1: The Heroine
A funeral is lace, carnations, pinks, and old flesh. For Emma, dressing hurriedly for a grandmother’s send-off, it was going to be a showdown.
Emma frowned as she did up pearl buttons on her white blouse. The yellow shirt had been too happy; the pink, too gentle. The trouble (and joy) of being a mom was that your clothes softened with your ligaments. She longed for something stronger to wear, less conservative, something with attitude. If only she had cowboy boots, tough and pointed, faded blue jeans, a brown suede vest. Add a Stetson, tipped low over the eyes, and a swagger. That was the kick-ass look Emma needed.
She tried to picture herself in that tipped hat, then cleared her throat and tested out yet another opening line. “Hello, Doug. I certainly hope you’ve–changed.”
No good, she thought, they’d be surrounded by family. Twenty-odd years had passed and she’d only told one girlfriend, a former boyfriend, and her husband. She’d kicked up a fuss at age ten, refusing to go on the annual summer visit to see his family, and had won.
Who knows why kids don’t tell their parents, she thought, forgiving herself. Trying to. What a commotion that would have made. His mom, Aunt Grace, had been so kind to Emma’s mom. Funny, Emma still couldn’t picture herself confessing. Random thought—how had such a great mom, (her aunt), ended up with one so very bad apple? Emma thought of her children, laughing and free, and crossed her fingers. Her daughters, eight and four, were staying at her best friend’s overnight, thrilled to make pizzas and paint the sidewalk. She would call them tonight.
She clenched her fists and swore that anyone who abused one of her kids would see the inside of a jail. She had been fighting a shitty system against girls since that day, in high school, running for council, in university. And here. Today.
Breathe. Breathe, she reminded herself. In. Out.
Funny, it was becoming a mother to girls that had made this rage surface. It had slipped down, hidden, for years. This shouldn’t happen. To girls. To children. Anywhere.
Today, however, was a funeral for a grandmother. She would see relatives from far away. Emma didn’t want to make an explosive scene here, but she did want revenge. She did. She wanted him to feel threatened, to feel two cold hands of fear around his neck. What could she say to him? He’d been a young teen then, but he’d known exactly what he was doing. He’d whispered that he did this to all the girls in his neighborhood. Emma believed it. She still did. In those days, so much happened away from adult eyes.
Emma took a breath and tried again. “Hello. I remember you coming to visit when I was nine.” Then, in a deeper voice, “I’ve never forgotten.”
Emma groaned, then walked into the bathroom.
The mirror held her. There was the plain sorry truth–Emma merely a slight, elfin woman with messy hair. Not tough, not gutsy, not a brave, mature woman able to verbally shoot down an old enemy. Her shoulders slumped. Then those images, so long submerged, resurfaced again, things she hadn’t thought of in years.
She saw her cousin Doug, a suspiciously friendly teen, lounging in her doorway. Then– he was shedding jeans for a flouncy skirt. Twirling, making young Emma giggle. The picture wavered. Doug’s voice was hardening; his hands and arms were pinning her down. Her mouth was covered. His voice, whispering. Threats. She was kicking, writhing. She was afraid. It was a big house. No one could hear. No one could hear.
It was too real; Emma had to get out of it. She splashed cold water on her face.
Struggling, she composed new pictures for her brain, then sketched them in. She mentally colored them with exquisite care: Emma’s hard fists were punching, the bronzed fringe along her sleeves flapping angrily. Emma’s tough boot was kicking, cracking bone. The sounds—the sounds were him, gasping for breath, not her; it was his face creased in pain.
She took a slow, deep breath, and again, then leaned forward to put on pearl earrings. She was startled to see a hint of a smile in the mirror. Maybe, in some subterranean way, she mused, I’ve been searching for him all along.
2: Saloon Sounds
Emma struggled out of the safety zone of the car into the bald heat. After an eight-hour drive, she was achy all over. She did a yoga bend, then some twists, trying to adjust to the heat. Her husband, Blair, thin and cool even in tweed, joined her. In mute accord, they paused.
