Angel in the Parlor Read online

  Erica climbed into her mother’s bed and gazed attentively at the sharp features of her father’s profile and the shock of white hair on the pillow so near her own. Under his freckled skin, veins lashed the bones of his hand together.

  “I want to get up,” he whispered.

  “Oh, Papa, you can’t get up. It’s the middle of the night. Shall I read to you?”

  She looked wildly around the room but could find nothing except two books he had written himself.

  “Papa, let’s sing. Remember how we used to sing in the car whenever we went on a trip?”

  He gave her a puzzled look. She hesitated, uncertain of the words, and then started bravely:

  “Cruising down the river on a Sunday afternoon”

  “The birds above all sing of love …” His voice piped up, faint but exactly on pitch.

  “… waiting for the moon.”

  And then they both remembered the old accordion playing a sentimental tune and Erica saw the river very clearly; it was the Detroit River, which long ago they had crossed at a family reunion so large that a boat was hired for the occasion. It chugged slowly past the marinas of Grosse Pointe, past the elegant houses of those whom Mother called the “captains of industry,” and whenever a new house, always bigger than the last, glided into view, everyone rushed to the rail for a look. The distant relatives from both sides called each other “Cousin” to save confusion, and when the captain’s voice over the loudspeaker announced a message for Mr. Widholm, men hurried to the captain’s cabin from all quarters of the ship. Queer to find strangers with your face and your name.

  “After the ball is over, after the break of dawn——”

  “You did not sing that correctly,” admonished her father. “You should have sung, ‘After the break of day.’”

  She listened while he carried the song alone, and when he had finished the verse, neither of them spoke for a long time. At last he said, “I want to get up.”

  “Oh, Papa, let Mother sleep.”

  “I want to get up,” the old man repeated firmly. “This bed’s full of salt.”

  Erica bounded out of bed and met her mother in the hall.

  “Mother, he won’t stay in bed.”

  Her mother hurried into the room. “Hal, do you want some orange juice?”

  He nodded happily. “I want to get up. I want to get off this boat.”

  “Oh, Hal, how could you possibly be on a boat? Look—there’s your mother’s picture right over your bed.”

  Cautiously the old man turned his head. “Why, so it is!” he said.

  “He told me the bed had salt in it,” whispered Erica.

  Her mother laughed. “Now, Hal, how could there be salt in your bed? There isn’t a body of salt water in the entire state of Michigan. Erica will sit with you while I run down to the kitchen and make your juice. Come. Lean on me.”

  She sat down on the edge of his bed, put his arm around her neck, and rose unsteadily, bearing his full weight on her shoulders.

  “Grab the bedpost, Hal. Then the doorknob.”

  They lurched into the hall—her father in his blue pajamas, her mother in her long, purple nightgown—like a conspiracy of sleepwalkers, he clutching woodwork and doorknobs and she easing him past the diplomas and photographs into his study and letting him down into the overstuffed chair. Then she arranged the afghan around his knees. The tears ran slowly down his cheeks.

  “Hal,” shouted her mother, “Hal, here’s Erica come to see you for your birthday! Is that something to cry about?”

  “I don’t want to die,” he said, weeping softly.

  “Oh, Hal, what makes you think of such a thing? You’re not going to die. Who do you love?”

  “You,” he answered at once.

  “You’re my sweetheart,” his wife told him, kissing his ear. “You know that? Erica, you can go to bed now. Everything’s all right—I have some letters to write and some bills to pay. Look at this from the phone company. A fifty-dollar call to Hawaii! I never called Hawaii.”

  “Oh, Mother,” said Erica, “I was going to let you sleep tonight.”

  Her mother shrugged. “A lot of people have it worse. What important business do I have? The one who gave us the time didn’t charge us for it. Our real life comes later.”

  “We’ll need a tie and a shirt and underwear, everything but shoes.” Her mother’s voice from the closet. “Kirsten, you pick a tie. You’ve got good taste. Erica, can you find some B.V.D.s?”

