a broken faucet?
“What are we supposed to do?” whispers Sofie, wide-eyed, panicked. Mem listens for some signal from the
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