this whole thing is a mistake. But sometimes, even when you know something is going to go badly, there’s nothing to do but go ahead with it, so, despite all the misgivings, I join the line of cars waiting to turn into the parking lot at the Anthony Verderame Funeral Home in Flushing.
In front of me is a black Mercedes like Howard’s, only bigger. In front of that is a black Cadillac Esplanade. Behind me is a black sports car with a silver jaguar lunging for the tail of my dented red Toyota RAV4. Every other car appears to be a black Lincoln Town Car.
Bobbie and I exchange glances that question whether we could be any more conspicuous. The line crawls, and if our car is a tip-off that we don’t belong here, the preponderance of men in black suits with dark glasses heading for the funeral steps really cinches it.
“We should not do this,” Bobbie says emphatically. “This is a mistake.”
The line of cars turning into the lot has multiplied into two lanes and we are part of the inner one, next to the curb. We couldn’t leave if we wanted to. Which, despite the looks we are getting from the mourners, I don’t.
“At least we shouldn’t park here, so that we can make a quick getaway,” Bobbie says, and she has a point. Of course, there isn’t one available spot on the street as far as the eye can see.
I tell her she is worried about nothing. I don’t tell her that my heart is pounding so hard I can hardly breathe around it, that I am drenched from my armpits right down to my waist. I also don’t tell her that I still haven’t come up with a plan beyond getting in the door.
We park the car, leaving our keys with the attendant, and climb the steps to the chapel.
It occurs to me that the casket could be closed, an eventuality I hadn’t planned for. Of course, that assumes I’ve planned at all, beyond “bring the ring to the funeral.”
A man whose chest strains the confines of his size 48 suit welcomes us. He points out Joe’s mother. I expect an old Italian woman in a black dress with her stockings rolled below her knees. Mrs. Greco doesn’t disappoint. The man offers to take us over to pay our respects. It sounds like one of those offers you don’t refuse, and I nod my thanks.
“I’m so sorry,” I say to Joe’s mother, and of course, I am, because there must be nothing harder for a mother than to bury her child, no matter how old he is. I don’t tell her how I come to know this, how my mother’s life was ruined by my younger brother’s death and what it’s done to the rest of us, but I do tell her that I know. She tells me Joe was a good boy. A good son. And she introduces me to her other son, Frank, who is bigger than the usher who greeted us.
Frank, towering over me, asks me how I knew Joe.
“We’d see each other at The Steak-Out,” I say, and sense Frank’s body stiffen, so I add, “occasionally,” to sort of soften the statement.
“Wednesdays?” he asks. I don’t know what the right response is.
“Sometimes,” I say. “Just a lunch every now and then.”
“Like once a month,” he says. I get the sense that we are talking in code, only he’s a cryptographer and I’m talking Pig Latin.
His jaw is working overtime and the grip he has on my arm tightens as he leads me toward the casket. I look back at Bobbie, who gives me a what-do-I-do-now? face. “My friend,” I say, pointing toward Bobbie, but Frank’s hold on my elbow is firm and unyielding.
“You’ll want to say goodbye,” he says firmly, all but ordering me to look into the casket at poor, dead Joe. This is what I wanted, after all, isn’t it? The chance to look in that casket and replace Joe’s ring.
“Well, I…” I start to say, realizing I should have put the damn thing in my pocket instead of my purse. I pretend to tear up, though it’s not hard to force out tears when you’re scared to death, and I open my purse for a tissue.
Naturally, Frank offers me a clean handkerchief. I have to say that Mrs. Greco raised her boys right, damn her. I cough into the handkerchief until I sound like I’m about to die on the spot.
“I think I’ve a lozenge in my purse,” I tell Frank and root around until I find the ring.
I cough one more time and put the ring under my tongue as I do.
Now all I have to do is not swallow it before I look into the casket, cough it into my hand and then touch dear, dear Joe one last time.
I realize I can’t do this with my eyes closed, and so I look down at Joe. The hole in his head has been plugged up, and if my mother could see him now, spiffy in his gray suit, serene in repose, she’d tell me how wrong I was to let this one go.
Frank puts his arm around my shoulder. I smile at him, lips closed, ring beneath my tongue, and I wish he’d give me a little space. Sniffling, I bow my head and look over at Bobbie, who is still standing with Mrs. Greco. I signal her as best I can that I’m stuck with Frank at my side, and spit the ring into Frank’s handkerchief.
“Is your mother all right?” I ask Frank loudly, hoping that Bobbie will get the hint. I fan my face with the handkerchief to clue her in about what she can do, and the ring falls out. I look down and cover it with my foot, claiming it’s my lozenge.
Frank offers to get it, and just as he begins to bend down Bobbie starts fanning Mrs. Greco and calls Frank’s name. “Your mother,” she says, and Frank is gone as fast as a guy who makes Refrigerator Perry look small can vanish.
I bend down, pick up the ring, and lean over the coffin. “Frank,” I say, and then realize I’m bidding a fond farewell to the wrong Greco. “Joe,” I start again, reaching my hand into the coffin and touching Joe’s hands, which are placed low on his lap.
They are clammy. Cold. They feel waxen. I manage to slide the ring on as far as the first knuckle. And then two men approach the coffin from different sides.
Softly, patting his hands with one of mine, I say, “I’ll miss our lunches.”
“Not as much as he will,” the man near Joe’s head says.
I’m still holding Joe’s hands. My left hand is trying to push the ring on and my right is trying to hide what I’m doing. The ring refuses to budge. If I let go now, it will look like I was trying to get the ring off, not on.
If I don’t let go, with his hands basically on his crotch, it will look like I’m sexually assaulting a dead man.
I could try to faint, but I’m not the world’s best actress. Beside me, both men appear to be waiting for me to finish saying goodbye to Joe.
“Oh, my God,” I hear Bobbie shout. “She’s fainting!” I turn, along with everyone else, to see poor Mrs. Greco sliding to the floor.
I jam the ring as far as I can up Joe’s finger and turn.
“Get out now,” one of the men whispers at me, and I take off, grab Bobbie’s hand, and we run out of the chapel like Jimmy Choo is giving out free samples down on the corner.
The parking lot is hopeless, so we hobble a few extra blocks to catch the LIRR heading for home. Ordinarily, women from Long Island only use the railroad to get to and from the city, and even then, the rule is pretty much only for Wednesday matinees
