Girl in the Arena - Lise Haines [77]
I quickly realize that the casket monitor has started to show in sequence a million pictures of Allison. Each shot fades into the next, carefully separating her life into seven periods—each period represented by a neo-Glad husband. As if she didn’t exist before she became a wife.
The Glads thrust their swords above their heads and hold them in the air for a good long while, until the horns sound again.
The woman gently pulls me aside. She hands me a brochure. She explains that visitors and mourners will be able to sit by the side of Allison’s grave—benches will be installed next month—and they can view Allison in perpetuity. Technicians are working on the sound system. She apologies for the equipment delays.
I can think of a hundred things to say, none of them about equipment delays.
Then she touches my arm and looks me in the eyes, while I look at Thad, who’s trying to break free from Julie, and she says, —No one will forget Allison.
I make a signal to Julie so she’ll go ahead and let Thad sit down on the ground to watch Allison. It’s an overcast day that opens up to a slight drizzle. The light from the screen beams onto his face, rising and falling as the pictures change, and he gets his handkerchief out that I folded and tucked into his suit pocket and he cleans the screen off. Neither Julie nor I have the heart to pull him away, poised as he is for the next set of images no matter how many times he views them.
—Look at all the fathers, he says.
I finally crouch down and tell him we’ll come back in a few days. —We’ll come and have a picnic and watch Allison and all her wonderful outfits, and all the fathers.
—I love Mom’s clothes, he says, wiping the glass again.
—I know. I love them too.
I show him in the brochure that the images will play forever. —So it’s okay to leave and just fine to come back, I say as I try not to choke up. I have to be strong for him now.
I tell him he may have five more minutes. I shake people’s hands, I accept Sam and Callie’s condolences, and I slowly watch all the people in black, umbrellas up, drifting back to their cars.
Before I can gather oxygen, the Roman culture woman pulls me aside yet again and I let Julie talk Thad into going back to the car.
—As a representative of Caesar’s Inc., I want to express my condolences.
I look at her, wondering what’s up now.
—And I want to make sure you understand that Caesar’s has invested heavily in this technology to honor your family, she says, nodding to the casket. —And you might be interested to know that we’ve purchased several graveyard properties around the country.
—Is that right, I say.
—Your mother should expect a lot of visitors.
—Is my mother actually . . . in there?
—Well, yes, I assume so, she says, looking a little doubtful.
—Just so I understand, is my mother like the demo house people mill around when a new real estate development goes in?
In a world of people suddenly not knowing what to say, I’ve caught one.
—You should be receiving a formal letter with all the details.
She looks over at Julie, who is trying, trying to get Thad to come to the car.
—It would be best for a few months if the family didn’t come out to the gravesite. Visitors will want an uninterrupted experience.
—I am determined, I say, —that my brother, Thad, and I will have a beautiful life.
Then I turn away from her and together Julie and I coax Thad back to the car.
Survival can sharpen the mind if it doesn’t obliterate it. During the daylight hours I insist that Julie and family go off to their jobs and activities and that Thad and I will be all right, though nothing is all right and I know this. I remind Julie that Caesar’s has posted a bodyguard near the two main doors, so no one is about to storm us. Though I get plenty of calls from them, asking me to grant interviews to various media outlets, I do my best to put them off. Right now I feel like one of those people who can pull a car off a child—I just have to lift. I have to lift for Thad.
I get boxes from the local stores and start