  The crashing of hangers applauded the search. Erica kicked a Monopoly board and a pile of dirty sheets under the bed and opened the bureau drawers. Handkerchiefs. Razor. Shirts. Socks. All I could ever think of to give him was socks, she thought.

  “A bolo tie,” said Kirsten’s voice, muffled. “He always wore bolo ties. I suppose that’s too informal for the occasion.”

  “Oh, I hate to bury his bolo tie. Danny should have it, Kirsten. Indian jewelry has got so expensive,” said her mother.

  Clump, clump: John limping down the third-floor stairs. Kirsten stuck her head out of the closet. Her face was flushed, but her blond hair was immaculately curled and combed under a headband.

  “Erica, tell John to see what the kids are doing.”

  “Danny’s making gunpowder,” John called back. “For his invention.”

  “What invention?” called Erica.

  Her mother and her sister emerged from the closet looking like salesmen, their arms draped with trousers.

  “His rocket,” said John. “Go see for yourselves.”

  “Erica,” said Kirsten, “run down and tell Theo to watch them.”

  “He is watching them,” said John.

  Erica dropped the B.V.D.s and ran across the hall to the bathroom window. The wisteria hung over the broad roof but the wind blew her a glimpse of three children in the yard below, clambering over a huge box. Danny, blond and large for twelve, was lifting Anatole into it. Joan was clapping her hands, her red hair shaking like fire.

  “What are those droopy things on the side?” asked Erica.

  “Wings,” muttered John. “Theo brought him that box of feathers, and now Danny figures he’s ready to fly. He got the idea from a man on television who jumped out of a window in a glider. Killed himself.”

  “My God,” said Erica.

  “He’s rigged them up to your dad’s foot vibrator,” said John gloomily. “These kids, they think nothing can hurt them. They think they’re immortal.”

  But when she reached the backyard and they all stopped playing and stared at her, Erica could not remember how she had meant to scold them.

  “Theo,” she said. “Mother doesn’t want anyone making gunpowder.”

  “Just what I told Danny myself,” Theo said. “Didn’t I? A rocket is a very second-rate mode of travel. Come on, kids—let’s play!” he shouted.

  Just as if this were a family reunion instead of a funeral, thought Erica. Then she heard her name called and she ran into the house. Her mother was standing on the back porch with Hal’s clothes lying over her arm.

  “Does this suit look okay to you? Hal paid two hundred dollars for it in the days when you could get a good suit for fifty. He picked the material himself.”

  Erica remembered her father bending over the little swatches of cloth and asking them all did they like the red stripe on gray? When the suit arrived six months later, the stripes looked enormous and the shoulders sagged and he could have hidden a machine gun in the sleeves. But he continued to order his suits from the tailor and his shoes from a shoemaker in England until he walked so little, he ceased to wear things out.

  “There’s a moth hole in the back,” her mother said, her mouth close to Erica’s ear, “but it won’t show. Does Theo have a good suit? We need one more pallbearer.”

  “I thought Hank Anderson was going to be the sixth pallbearer.”

  “Hank? Why, he can’t even lift a telephone book since his hernia operation.”

  “Mother,” called Kirsten
’s voice, “are you ready?”

  Their mother wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “Can Theo watch the kids while we pick out the casket? John is soaking his foot by the TV.”

  “I’ll stay,” Erica said quickly.

  “No. We need you,” said her mother.

  When they arrived at the funeral home a thin rain was falling. The tiny green blossoms from the maple trees crunched underfoot and gave off a heavy sweetness. Her mother, cradling the clothes, opened the door and motioned first Erica and then Kirsten inside.

  “I’ve done this twice before—once for my mother and once for my father,” she announced proudly. “When my father died, all the rooms were filled. We nearly didn’t get one. But I’m glad that Hal’s funeral will be in the church.”

  They entered the vestibule. A dull light rose from the bronze bowls of the floor lamps that lined the corridor, peculiar trees of an underground kingdom. As they started upstairs a large, silver-haired man sneaked up behind them.

  “Mrs. Widholm? I’m Mr. Metzger,” he said, pushing his horn-rimmed glasses up the bridge of his nose. “And you’ve come about the casket. Right upstairs. Just make yourselves at home. My office is across the hall if you need me.”

