Chapter 10
Thomas was sitting on the terrace of a French bakery on Arguello Boulevard. He had ordered coffee and an almond croissant, which he was now devouring.
“‘Columbarium,’ what a grotesque word,” Raymond muttered. “‘Columba’ is the Latin word for ‘pigeon,’ did you know that? Do I look like a pigeon to you?”
“Never mind that. We need a new plan.”
“It’s your lucky day, then, because I have two to suggest,” Raymond said. “I’ve been thinking about nothing else, though I have to say, it’s not easy to concentrate with you wolfing down your croissant like that. I’ll start with Plan B.”
“Why not start with Plan A?”
“Because I know you. You’ll reject the first suggestion on principle.
So, here it is: You slip in and mingle discreetly with the guests.
Then, when the ceremony is over, you find a way to hang back.
There has to be a good hiding place or two in a building that big.
When the sun goes down, you just come out of hiding, take the urn, and walk out. Simple, right?”
“What’s the other plan?”
“See! What did I tell you? Plan A begins the same way. I’m sure there will be a lot of guests.
Camille was a very likable person. Given her husband’s vanity, he’ll want to impress them all with a big reception.
When people make their way to the buffet, you stay behind and transfer the ashes into my urn, leaving Camille’s urn where you found it and the other people none the wiser. ”
“I’m getting tired of you saying ‘none the wiser,’” Thomas said. “And I see you really took my moral concerns to heart.”
“I thought we’d settled all that,” Raymond replied in an innocent tone.
“But since I apparently am wrong, how about a compromise? You can leave some of Camille’s ashes in her urn.
I don’t think that will change anything about our fate, and that way her daughter won’t be paying her respects to an empty vessel.
But be careful, only leave a little bit! ”
This suggestion didn’t fully satisfy Thomas, but he just wanted the whole thing to be over. He swallowed his last bite of croissant, licked his fingers, and accepted with a nod.
“You’re going to stain that suit if you continue on like that,” his father grumbled. “Did you bring a change of clothes? Let’s be tourists for a while.”
The cable car made its way down California Street, the clicking sound of its rack and pinion setting a tempo.
Thomas drummed his fingers in time on the wooden bench.
His father stood on the step with a cheerful expression on his face, his head uncovered against the breeze—although, strangely enough, his hair didn’t actually move in the wind.
As Thomas studied his father, he felt certain he looked even younger than before.
The car slowed as it approached the end of the line. Raymond jumped off and began to walk quickly, gesturing for his son to follow.
“Does time run backward in your world, like a watch whose hands turn counterclockwise?” Thomas asked.
“If you’re hoping to get something out of me by catching me off guard, don’t waste your time.
I’m not going to risk ruining everything when I’m so close to my goal.
And by the way, why do you have so many questions about what’s happened since I died, instead of asking about what I did with my life when I was still alive?
If you want to make up for lost time and for all we left unsaid, now’s the time to do it.
Feel free to jump in anywhere. What would you like to know about your father? ”
The question plunged Thomas into a pensive silence.
Mr. Bartel was checking the chairs to make sure they were properly aligned under the dome in the Columbarium. He pushed one an inch forward to make a perfect row.
“I don’t think the people who come to Mom’s funeral will notice that level of detail, Dad. It’s a waste of time. And anyway, you know she always liked a little disorder.”
“We complemented each other perfectly in that way,” Mr. Bartel said. “I can’t stand a mess.”
“At least now you won’t have to clean up after her anymore,” Manon said.
Mr. Bartel came over and took her hand.
“Everyone grieves in their own way. You’ve lost your mom; I’ve lost my wife. I just need you to make sure everything is perfect for tomorrow. Have you met with the organ player?”
“He isn’t here yet. But the equipment has been delivered. I had them set up the keyboard far enough from the altar so that people won’t really see it.”
“Will they still hear the music?” Mr. Bartel sounded worried.
“It’s an electric organ. We can always turn up the volume.”
“You didn’t forget the list of the pieces we selected, did you?”
“I have the lyrics, the scores, and the order you wrote up. If it’ll make you feel better, I can get a stopwatch too.”
“No need. Since everything’s all set, I’m going in to the office. I’m just spinning in circles here.”
“The room lends itself to that, doesn’t it?” Manon joked, looking up at the dome overhead.
Once her father had left, she adjusted a few chairs so they were back where they had been, re-creating the slight disorder that her mother would have wanted.
A Columbarium employee came over and introduced the organist. The man, in his sixties, was dressed in a ruffled shirt and bell bottoms that contrasted with the severe expression he apparently thought would convey his condolences.
Manon gave him the list of songs and the outline of the ceremony, then stood with her back against one of the columns and settled in to listen to the rehearsal.
But as soon as he began to play, Manon felt tears welling in her eyes. She fled the mausoleum for some fresh air in the park, where the smell of newly mowed grass revived her.
She was dreading the evening ahead of her almost as much as she was the next day’s funeral.
If she had dinner with her father, the silence would push her right over the edge.
She’d have to swallow her pride and call a friend to rescue her.
A girls’ night with a little alcohol—make that a lot of alcohol—would do her good.
Her mother would definitely have wanted Manon to have fun, rather than mope around.
“Do you remember things better, now that you’re up there?
” she whispered, her face directed toward the sky.
“I really hope death has fixed your memory. After you’re in your final resting place here, I’ll come sit with you and tell you about all the times we spent together, just like I’ve done the past few years.
I know you’re still here in a way. I feel your presence.
I’ll tell you about my childhood, the feeling of your hands stroking my face, of your kisses showering me with love, of your reassuring words.
Your joy and spontaneity that brightened my life.
I’ll tell you about our alfresco lunches, about how we shared all our secrets, the times we burst out laughing, the times we disagreed.
I’ll have to live without you for so long, Mom.
I’m not going to speak at the service tomorrow.
Please don’t be angry with me. I just can’t do it.
It’s too painful, and the words I have to say are only for you, anyway.
For the two of us. See you tomorrow, Mom. ”
Manon walked back toward the Columbarium with a heavy heart. She stepped into the mausoleum to find the organist sorting his music. She nodded her goodbye as he left, then arranged a bouquet on the altar and sat down in the last row to admire it all.
As Thomas strolled down Market Street, he stopped in front of an optician’s window to admire a pair of sunglasses. He jumped when he saw his father reflected in the glass wearing a pair of 1940s vintage-style Ray-Bans.
“What do you think? It’s for tomorrow.”
“How did you do that?” asked Thomas, staring at the glasses.
“I don’t know. I discover a new ability with each passing minute.
It’s pretty fun. I have to be careful, though.
When we walked past that costume shop earlier, I was reminded of a costume party your mother and I had gone to.
We had a great time. But I almost ended up with a wig back there.
You would have given me one of your scolding looks.
Anyway, should I keep the glasses or not? ”
“It seems a little late to be wondering that.”
“I’m asking you if they look good on me.”
“It’s the perfect look for an air show. I can even lend you my suede jacket.”
Raymond pushed the glasses down his nose and shot his son a dirty look over the lenses.
“You look very handsome,” Thomas said, more charitably this time.
“I owned the same ones when I met your mother. Would you like to hear how we met?”
“I’ve heard the story a hundred times, but I’m happy to hear it again.”