widow is compelled to say marginally “witty” remarks as a widow is compelled to speak of her husband, to utter his name as frequently as possible, in terror lest his name be lost.
My friends Jeanne and Jane have come to my house to pick me up this morning. I am weak with gratitude, dry-mouthed and excited in anticipation—a funeral home! The very funeral home past which we’d walked so frequently, which it was my idea to call instead of a funeral home in Princeton, early this morning.
“But Ray would like this. In Pennington. Closer to our house. It’s only about two miles away . . .”
How eager I am to believe that, in the parlor of the Blackwell Memorial Home, making these astonishing arrangements for the “disposal” of my husband’s remains, I am behaving normally, or near-normally. I want to think that my concentration—broken and scattered like a cheap mirror when I’m alone—is flawless here, like the concentration of one inching across a tightrope, high above the ground.
Neither Jeanne nor Jane is a widow—of course. Though neither is a stranger to death within the family—Jane’s mother died not long ago—neither woman is a widow and so I am thinking They are better able to humor me. Another widow would be less patient. She would think—Of course, what did you expect? This is what it is to lose your husband. You never knew, and now you know.
The widow’s terror is that, her mind being broken, as her spine is broken, and her heart is broken, she will break down utterly. She will be carried off by wild careening banshee thoughts like these.
In the Blackwell Memorial Home in Pennington, New Jersey, my friends and I are seated in comfortable cushioned chairs in a small room looking out toward Main Street, and on the wood-plank floor are attractive thin-worn carpets. Panes of glass in the tall narrow windows have that distinct look of age. Almost, this might be one of those museum-homes attached to parks—furnishings are spare—“antique”-looking—a large fieldstone fireplace takes up most of a wall—on the mantel is a tarnished-looking but impressive Civil War sword once the property of an ancestor of the proprietor Elizabeth Blackwell Davis—“Betty.”
Betty has a cat, she tells us. The cat is elusive, in hiding. But on the narrow staircase is a cloth catnip-toy.
In this domestic setting that reminds me of the wood-frame farmhouses of my childhood—though the houses of my childhood in upstate New York were austere, even grim, more resembling the black-and-white realism of Depression-era photographs than watercolors of small-town America—it’s being explained to us by Betty Davis that the Blackwell Memorial Home has been the Blackwell family business for generations. Betty has lived in this house most of her life and lives here now—upstairs—with her (adult) son—and the cat; Betty, too, is a widow. I am thinking Ray would like her, I think.
It’s a sign of the widow’s derangement, though a mild sign, that frequently the widow will think My husband would like this.
Others will conspire in this derangement eagerly. Your husband would like this. This is a good decision!
But how strange it is, to be making such a decision by myself, without Ray.
I have not made any “major” decision in my life, I think, by myself—without my parents to consult, or Ray.
As my friends talk with Betty Davis—how much more sociable my friends are, than I am!—I am grateful for them, as I sit staring at a form, yet another form, a series of questions to which I must provide answers. I am thinking how much I yearn to lie down beside Ray in the hospital bed, and shut my eyes to all of this.
Too late. Now it’s too late.
You had your opportunity, now it’s too late.
Betty is explaining the services she will provide. She will arrange for the cremation, in Ewing—it was Ray’s wish to be cremated—she will pick up the death certificate and make duplicates and bring them to me at my house—“You will need them. Plenty of them.”
Strange it seems to me, in my groggy slow-time, that already a death certificate has been prepared.
And little will I know, how frequently the death certificate will be required, in succeeding weeks, months—even years! For there is a bizarre suspicion among an entire category of strangers—bank officers, investment brokers, bureaucrats of all kinds—that the deceased may not in fact be deceased but the victim of some sort of prank on the part of his survivors.
Yet more strange, to find myself inside the Blackwell House, on Main Street. To have stepped into a kind of storybook looking-glass world only a few doors from the house in which our genial longtime dentist Dr. Sternberg shares his practice with another dentist, Dr. Goodman; scarcely a block from the Village Hair Salon where both Ray and I have our hair cut; a quarter-mile from the Pennington Food Market where we’ve shopped for thirty years. Countless times we’d seen the facade of the Blackwell Memorial Home in passing and perhaps we’d commented on it but not once had either of us remarked that this “historic” structure might one day be a place one of us might enter, on the occasion of the other’s death.
Never. Not once. Nor did we envision the Pennington Cemetery as a place where one of us might “bury” the other.
There are plots available in the Pennington Cemetery at the rear, in the newer section—so Betty is informing me. Older parts of the cemetery, long the possession of local families, are virtually closed now.
A small marker—“Aluminum, in good taste”—will be provided by the funeral home and later, if I want something larger, at a later time, I can buy it.
And would I like a second plot? I am asked.
“In fact the two plots together—a ‘double plot’—won’t be any larger than the standard single plot. You see, with ashes, in just a container, the space doesn’t need to be so large. It’s very economical to purchase a double plot right now, Mrs. Smith.”
Economical! This is important.
“Yes. Thank you. I will.”
Intimate as a double bed, I am thinking.
Ray would like this—would he? No one wants to be alone in the grave for longer than necessary.
“You will be purchasing a double plot from the ‘Pennington Cemetery Association,’ Mrs. Smith. You will be issued a certificate of ownership as well as a document from the ‘Ewing Cemetery Association’ and you will have to sign just a few more papers—for instance, do your husband’s remains contain a pacemaker, radioactive implant, prosthetic devices or any other device that would be harmful to the crematory?—if no, sign here.”
Harmful to the crematory? This is a sobering thought.
In any case I seem to be signing documents. Contracts. I seem to have agreed to purchase the “double plot” for the surviving spouse of Raymond Smith: “Joyce Carol Smith.”
Numbly, I make out a check. Three thousand two hundred and eighty-one dollars. I have been making out checks lately, and will continue to make out checks, on our joint checking account. For death is not inexpensive, should you wonder.
Trained as a lawyer, my friend Jeanne reads through the documents before I sign them. From their remarks both Jeanne and Jane seem to think it’s a reasonable decision, at this time, to purchase the double plot from the Pennington Cemetery Association.
This