  “Thank you,” said Kirsten, and they all three reached the landing and stepped over the threshold into the fluorescent noon of the display room. The windows were papered over with caged birds, so steeped in stillness they seemed part of some fabulous household under enchantment.

  Her mother walked down the first aisle, fingering the caskets that stood open-mouthed like gigantic shells, price tags and guarantees lying inside like pearls.

  “The wood is nice,” her mother said, “but I don’t like green ruching, do you? It’s too fancy.”

  Erica touched the wooden lid, marveling at the workmanship. The thing could as well go into a living room as into the ground.

  “Here’s a rosewood one,” Kirsten said. “It looks like Grandma’s old piano.”

  “Maroon velvet,” her mother said. “That’s nice. It’s the color of the bathrobe I gave Hal before we were married.”

  They all bent down to examine the price.

  “Two thousand dollars,” Kirsten said.

  For several moments no one spoke.

  “The first one is fifteen hundred,” Kirsten said.

  “Let’s think about it,” said her mother, “while we pick out the vault.”

  “The vault?” repeated Erica.

  She followed her mother to a table set with three boxes, the first painted bronze, the second silver, the third gold, and each of them cut away to show the structure, like a classroom model of the pyramids.

  “What’s the difference between them?” asked Kirsten.

  Mr. Metzger appeared as if summoned by their ignorance. In the bright light his lips looked heavy, his hands huge; two ruby rings ignited his knuckles.

  “The vaults are lined with asphalt or plastic.” He touched first the silver model and then the gold. “Now, if it was me, I’d prefer the plastic. I’ve seen the tests. It’s specially sealed.”

  “But are they waterproof?” asked her mother anxiously. “I’d hate to think of Hal floating around down there.”

  “The plastic ones are guaranteed. Guaranteed. The asphalt … well”—he opened his palm toward Kirsten—“you can’t be absolutely sure. The bronze-plated model is ordinary steel. It runs about a hundred dollars less.”

  “We’ll take the plastic one,” her mother said. “Will it look just like the model?”

  “We paint them to match the casket. Have you found one you like?”

  “That wooden one over by the wall,” Kirsten said.

  Mr. Metzger strolled over to it and studied it gravely.

  “Now, if it was me, I think the interior is a little too fussy for a man. The rosewood one behind it has a very simple interior. Very masculine, I think.”

  “Why, my goodness,” said her mother, as if caught in an embarrassing mistake. “I guess we’d better take it.”

  They followed Mr. Metzger into his office and sat in three chairs drawn into an intimate arc around his desk. Her mother laid the clothes on the papers and pads that littered the desk. Mr. Metzger slid into place like the last piece in a simple puzzle. Erica watched his hands as they glittered among documents.

  “This is the death certificate. The doctor will fill it in. The first one costs two dollars. There’s a fifty-cent charge for the others.”

  Her mother and Kirsten touched it, bewildered.

  “You should have some for all legal purposes. It’s not the expense—it’s the inconvenience of not having one when you need it.”

  “I’ll have twenty-five,” her mother said.

  Mr. Metzger rubbed his eyes. “Well, that’s quite a lot of them,” he said.

  “How about ten?” suggested Kirsten.

  Mr. Metzger wrote “10” on his pad.

  “And then there’s the minister,” he said.

  “How much does he usually get?” asked her mother.

  “From fifteen to fifty dollars.”

  “I’ll give him fifty,” her mother said.

  Mr. Metzger wrote “50.”

  “And the organist. Fifteen or ten,” he said.

  “Fifteen,” said her mother.

  “And the flowers,” he said. “A blanket of roses runs fifty-two dollars. Carnations run a bit cheaper.”

  “Roses,” said her mother. “They’re more sentimental.”

  “For two dollars more you can have a ribbon lettered with ‘Husband’ or ‘Father.’”

  “I’ll have both,” her mother said, “so people will know they’re from the family.”

