“I’m used to that.”
“Don’t tell me. It’s part of your job.”
“You know too much about me,” he said wryly.
“One thing I know for sure. The guy is guilty of stealing our
Finally the music stopped. A man in a nondenominational clerical collar stood and welcomed us. He gave a brief history of MarySue’s life, her family, her background and her accomplishments, like being president of her neighborhood garden club. How fitting that she was killed in a park, I thought. Or was “ironic” the word I was looking for?
Next Jim stood and read a poem called “Life is Not a Destination, It’s a Stopping Place on the Way to Heaven.” I wasn’t sure if he’d written it himself, but I hoped the sentiment was comforting to him and everyone else who missed MarySue. When he finished, he looked straight at me as if to dare me to accost him or deny that MarySue was in heaven. I didn’t. I hoped I’d never see him again after today. Why should I? Unless he came by to pay for MarySue’s shoes.
The next speaker said she was MarySue’s sister, and she did bear a resemblance to our former customer. Being around the same size as her sister, maybe she’d inherit MarySue’s wardrobe. I hoped all those expensive clothes would get some use. Although I would have liked to see the homeless shelter get a donation of designer wear. Her sister read a poem called “Play Jolly Music at My Funeral.” The poet wanted Dixieland music played— songs by Scott Joplin and Fats Waller.
I nudged Jack with my elbow and he nodded. He wasn’t the only one who wanted happy music at his funeral. But did MarySue? I couldn’t believe she really expected to die at such a young age. Was she thirty-five, forty? I didn’t know and no one said.
For some reason the idea of playing happy music at a sad occasion made people tear up. Not me of course, but I could hear women sniffling and men blowing their noses into their monogrammed handkerchiefs. The final speaker was Harlan, MarySue’s brother and Patti’s husband who rambled on about their idyllic childhood in the upscale East Bay town of Piedmont where the siblings spent happy summers taking golf and tennis lessons at their country club. When the cleric or emcee or whoever he was took over the microphone again, I assumed the ceremony was almost over. Well, the ceremony might have been over, but the excitement wasn’t. Just then, the double doors behind us opened and a gust of wind blew through the room. I turned to see who had arrived so late he’d almost missed the funeral. It was a man in a fur hat and an orange robe holding a small brass bell in his hand. A hush fell over the room. Every eye was on the stranger. Some were thinking, isn’t it too early in the season for fur? Others may have been wondering how he was connected to the Jensen family? Someone Jim knew through the airline he worked for? MarySue’s yoga instructor? Jim’s long-lost uncle? An old friend from a Sierra Club trip to the Himalayas the Jensens did years ago?
“Isn’t that a shaman?” I whispered to Jack. I’d seen pictures of one once in a fashion magazine, what else? What was a shaman doing at MarySue’s funeral?
Eight
The shaman—if he was indeed a shaman—rang his bell and began to dance his way to the front of the room. The cleric left his post in a big hurry and sat down to watch, whereas Jim stood up and stared, his mouth hanging open. Clearly this was no old friend or relation. As far as Jim knew, he was an unexpected guest. When the shaman reached the podium, he began to speak in a strange language. The only words we understood were “MarySue” and “death.” So he was in the right place. No use pretending he’d gotten lost on his way to a Tibetan ceremony.
“Was MarySue a believer?” Jack asked me in an undertone.
“Not that I knew of,” I whispered. “Jim doesn’t look too happy about this, does he?”
Jack shook his head. Even from the back row I could see Jim’s face was ashen and sweat was pouring from his forehead. He kept opening his mouth as if to speak, but no words came out. The only sound was the ringing of the shaman’s bell.
As we all watched, Jim approached the shaman, reached out to touch him or take the bell, I have no idea. What I do know is that Jim clutched his chest and collapsed on the floor. After that there was pandemonium.
“Call 911,” someone shouted. Others including Jack, raced up to surround Jim.
The funeral director in the black suit told everyone to leave the premises except for the immediate family. There was a rush for the doors, but I found Dolce.
“What happened?” I asked her as we walked slowly to the parking lot.
“My best guess?” she said. “A heart attack.”
“He must have been overcome with grief or guilt or emotion,” I said.
“Who was that strange man in the orange robe?” Dolce asked when we got into her car.
“My best guess? He’s a shaman. A kind of holy man. A healer.”
“What was he doing there? Obviously Jim didn’t invite him.”
“I think he came to escort MarySue to the afterlife,” I said.
“Do you really believe that?” Dolce asked as she started the car and drove toward the exit. Before I could answer, an ambulance raced into the parking lot, sirens screaming. We watched the EMTs jump out and enter the building. Then we left. There was nothing more to be done.
“It’s just possible,” I said, following up on her question.
“I don’t know what to believe,” Dolce said.
“So no post-funeral celebration of MarySue’s life today,” I said as we drove past Portnoy’s Tavern, the place Jim had planned to have the party. “I wonder if Jim will make it.”
Dolce drove slowly down the street. “He looked awful,” she said.
We drove in silence for a few minutes. My mind was spinning. Finally I said, “If the shaman is really a healer, why didn’t he show up a little sooner like last week? If he cared about MarySue enough to come to her funeral and escort her to wherever she’s going, why did he let her die in the Adirondack chair?”
“So if these shaman have certain powers, maybe he’ll at least save Jim’s life,” she said.
“Maybe he will. I would have liked to ask him if he’s the one who saved me when I fell into that oak tree. How else did I survive with just a sprained ankle and a minor concussion?”
Dolce looked at me as if I’d had another concussion because the thought of being rescued by a shaman was as alien to her as it would be to everyone at the funeral. I couldn’t help hoping MarySue would have an escort to somewhere after what she did for me. Yes, she’d shoved me off the ladder, but then she’d taken me to the hospital—otherwise, I might be lying lifeless under her tree still today.
Later that week we heard Jim did indeed have a minor heart attack but he was “resting comfortably” as they say, in the hospital. Patti called Dolce to tell her that the shaman had paid Jim a hospital visit and assured him he’d live to see many more days. The holy man then confided he’d been invited to the funeral by MarySue’s cousin Beth who had spent time at his ashram in Tibet. Patti agreed with Dolce that maybe Jim should have been told about the shaman ahead of time. Patti then assured Dolce the celebration of life at MarySue’s favorite spot was still happening. Just as soon as Jim’s doctors gave him the okay. In fact, the event along with the shaman’s blessing had given Jim something to think about while in his hospital bed as well as an incentive to get well soon.
Around noon on Saturday when the crowd in the boutique had thinned out a little, Dolce suggested we work on a new outfit for me. Our customers often took a shopping break at a cafe across the street where they could have a house-baked pastry, a lovely sandwich on seven-grain bread or homemade soup, all on the outdoor covered patio. Instead of us taking a lunch break, she and I went through the racks of late arrivals.
“We have to find something for your Sunday night date,” she said.
“I was thinking of a filmy skirt,” I told Dolce. “With a knit top.” I didn’t mention the idea came from my nurse practitioner.
“I like it,” she said. “Relaxed elegance is what we’re after.” I was glad to see her so energetic and enthusiastic. Ever since MarySue’s funeral, she’d not been herself. I wasn’t sure if it was a lack of customers and sales or what. She spent more time in her office hunched over her computer, piles of bills on her desk, her brow furrowed. I was afraid to ask how bad the financial situation was.
She went to a rack of skirts and pulled out several for me to try. First was a bright floral print.
