Maine - J. Courtney Sullivan [97]
“Pings?”
“Golf clubs. It’s a lot of money, Kath. You and Dad, up to your old tricks right till the end,” he said, as if they had been in cahoots. In truth, her father had never mentioned money, and she had never thought to ask.
Three hundred thousand dollars was five years’ salary for Kathleen—more than enough to pay off her children’s college tuition. But if her brother had thought she would take any joy in this, he was wrong. He and his wife had always cared so much about material possessions. Kathleen only wanted her father back.
After he died, she took a week off from work. She spent five days in bed, getting up only to pee and drink the occasional glass of water. She didn’t check the mail or turn on the television or eat. She didn’t want to talk to anyone, besides Maggie, who curled up in bed beside her, running a hand over her hair. They didn’t say a word. Kathleen thanked the universe for her daughter, her creation, the only one in this damn family who understood her at all.
At the wake, Ann Marie wept hysterically, which made Kathleen insane.
“I want to slap her,” she whispered to Maggie.
“Mom—” Maggie responded warningly, always the more grown-up of the two of them. But a moment later Ann Marie’s sobs reached a new level, and even Maggie raised an eyebrow. She leaned close, putting her lips up against Kathleen’s ear: “Do you think she’s crying about Grandpa, or the Pings?”
A hundred people came to the funeral the next day, even though there was a foot of snow on the ground, and more was falling. Kathleen could hardly manage to change into her navy blue dress, the one Maggie had picked because it was the only thing she had that was close enough to black.
After the Mass, they went to Pat and Ann Marie’s, the house clogged full of people, a stupid tradition. Kathleen didn’t feel like talking to anyone. She hardly recognized most of them. They ate ham sandwiches and lasagna off plastic plates, standing up in the kitchen. Each stranger in their turn approached her and awkwardly said how sorry they were, what a good man he was.
They gathered in groups and drank and drank and drank, and laughed uproariously. Why did the Irish always insist on turning a funeral into a frat party? A while passed and she wondered how long she had to stay. She knew from experience that it would go on all night.
Kathleen had counseled teenagers through the deaths of their parents. Her life was blessed, relative to so many others. Yet in this moment, she did not care. She was well aware that she was acting like a child, but what did it matter? Her father was gone.
When Ann Marie put out dessert and coffee, Kathleen took an éclair and sat on the couch in the den with Ryan and some younger kids she didn’t know, watching cartoons, pretending like she was monitoring the children’s behavior, though in truth, if they had set her hair on fire she might not have noticed.
She watched the credits roll on an episode of something called Ren & Stimpy.
“Do you like SpongeBob?” Ryan was asking the other kids sweetly. “He’s up next.”
“Yes!” they shouted.
A little boy turned to Kathleen with a huge grin. “He lives in a pineapple under the sea,” he said. At least that’s what she thought he said.
“Oh my,” she replied.
Kathleen envied them—so many years away from actually feeling the weight of anyone’s death. They were here because someone had dragged them, unsure and unconcerned about whether this was a First Communion or a funeral or some old person’s retirement party.
Through the doorway that led to the dining room, she saw Alice standing by the makeshift bar, pouring a glass of red wine, filling the glass to its brim. A moment later, she put it to her lips and swallowed nearly half.
Kathleen jumped a bit in her seat. She had not seen her mother drink since she was a child, and no sight could have surprised her more.
She got to her feet and walked out into the hall, looking one way and