Girl in the Arena - Lise Haines [76]
No mention of Uxor Totus is made at the service. Nothing about it in the memorial booklet, and I’m relieved about that. Instead they remember the young Allison. At the entry to the funeral parlor her full-color photo on a large poster board. She was around thirty then and wore a cool gray Oleg Cassini knockoff, her hair swept up and off her neck, and she looked remarkably happy.
Caesar’s arranged everything, with Julie’s help. Lloyd told me he heard they were going to bury Tommy next to Allison eventually—but so far I have no idea where Tommy is.
Periodically, Thad leans into my side and cries against my dress, which isn’t like Thad. Often he has a detachment that worries me, but today he leans into me. Thad’s the one who keeps bringing me back from that place I went to when I found Allison, because I had to come back for him. It wasn’t a choice. It isn’t. At least it isn’t for me.
The flowers are almost as remarkable as the ones she grew in our backyard. They are as abundant as her efforts to make life full and pleasant despite all. So now I’m crying with Thad, and that’s just the way it has to be, I guess.
I look around the room at all the mourners. I see that Sam and Callie are here. They sit side by side, drowning a little, Sam’s eyes bulging with remorse, using up a box of shared Kleenex—no doubt thinking about their own parents. They’re wearing black like everyone else. This is still a ritual that Glads cling to—the intense identification with the color of mourning, because in many ways, we never stop mourning. Callie reaches her hand partway into the air, as if to wave, but stops short. Maybe she realizes that waving is not the thing to do at a memorial. Sam looks at me apologetically. Perhaps she wants to apologize for everything. I honestly don’t care to invite her in or push her away. These are not my enemies.
We take a limo out to the gravesite in Lexington. It’s hard for Thad that we move so slowly. He rocks forward and back, as if his movements could propel the vehicle to pick up the pace.
Allison is buried with full GSA honors. One hundred and eight horns and drums sound. And every gladiator present stands in a circle surrounding the gravesite and the mourners. They have their formal shields today. There are six sleek tour buses that brought most of them here from other cities and will drive them away, the way firefighters or policemen come when one of their own dies.
At first looking around at all the arrangements, I wonder what has softened Caesar’s heart—why this sudden extravagance—until I see the casket as it’s pulled from the hearse.
I realize that the black shiny top is actually inlaid with a forty-inch flat-screen set right into the lid. We watch as the casket is lowered into a metal liner in the ground. Once it’s in place, there are two feet between the casket and ground level. Instead of filling this in with soil—everyone looks about, waiting for the soil, at least I do—a crew of technicians comes in and they mount a Plexiglas lid on top, sealing it in place with cordless screwdrivers, so it’s flush with the ground. I ask Julie to take Thad’s hand and then I stand directly over the grave.
A young woman, a representative from Caesar’s, approaches me. She is strictly Roman culture, the long fluid tunic and stola, the braided hair up on her head, the sandals. She carries a small leather pouch over one shoulder. From this she removes a remote control and aims it at the casket. In a flood of panic, I wonder if she’s setting