Like Dizzy Gillespie's Cheeks

Sixteen

Every aspect of Ben's dying was emotional in some way. The sudden knowledge of his death, going to his house, picking up the trunk of memories, looking through those memories (eventually), and then, finally, the funeral.

Along the way, all the normal questions of mortality haunted me like a ghost on Halloween: Why do we die? When will I die? What happens when I die? What happens after I die? Will anyone care that I died? What will they say about me at and after my funeral? How many people will show up to my funeral?

I heard once that the true measure of how successful a man's life was is by the number of people who show up to his funeral, which is silly, because if that were the case, you'd never know how you did.

As I passed through the foyer of the Keller Family Funeral Home, the antiseptic stench that filled the place made me quite nauseous. Adding fuel to the fire was the somber music permeating the establishment, the creepy funeral director photographs past and present that lined the walls, and Kate Buckley, who was walking toward me, about to meet another of my dark moods.

"You're looking quite ... uncomfortable," she said.

"I don't do well at these sort of gatherings," I said as I noticed, even at a funeral, she's incredibly stylish. Getting horny at a funeral felt sort of sacrilegious in a way, but looking at her actually got me a bit aroused. Why did I feel so guilty?

"Why don't you sit down for a second?" She guided me to a bench in the hallway, like I was an old man at a nursing home. We settled underneath the picture of J. Andrew Haberstam, Funeral Director, 1912–1941.

"What the hell are you doing here anyway?" I asked.

"I'm paying my respects. Jesus, Sam ..."

"I'm not sure if it's cool to say that here. I mean it's not a church or anything, but ... I guess I said hell. Jesus, it's tough to have a conversation around here." We chuckled, realized we'd had a light moment, and fell silent. I pulled out a roll of Tums, offered her one, and then peeled a couple off and popped them into my mouth.

Our heads turned to the direction of stockings rubbing together like the rhythm of a windshield wiper. Lisa moved by us swiftly, leaving a wake of perfume that smelled worse than the already antiseptic stench in the air.

"My boy's here with Clara. I'll be right back. Sam, you don't look so good. Hi, Kate. Glad you could make it."

"Sweet lady. I really like her," Kate said as she gracefully relocated the hair on the right side of her face behind her ears.

"For the most part—although she and Clara put ole Ben through the ringer—there are some nasty stories."

"What do you mean, 'nasty stories'?"

"I don't want to get into it, but Ben left them a couple years after Lisa was born. He was drunk, confused, and seeing his life pass before him." Kate pulled out the Montblanc pen and damn notebook she had the night we met.

"Hold it. Time out. We're not doing this."

"Just a couple notes." She continued to flip open the notebook and uncap the pen. I grabbed her hands and paused. I noticed her hands were soft but cold. They actually felt good against my clammy touch.

I began to get all knotted up inside, forgetting where I was for a moment, and had to get up. My mind was being bombarded with weird feelings for Kate and guilty feelings about not grieving for Ben. I walked toward the Quiet Room, as the description above the door read, and the open casket. Kate put everything back in her purse and followed. I stopped by the door and just stared forward.

"Sorry," Kate said, like she truly meant it. I ignored the comment and just started to blabber on.

"Why do you think Ben chose to be buried in a casket instead of the other alternatives?"

"You mean cremation?" Kate asked.

"I guess. Cremation. Cryogenic preservation. Leaving one's remains to science to help improve the human condition. A lot of choices. It's like trying to pick if you want the "Platinum Package," which includes HBO and Cinemax, but not Showtime."

"I wouldn't know."

"Of course you wouldn't." I paused for a second and then turned and looked at her.

"Have you ever looked at those funeral home ads?"

"I wrote obituaries for a while but never really studied the ads."

"When I was looking for Ben's obituary, I saw an ad for Cohen, Mandel, Schwartz, a Jewish Funeral Home. They actually had a line in their ad that said, '... our complete graveside or synagogue funeral is guaranteed 25 percent lower than any other Jewish Funeral business in the area.' Talk about perpetuating a stereotype to the grave." I smiled. She didn't. "It's true. And I bet you're Jewish."

"Bingo," she said.

"Sorry."

"It's all right. Are you going to pay your respects to Ben?"

"I don't want to taint my memories and see him like this. I think I'll catch up with him at the grave site." I looked at Kate probably a bit too long.

"What?"

That was a fair question, I thought. Why the fuck was I staring at her? I knew why, but I didn't want to admit it.

"Do you want to go have a cup of coffee or something?" I took her by surprise.

"Uh, yeah. Sure." My stomach dropped, like she just said, "Yes, I'll go to the prom with you." What was wrong with me?

As we were leaving, Lisa, her son, and Clara were finally coming in.

"I'll meet you outside," I said to Kate.

This was the first time I'd ever met Clara Webster. It was like meeting a legend—some sort of celebrity. I've heard so much about her. So many stories. Good times, bad times, trying times.

They stopped in front of me, and Lisa introduced me. Clara looked older than her years. She used a walker, which slowed the walking down to a snail's pace. Clara didn't travel much because of a bad back and nerve damage in her legs. Although I usually find it hard to see or imagine what older people looked like when they were young, I could see where she was a beautiful woman and why Ben had fallen in love with her. There was still "that damn sparkle," as Ben would describe it, in her eyes.

"Mom, this is Ben's good friend and prize student, Sam Greene."

"Ms. Webster, it's a pleasure to meet you. I've heard so many great things about you—from both Lisa and Ben. I feel I already know you."

"You're a sweet boy." I had the feeling she needed to keep moving or she wouldn't be able to move at all. She started to move the walker by me, and the others followed.

"I'll catch up with you later. I'd really like to talk." Lisa winked as they walked by. As I watched them slowly walk down the hall, all I could think was, Clara knew Ben when he was "The Man." She knew all the guys he played with and some he didn't play with—Monk, Miles, Diz, Bird. How cool would that've been?