  “For fifteen you can also get half a dozen sweetheart roses and a small white satin pillow lettered with ‘Grandfather’ in gold script.”

  “We’ll take one,” said her mother

  He wrote “15” and then he reached into a drawer and pulled out a folder and a package of vellum cards.

  “The plaque you can pick out later. I understand you have your lots on Sunrise Hill. They don’t allow headstones there. Spoils the landscaping, they say.”

  “No headstones?” said Kirsten.

  “Just bronze plaques. Mrs. Widholm, was your husband a Mason?”

  “A Mason?” her mother said.

  “Or an Elk? You can have any emblem you want put on the plaque. Any emblem at all. And if you pick out a plaque for yourself at this time, we can match the bronze and give you a cheaper rate.”

  Mr. Metzger fanned the vellum cards across his desk.

  “Some people like to have these by the register for visitors to take. Inside you’ll find the Twenty-third Psalm embossed in gold. You get a hundred for twenty dollars.”

  “Kirsten, you’d like these, wouldn’t you? I’ll take a hundred,” said her mother.

  “We’ll send a car for you at ten tomorrow morning,” Mr. Metzger promised. “The First Congregational Church, isn’t it? Oh, one more thing. Would you like the casket open or closed?”

  “Open,” Kirsten said. “I haven’t seen Papa for a whole year. I want to say goodbye.”

  “Here comes Minnie,” said Danny, standing at the front door. “Is it time to eat?”

  Erica and Kirsten crowded behind the children and they all pressed their faces against the panes. A short, sprightly woman in slacks and a tweed coat was ransacking the trunk of a Volkswagen parked in the driveway.

  “Aunt Minnie’s hair—it’s so white,” Kirsten said.

  And her mother, who had trained herself to hear through walls, called out from the kitchen, “She’s let it go natural. But she’s got a wig for the funeral. Wait till you see her in it—she looks just like she always did. At the reunion everybody knew we were sisters.”

  “Look at her big suitcase,” Joan said. “Is she moving in?”

  “No, that’s her vitamins,” said Erica’s mother, coming into the hall.

  Minnie let the door slam behind her and dropped her s
uitcase in the hall. The mirror over the telephone table rattled.

  “I knew I’d be coming here!” Minnie announced. “I got myself weighed at Woolworth’s, and the card said I’d be taking a trip very soon.”

  “It’s your ESP,” Erica’s mother said, taking Minnie’s coat and hanging it on the rack. “Dinner’s on the table. Come and eat.”

  They trooped into the dining room and everything around them tinkled—the cups and plates stacked unevenly in the china cabinet, the silver set out on the sideboard as if for a consecration.

  John had already found his usual place and was unscrewing the lid from a bottle of pickled cherries.

  “I can’t take Hal’s chair,” her mother said. “I just can’t.”

  Everyone looked at the empty chair. Of all the dining room chairs, her father’s alone had survived two generations of children; it was still upholstered in its original horsehair.

  “Let me take it,” said Theo. “Pass me your plates.”

  They seated themselves while her mother brought in the salad.

  “Anyone want one of my pickled cherries?” John asked. “I marinated them myself.”

  Silence.

  “Or some dandelion wine? No?”

  He poured himself a glass.

  “I’ll have some wine,” Theo said.

  John hobbled over to the china cabinet and rummaged among the cups for a goblet.

  “You and I are the only hard drinkers around here, aren’t we, young man?” John said.

  “Mother, stop waiting on us,” Erica pleaded, following her into the kitchen. “Sit down.”

  Her mother was looking into the open refrigerator and wiping her eyes with a dish towel.

  “Look at those custards I made for Hal. Erica, you always loved custard. I made them the night Hal went to the hospital and I forgot to turn the oven off, but they don’t look too bad.”

  “I’ll taste one,” Erica said, taking a spoon from the drawer. She touched the spoon to her lips. She thought of her father’s mouth. She put down the spoon.

  In the dark living room after dinner the movie projector clattered to a halt, and the image on the screen vanished. The children, sprawled on the floor, sat up. Erica cocked her head and listened for Theo, hoping he had not gone to bed.