Emma mentally rehearsed the lines she had chosen one final time.
“Hello. Is that you, Doug? How nice to see you again. We were just talking about that shameful rape case out west. You know they charged that man twenty years after the rape? And won. Isn’t that amazing?” Fist to his throat, but no scene. No aunts would be upset, but it would be a quiet threat to let him simmer on.
She took a deep breath. She nodded up at her lanky husband. “Ready.”
He took her hand and squeezed it.
They passed through a side door into a wine velvet hallway. The room on the left was an eerie cocktail party, thunderous with whispers. Cautiously, Emma crossed the threshold.
Women in muted colors, men in suits, voices circling like vultures, and a dead grandmother exposed. Emma found it hard to breathe. Then a forceful redhead lunged forward.
“This must be Ehh-ma!” the woman bellowed, her smile an advertisement for toothpaste. “I haven’t seen you since you were little.”
“Uh, Aunt Joyce, hi. This is my husband, Blair. Did you, um, fly here?”
“Of course, dear. Last night. But Kevin drove. He’s on leave from Washington, you know. All ‘Top Secret’ stuff.”
“Oh,” replied Emma, bewildered. Which one was her cousin Kevin? “I see.” Before she could sort it out, she was hugged by Aunt Grace, a softer woman with laugh wrinkles under silver hair.
“Did you bring the kids down?” Aunt Grace whispered, nodding warmly to Blair. “No? Well, come,” and she ushered Emma gently toward the casket. “You’ll want to say your goodbyes.”
Grandma Thomas’s old face looked talcumed and solemn, lying there in a navy dress. Emma, who hadn’t known this grandmother well, remembered her differently.
“They did a nice job,” whispered Grace.
“I guess so.” Grandma had been such a chatterbox, Emma thought, not that I saw her often, her living south of the border. Lively, jolly, always waving her fingers or cocking her head like a sparrow. She’d talk non-stop over anyone else cheerfully, just raise her voice a notch. It was eerie to see her so still. Emma shivered. However, if the purpose of old people’s funerals was to create family reunions, the old bird was doing her job. Mind you, there are reunions of all kinds. Emma paused, pretending to pray, and rehearsed her speech.
Finally, they turned back. Emma caught Blair’s look of relief and understood: he had not had to look at the body. They smiled wryly at each other, just as a small bell began to ring.
The chapel service was long. Emma searched the audience for Doug. Surely he’d be one of the pallbearers? Both men were wearing black suits. The one with blonde hair looked tough enough but unfamiliar. The other was thin with a beakish nose and receding hairline, far too old. He had on a red tie, so tacky, here. Perhaps he hadn’t shown up. That was disappointing, all right. She took Blair’s hand again.
Aunt Joyce’s American husband made a nice speech in his drawl but it didn’t register through Emma’s fog. A dead grandmother, lost histories, and ex-rapist-cousin. Emma forced herself to center down. She imagined herself in calfskin breeches and stiff boots, standing tall, facing Doug across a dusty prairie street. She worked on the details: burnt brown fringe, tooling on the boots, a bark of laughter, and glass breaking. Saloon sounds.
Then, for a moment, Emma just longed to be home, far from there, feeding her girls lunch and setting up the wading pool. Breathing free.
3: Showdown
The line of cars crawled along, small flags rippling on their antennae. People drifted down to the gravesite, Emma and Blair included. The minister prayed and two women sobbed. There were beads of sweat dripping down under Emma’s arms, tickling her. Someone thrust a carnation into her hand, a revolting smell. She closed her eyes.
Finally, it ended. Emma stood blinking with Blair on the edge of the crowd, hesitating. Perhaps they should just retreat? Then Aunt Grace reappeared. Emma was struck by her earnestness and allowed herself to be pulled into the swarm.
“Let me introduce you around. It’s been years, I know since you’ve seen all these relations. Don’t you be shy.” She held Emma’s hand in a comforting way, and in a minute had planted them both in front of two men and a woman. The handsome one was obviously her son, the park ranger, who had once been a kind, jolly boy, she remembered. Emma kept her eyes away from the other man with a quick feeling of dread.
