Visitation
By Diane Miller
Susan sat on the satin-striped sofa,
smoothing a handkerchief against her knee with loved fingers. Her eyes
sought the slightly frayed edge of the silk flowers in the vase on the
end table. She wondered how long they should stay.
Mark sat stiffly beside her, his elbow
cocked against the sofa arm, pressing his knuckles into his temple. He
heaved a deep sigh and pressed his lips together tightly, twisting his
mouth.
He doesn’t
know what to do with himself, thought Susan. She looked around
the room at the grief-stricken faces and felt isolated. “You know,” she
said musing, almost involuntarily, “she never really liked me.”
Mark looked at Susan. “How can you say
that!” he hissed, his voice tight with shock and outrage. “Angela loved
everybody.”
She was into it now. “I know,” she
whispered. “But not me. She just didn’t like me.”
“Why wouldn’t she like you? Every
single time we saw them -- several times a week at church, most every
day somewhere -- she was always nice to you.”
“I know!” she said again helplessly,
glancing to make sure no one else could hear. “She was nice to
everybody. She was a good person. Good people like her are just nice. Of
course she was nice to me.” Her voice took on a defensive tone. “And I
was always nice to her, too. But she just plain didn’t like me. I could
tell. I don’t know why. Maybe she couldn’t help it. Maybe you don’t have
to have a reason.”
Mark pretended not to be listening,
nodding slightly toward a group that walked by. He snorted under his
breath, dismissing her. “You’re imagining things.”
Susan dropped her head and fell
silent. Why in the world did I bring it up? What did I expect him to
say? Maybe he’s right, maybe I am imagining things.
After a while when the room began to
clear, they got up and went over to Robert again, where he stood beside
the open casket. Wordless, Mark shook his hand and reached to squeeze
his shoulder. Robert struggled to focus his attention enough to look up.
Susan hugged Robert and murmured into
his tie, “We’re so sorry. If there’s anything, anything at all...
“Thank you, Susan. Everyone’s been so
kind. No, there’s nothing I can think of. Thank you for coming.”
“We’ll be at home tonight,” said Mark.
“Remember, if you need anything...”
“Thanks.” Robert shook his hand again.
They walked out into the parking lot.
Heat rose from the asphalt, making wavy lines that broke up the image of
the trees across the street. Susan felt her face flush, and stifling
warmth gripped her chest. She fanned herself ineffectually with her
purse, trying to be unobtrusive, and hurried on toward the car. Even the
big engine in the Cadillac, she knew, wouldn’t be able to get the
air-conditioning to cool down rapidly enough. She’d end up choking and
gasping. She dreaded it already.
I wish I could just sweat, just
regular perspiration, instead of this awful clammy dampness that takes
over every inch of my body,
she thought, as a rivulet formed
between her breasts and soaked her brassiere. It was embarrassing,
besides being uncomfortable. Maybe if I could take off forty pounds
or so... But she knew she wouldn’t seriously try to lose weight.
Much as she hurried, her short legs
couldn’t keep up with Mark’s rapid stride. She stifled a sudden
hysterical impulse to laugh as she thought of the duckling they had
given Rachel for Easter, all that time ago. Sporting patches of scraggly
feathers, the ugly little bird had followed her daughter around all over
the house, going “Eep! Eep! Eep!” Like I trail around behind Mark.
Even the waddle’s right, she thought, to say nothing of
the frowsy feathers. Humor left her as she remembered. Now that I
think of it, Mark was the one who finally got rid of that duck. Just
left it at some pond. But by that time I guess not even Rachel paid it
much attention anymore, anyway. The thing had gotten older and lost its
cute baby looks. None of us thought it was worth the trouble.
Mark reached the car a good ten feet
in front of her. The doors gave a click, as he unlocked them with the
remote key. He slid in under the wheel, and she fumbled with her door
handle, glad that the gloves protected her from the murderously hot
door. Her dress clung to the leather upholstery and her slip clung to
her legs as she settled herself in.
