Book of Jo: Parts 30 & 31
The machinery of death
Start with Part 1. Or read a quick, spoiler-free synopsis.
September 23, 2016
Friday, 9:30 pm
Cedar, Kat, and Lulu are sitting at the end of the bar. They are smiling and laughing. Cedar and Lulu are flirting with a tall, light-haired man. As I walk through the crowd, people are quick to step out of my way. I’m wearing something that usually makes me feel beautiful — a short patterned dress with black leggings, thigh-high boots and a cropped leather jacket. But it’s not working tonight. I know the sore on my lip is what people will notice first about my face. And my hair is dry and brittle, ready to break at the slightest touch.
I breathe deeply as I approach my friends. They already know about Brad, Thank God. Lulu saw Berry’s Facebook posts and told the others. I explained to Lulu that I don’t want to talk about it, that, insofar as it’s possible, I want to have a normal, fun evening out.
“Hey, girls!” I say, tapping Lulu on the shoulder.
The girls stare at me, and Lulu takes a step back, falling into the tall man. He spills about half of his vodka tonic, but refuses to let Lulu or me buy him a fresh drink. Instead, he gives business cards to both Lulu and Cedar and quickly excuses himself.
Once he’s disappeared into the crowd, the girls turn their attention to me. They are no longer smiling. Lulu even looks mildly disgusted.
“Oh my God!” she says. “That thing on your face has gotten worse!”
“I know. I’m going to see a doctor,” I say, disappointed by this greeting.
“It really does look just like herpes,” adds Cedar. “I’ve seen it a lot this year. It’s going around the school.”
“Just to be safe, you probably shouldn’t drink out of any of our glasses,” says Kat. I notice she’s drinking ice water. It looks like she really is pregnant. I’m happy for her, and still sad for myself.
“Don’t worry, I won’t touch them.” I choose a seat and order a drink. I decide that a white Russian will go nicely with the Xanax I took when the voice wouldn’t stop saying horrible things about my friends. When I look up, I notice that the girls seem to be leaning away from me. I tell myself I’m being paranoid, that echoes of the damned voice are still rattling around in my head.
“How are you holding up?” asks Cedar.
“Fine,” I say. I somehow think this is funny — I’m obviously not fine — but the girls don’t laugh. The ambient noise of the bar is my only reply.
“You have something on your shoulder,” says Lulu, pointing to my left side. I reach for my shoulder and find myself holding another small bundle of my hair. I don’t want to just throw it onto the floor, so I wrap it in a napkin and put it into my purse.
We fall silent again. I down my drink and consider ordering another. Lulu reaches across the bar and takes my hand.
“There something that we want to say to you,” she says. The others nod. Lulu continues: “We feel terrible for the unimaginable losses you’ve just experienced. It’s absolutely awful, and we know we can’t understand what you’re going through.”
I nod. My eyes fill with tears. Again. I squeeze Lulu’s hand tightly. She is a warm and wonderful person. “But we’re really worried about you, and I don’t think we’re good for you right now. We think you should see a therapist — a really good one — and take some time on your own to grieve.”
“You shouldn’t be out a bar right now,” says Kat. “You should be home resting.”
“Let Wolf take care of you for a change,” adds Cedar.
I close my eyes and try to absorb what I’ve just heard.
“Your friends just broke up with you. Told you so,” says the voice. Its low, husky laughter fills my head.
“No, no,” I say. “They’re confused. They think that bad luck is contagious.”
“Like herpes,” says the voice.
“Shut up!”
“What?” asks Lulu.
“Nothing. Look, I understand that you don’t want to be around me right now. I don’t even want to be around myself. Have fun.” I stand up and turn to leave.
“Don’t leave like that!” says Cedar. “At least give me a hug.” Cedar puts a hand on my shoulder. I remain still and docile as each of the girls gives me a quick, airy hug.
“Stay strong.”
“Get well.”
“Feel better.”
“We love you.”
September 24, 2016
Saturday, 12:30 pm
Ashley and I are at Berry’s house, helping her pack Brad’s things. Berry’s moving quickly through the house, ruthlessly emptying closets and drawers. Ashley and I are moving at a much slower pace, taping and labeling boxes that Berry has already filled. I’m glad for the activity. I’m not quite sure how to act around Berry. I wonder if she’s in touch with Wolf, and if they’re still having an affair.
Berry drops a pile of Brad’s old T-shirts by Ashley. I notice her hair is sleek and healthy, and her face is smooth and tan. Widowhood becomes her.
“That woman won’t be a widow for long,” says the voice.
I ignore it and focus on taping a box of Brad’s work shoes.
“Now that she’s single, maybe she’ll come after Wolf.”
I keep taping the box, willing the voice to go away.
“Or maybe Wolf will come after her. He won’t be able to resist being there for her, and then staying there. You’ll get divorced, and she’ll get your beautiful house.”
“No!” I yelp.
“Are you OK?” asks Ashley.
Ashley is staring at me with worry in her eyes. Or maybe it’s wariness. I’ve been awkward with her since she told me about Berry. She appeared at my house early this morning without Lon. I greeted her with hugs and smiles that wouldn’t reach my eyes. When I asked about her doctor’s appointment, she said she was “fine” in a small, tight voice. I want to believe she isn’t lying, but I can’t.
“Yes,” I say. “I’m fine.”
Ashley rolls her eyes. “Is it anything in particular?”
What I’m really thinking is something along the lines of: “I’m mad at you for not telling me about my cheating husband, but I’m willing to let that slide because I’m worried that you’re dying.” But I can’t say that. Not here.
“It’s everything. I can’t believe we’re having Mom’s funeral on Sunday, and then Brad’s on Monday.”
“I know,” says Ashley, rubbing my shoulder. “I know.”
Ashley and I would have preferred to delay Brad’s funeral for a few days. It feels like we’ve reached the terminal velocity of grief, and we need to slow down or die. But the machinery of death is inexorable and inexhaustible.
The medical examiner quickly determined that Brad died from a hemorrhagic stroke, not my paltry two Xanax. Then the hospital released his body to Pleasant Valley Funeral Services of Pleasanton where, sometime yesterday afternoon, it was transmogrified into a pile of dust. Berry created the Evite for the funeral last night, along with a Fickr slideshow of his life, as if it were just another presentation. Today, she’s been continuously calling and texting Brad’s coworkers and friends, giving them the news.
I wonder how much of her composure is grace, and how much is indifference, or even relief. I wonder if she’s thinking about Wolf. I check the time on my phone. I’ll be picking him up from the airport in just a few hours. The thought of seeing him fills me with longing and dread.
I put the phone back in my pocket and start wrapping one of the ornate beer mugs Brad brought back from his semester in Germany. Berry instructed me to wrap all the mugs for transport to Goodwill. She doesn’t drink beer, and she doesn’t believe in what she calls the tyranny of possessions.
I hear a soft chirp. My phone. “Look at it!” urges the voice.
I’ve received one new text message. It’s from Wolf:
Ridiculous, never-ending client bullshit. Missed my fucking flight. Everything is booked solid until Monday. Goddamned tragedy about Brad. I hope Berry’s doing OK.
It kills me that I’m going to miss your mother’s funeral.
