just going out.”
He was in a nervous uproar, Tim saw. His engine was racing, and he was doing everything in his power to conceal it. Mark’s body wanted to behave exactly as it had on Jefferson Street: it wanted to wave its arms and leap around. In front of his father these extravagant gestures had to be compressed into the most minimal versions of themselves. The energy of misery was potent as a drug. Tim had seen men uncaringly risk their lives under its influence, as if they had been doing speed. The boy was aching to get through the door; Jimbo would soon have to resist more high-pressure pleading. Tim hoped he could stand up to it; whatever Mark had in mind almost had to be reckless, half crazy.
“I hate this deliberate vagueness,” Philip said. “What’s
Mark sighed. “Out is just out, Dad. We got tired of sitting in my room, and now we want to walk around the block or something.”
“Yo, that’s all,” Jimbo said, focusing on a spot in the air above Philip’s head. “Walk around the block.”
“Okay, walk around the block,” Philip said. “But be back here by quarter to seven. Or before. I’m serious, Mark.”
“I’m serious, too!” Mark shouted. “I’m just going outside, I’m not running away!”
His face was a bright pink. Philip backed off, waving his hands before him.
Mark glanced at Tim for a moment, his handsome face clamped into an expression of frustration and contempt. Tim’s heart filled with sorrow for him.
Mark pivoted away, clumped to the door, and was gone, taking Jimbo with him. The screen door slammed shut.
“Good God,” Philip said, looking at the door. “He does blame me, the little ingrate.”
“He has to blame someone,” Tim said.
“I know who it should be,” Philip said. “Killed herself three times, didn’t she?”
Nodding meaninglessly, Tim went toward the big front window. Mark and Jimbo were moving north along the sidewalk much as they had proceeded down Jefferson Street. Mark was leaning toward his friend, speaking rapidly and waving his hands. His face was still a feverish pink.
“You see them?”
“Yep.”
“What are they doing?”
“Philip, I think they’re walking around the block.”
“Didn’t Mark seem awfully tense to you?”
“Kind of, yes.”
“It’s the viewing and the funeral service,” Philip said. “Once they’re history, he can start getting back to normal.”
Tim kept his mouth shut. He doubted that Philip’s concept of “normal” would have any real meaning to his son.
On the grounds that the overall roominess more than made up for the added cost, whenever possible Tim Underhill rented Lincoln Town Cars. At a quarter to seven, the boys having returned from their walk in good time, he volunteered to drive everyone to Highland Avenue. They were standing on the sidewalk in the heat. Philip looked at the long black car with distaste.
“You never got over the need to show off, did you?”
“Philip, in this car I don’t feel like I’ve been squeezed into a tin can.”
“Come on, Dad,” put in Mark, who was looking at the car as if he wanted to caress it.
“Not on your life,” Philip said. “I’d feel like I was pretending to be something I’m not. Tim, you’re welcome to ride along with us in my Volvo if you don’t think you’d feel too confined.”
Philip’s twelve-year-old Volvo station wagon, the color of a rusty leaf, stood ten feet farther up the curb, as humble and patient as a mule.
“After you, Alphonse,” Tim said, and was pleased to hear Mark chuckle.
The Trott Brothers Funeral Home occupied the crest of a hill on Highland Avenue, and to those who looked up at it from the street after they left their vehicles—as did the four men young and old who left the leaf-colored Volvo—it looked as grand and dignified as a great English country house. Quarried stone, mullioned windows, a round turret—a place, you would say, where the loudest sounds would be the whispers of attendants, the rustle of memorial pamphlets, and some quiet weeping. Mark and Jimbo trailed behind as the little group walked toward the imposing building.
A languid man with a drastic combover waved them toward a muted hallway and a door marked TRANQUILLITY PARLOR. On a stand beside the door was a fat white placard.
Mrs. Nancy K. Underhill
Viewing: 6:00–7:00 P.M.
Loving Wife and Mother
There, in the Tranquillity Parlor, lay the mortal remains of Nancy K. Underhill within a gleaming bronze coffin, the top half of its lid opened wide as a taxi door. The soft, buttoned interior of the coffin was a creamy off-white; Nancy K. Underhill’s peaceful, empty face and folded hands had been painted and powdered to an only slightly unrealistic shade of pink. None of the four people who entered the small, dimly lighted chamber approached the coffin. Philip and Tim drifted separately to the back of the room and picked up the laminated cards prepared by the funeral home. On one side was a lurid depiction of a sunset over rippling water and a flawless beach; on the other, the Lord’s Prayer printed beneath Nancy’s name and dates. Philip took another of the cards from the stack and handed it to Mark, who had slipped into a seat next to Jimbo in the last row of chairs.
Mark snatched the card from his father’s hand without a word.
When Jimbo looked around for a card of his own, Tim passed one to him. Both boys were deep in contemplation of the Pacific sunset when a brisk, rotund little woman bustled into the room. Joyce Brophy was the daughter of the last, now-deceased, of the Trott Brothers.
“Well, here we are, Mr. Underhill, isn’t that right? It’s a pleasure to see you, sir, and to welcome you back to our humble establishment, despite the sadness of the circumstances. I think we can all say that what we’re doing is the best we can, wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Underhill?”
“Um,” Philip said.
She turned a brisk, meaningless smile upon Tim. “And a heartfelt welcome to you, sir. Are you a member of the family circle?”
“He’s my brother,” Philip said. “From New York.”
“New York, New York? Well, that’s wonderful.” Tim feared that she would take his hand, but she merely patted his arm. “The hubby and I had a lovely weekend in New York City, oh, it was nine—ten years ago now. We saw
Having disposed of Tim, she transferred her hand to Philip’s arm. “Feeling a little bit shy, are we? You’d be surprised how many of our people feel that exact same way, but the minute you go up and commune with your late missus, you’ll understand there’s no need at all for that sort of thing.”
She placed her free hand on his elbow and piloted him down the aisle between the rows of empty chairs. Loyally, Tim came along behind.
“Now, see, Mr. Underhill? Your little bride looks every bit as peaceful and beautiful as you could ever want to remember her.”
Philip stared down at the effigy in the coffin. So did Tim. Nancy appeared to have been dead since birth.
In a strangled voice, Philip said, “Thank you for all you’ve done.”
“And if you will take the advice of someone who is pretty much an expert in this sort of thing,” Joyce Brophy whispered close to Philip’s ear, “you make sure that handsome boy of yours comes up here and communes with his mama, because believe you me, if he misses this chance he’ll never have another and he’ll regret it all the rest of