“Phew. This leather can really smell
strong when the weather gets this hot. Guess we should have got velour,”
she said.
Mark gave her an irritated look.
“Anything else you want to complain about?”
Back at the house, she put on a
wraparound skirt and a tee-shirt, cooler than pants. She set out the
jello salad she had made that morning, and put the broccoli-macaroni
salad from the day before into a smaller dish. She sliced ham and fresh
tomatoes, and warmed a couple of rolls in the microwave.
“Supper’s ready!” she called to Mark.
Mark came to the kitchen table and
sat, staring out past her left ear, into the garden. He served his plate
abstractedly, skipping the tomatoes. His face was blank as he pushed the
macaroni around a little and took a bite of ham.
“I saw the Robinsons at the
visitation,” said Susan. “That’s the first time since Christmas. Wonder
where they’ve been keeping themselves.”
Mark ate some congealed salad and
continued his gazing.
“We really need to fix the floor over
there by the dishwasher,” she said. “Otherwise it might crack further
and cause more problems. Besides, it doesn’t look good.”
He speared a piece of macaroni with a
chunk of black olive sticking to it.
“Oh, I forgot to tell you that Rachel
called last night while you were watering the garden. I told her about
Angela, and she said to give Robert her love.”
At that, Mark swung his eyes to her
face, but did not seem inclined to speak. Susan gave up and just chewed
quietly, trying to ignore the lengthening silence. Mark stirred and rose
from his chair.
“Get enough?” asked Susan.
“I’m going to water out back,” he
said.
She sat watching the flickering TV
screen, some movie about a missing child. Just past the glass doors he
stood with the hose, until the daylight failed and the sky began to
darken. He passed through the room on his way to his computer desk, and
he was still there when Susan announced that she was going to bed.
The morning dawned still and muggy,
but by mid-morning when the chapel doors opened to release the crowd
after the memorial service, the sky was a brilliant blue. A light breeze
pushed a few white clouds and lifted the crape myrtle branches, heavy
with bloom. Mark got into the long black car that would carry him and
the other pallbearers to the cemetery, and Susan followed alone in the
Cadillac.
By the time she got out of the car,
the casket had been positioned over the broad straps that would lower it
into the ground. Robert and his two daughters, along with the younger
one’s husband, sat on the chairs reserved for family. Susan realized
that the grandchildren were missing. Linda must have decided that her
children were too young to come to a funeral, she thought, idly
noticing that Linda’s husband had gained weight. Her eyes sought the
elder daughter’s drawn face. Poor Roberta. It’s a hard time to be
alone. Guess that‘s how you end up sometimes, when you choose a career
instead of a family. Robert’s face was a mask, carefully arranged in
quiet mourning while the minister spoke his words. It hasn‘t really
hit him yet. Tomorrow will be worse.
From the grieving family, Susan’s eyes
swayed to the figure of her own husband, standing opposite with his head
slightly bowed, feet slightly apart and hands dropped to his sides.
Suddenly his shoulders heaved, and his face contorted. For a few seconds
he looked totally bereft, as if he felt sorrow deep within in a place so
primal as to be unreachable, inconsolable. There was no sound; Mark
gained control of his demeanor as quickly as he had lost it. But not
before Susan saw.
Her first reaction was mild annoyance
as the thought crossed her mind, Mark’s not doing it right. He's
supposed to act like a family friend, nothing more. He‘s not supposed to
get into somebody else’s grief that much.
He looked up then and his eyes caught
hers. First guilt, then irritation played across his face, and finally
he succeeded in willing the usual bland mask to descend.
And she knew. It had been obvious all
along, she realized, if she had just taken the trouble to notice. It was
perfectly clear that Mark had considered Angela more than just a dear
friend. The way he had looked at her, spoken to her. The times he had
made a special effort to be where she was. He loved her. Why wouldn’t
she seem to him an ideal woman, unsullied as she was by any of the
mundane details of daily life? He never saw her clean toilets or put
curlers in her hair.