Aunt Grace clucked her tongue. “Well, he’s never going to quit talking. Now, here’s your cousin, Doug. You’ll remember him.”
Emma turned her body, then her head, and finally her eyes to the man on her right. He was the thin pallbearer in the red tie, losing hair, standing on a large rock beside her. She found herself unable to even nod.
“Well, hello, Emma! How are you?” brayed the stranger.
It was like a familiar dream-tipped upsidedown. Emma had a feeling of vertigo, a rush of nausea, then panic. Her eyes darted away, but Aunt Grace had turned to speak to a newcomer.
Chatter resounded around them but Emma struck dumb, felt as though she were in an echoing tunnel. Alone with Doug. She forced herself to look up into his eyes. He was wearing reflective sunglasses. He didn’t step down off his perch. These things were wrong. The cowboy in red was cheating.
“I–,” she fumbled, calling forth her perfect speech. It was a grey snake and slipped away, into a rocky cave. Damn, where was it? “I–“. She had to stall for time. “What, um, do you do?”
“I’m a painter. Houses. That sort of thing.”
There was a long pause. Emma screamed for her prepared speech, begged her brain for it to return, but instead, it slithered down a crack and disappeared. She scanned the cave’s rock walls and floor, even the flower in her hand. No script anywhere.
“You have–children?” She knew the answer.
“Yep. Four children. Great kids.”
“Ah. I see.” Not only the words, but even Emma’s rage was being secretive now, playing games. Her heart was beating a crescendo. There were only seconds left; at any moment they’d be interrupted. Emma had to confront him, had to say something. Anything. Anything!
That perfect warrior line was gone. So Emma opened her mouth and heard new words unfold.
“I hope you treat your children very, very gently. With care.” Emma’s voice was not hard and cold, as planned. At least she kept her eyes up. “With–respect.” The last word was a breeze, blown like gunsmoke at him.
Disgusted with herself, Emma turned and slid back out of the crowd.
4: A Rustle of Dust
Emma sank into the car seat, closed the door, and shut her eyes. She tried to imagine a wide expanse of sand, wind whipping the earth into persimmon clouds, and a sun lowering vibrantly. She felt bile rise to her throat, swallowed. Some hero I was, she thought. Some goddamn hero.
“You all right?” came Blair’s voice, hushed, with the opening of his door. He hunched down into the driver’s seat.
“Fine.” She looked at her flat, white pumps, city soft.
“Did you see him?”
She nodded.
“Want to talk about it?”
Emma dropped her head. She was a failure. Some warrior, some tough cowboy she was! Had she kicked his ass across the room? Not one bit. Not one tiny bit.
Blair waited a minute, then, “Do you want to skip the party?”
Emma considered. It was very tempting. Once home, the girls would mob her, drag her into a blanket fort or beg her to join a noisy kitchen band. The thought made the edges of her mouth rise a little. At least she was doing one thing right. “No. Let’s go. I won’t see these people for another twenty years.”
“If you’re sure.”
She nodded.
The drive to the church took only a few minutes. It was a modern building with a large parking lot in front, flowers lined up neatly by the door. The gathering was in the basement, tables with plastic chequered cloths, lemonade, and tiny sandwiches.
Emma took a plate with some sandwiches and deliberately moved from table to table. She strove to observe or speak to everyone, to uncover the people they had each become, these strangers by blood. The cowboy in red had disappeared.
Had those words she’d said made a tiny dent in him maybe? Hah. Wishful thinking.
After a time she found herself in a corner, listening to the famous cousin Kevin. He was very earnest. With one ear she heard him talk about his feats for freedom and the American way. With the other ear she listened for the sound of gunshots, the thud of a cowboy hitting the dirt, hard, and a rustle of dust, rising.
She listened, she strained, but she could not hear it.
.
Photo by Brad Mering from FreeImages