She loved him too, I guess,
Susan thought abstractly. That
would explain her behavior toward me. But it couldn't have gone very
far. There wasn‘t the opportunity. Besides, Angela wouldn‘t, she was too
good. It seemed to her that probably Mark wouldn’t either; he
wouldn’t want to spoil the goodness that was part of the appeal. No, she
decided, there was just the yearning at a distance, the bestowing of
pained looks, the longing for what might have been. Anything to take the
place of insipid reality. Susan sniffed. No more than idle
entertainment, something to occupy the mind on a slow day. Guess it
doesn’t matter now, anyway. She‘s gone.
When the service ended, she made her
way back toward the car, pausing to speak to other mourners. She sought
shade from a sickly juniper until Mark joined her a few minutes later.
They drove home in silence, but out of the corner of her eye Susan could
see his mouth working, as if his closed lips voiced sentiments directed
to himself alone.
Arriving home, he removed his coat and
tie, slung them on the wing chair, and went directly to the sofa. He
untied his shoes and slipped out of them, then stretched out full length
with a sigh, obviously intending to nap until lunch was ready. Just
before he closed his eyes, he glanced impatiently at Susan, who was
still fussing about in the room, straightening imaginary clutter.
She sensed his exasperation and
realized that he expected her to hurry with lunch preparations so that
he could get back to the office. Can‘t help that. I’ve got to get out
of these hot clothes first, she thought, and headed to the bedroom.
With relief, she peeled off her panty hose and rinsed them in the
lavatory, then hung them on the shower rod to dry. She hung her suit
beside them, to air out and lose its wrinkles, and she tossed her damp
blouse and cloying slip into the laundry hamper. She reached for a
shapeless knit housedress, one that grazed her body comfortingly.
She hesitated. No, not that, not
today. She went instead to the back of the closet and pulled out the
bright red slacks and striped shirt, still bearing tags, that she had
bought for their trip to see Rachel next week. Pulls a little across
the tummy, she thought, and arranged the fullness of the shirt to
hide her stomach. She freshened her makeup and fluffed her hair, using a
mirror to view the back. Leaning forward, she smiled into the mirror and
noted the rounded contours of her face. Oh, well, she thought, as
she spritzed her throat with cologne. I’ll get to work on a diet
tomorrow.
She wished that she had prepared
something new for lunch to go with last night’s leftovers, but it was
too late now. Still, arranged in cool crystal dishes from the china
closet, the food wouldn’t look too tired. She set the table with the
pink flowered plates and stepped outside briefly to cut a rose for the
bud vase. Adding the cranberry-colored goblets, on impulse she thought
of using the pink linen napkins she had been saving. She wasn’t delaying
discussing with Mark her morning’s realization, she told herself. Just
making things especially nice. Finally she stepped back and looked over
the table, satisfied with the result.
“Mark, lunch is ready,” she said,
touching his shoulder lightly to avoid startling him from his dozing.
He grunted and sat upright stiffly,
then seemed to remember the morning’s sad activities as a look of sorrow
crept across his face. He settled himself at the table and put the pink
linen napkin in his lap without apparent curiosity about the reason for
the unfamiliar table setting. “I’m late,” he said.
Mark, we need to talk,
Susan practiced in her head, more than
once, but that was as far as the words would come. Her eyes flicked to
his face and she saw the shadow of bereavement lurking in his eyes.
There wasn’t time now before he had to go, and besides he wasn’t ready
to talk. Not for a long time, if ever. I thought that she was gone,
but apparently not yet. Will she ever be?
And it seemed to her that they might
always have the company of this other who was dwelling in the house,
sitting between them, absorbing her husband’s attention She ‘ii never
be any fatter or any older, and she’ll always be so very good. I guess I
didn’t like her any more than she liked me. Now I know why.