13
Snow Whitaker, the island’s funeral director and taxidermist, provided body prep and embalming services for free in return for Brooke’s purchase (using Momma and Father’s credit card number) of a fine mahogany casket. He laid Greta’s small body attired in the one dress Brooke could find in her closet, a short-sleeved beige linen button-up that she’d worn to Brooke’s wedding under her canvas field coat, in the big casket and invited Brooke to come view his handiwork in the formal front room of his nineteenth century house. Brooke declined the offer, saying she would view the body along with her family at the church on the mainland. She instructed Snow to give Andy a chance to see Greta, but he said Andy never answered his calls.
Snow arranged with a mainland funeral home to have a hearse sent out on the ferry. On the bright and surprisingly warm morning of the first day of February, Onion and Bridge and a couple cousins recruited from the restaurant carried the casket out of Snow’s house and across the wide front porch and slid it into the back of the hearse on the metal rollers. The hearse’s driver, a young man named Smithfield Bowles with slicked-back black hair and a thin mustache, locked the casket down using the built-in metal clamps then added two securing straps “in case the crossing got rough.”
Brooke, in a dark navy dress with a white lace collar she’d borrowed from Daphne, nodded, set her overnight bag on the middle of the front seat, and slid into the passenger side for the short ride to the ferry dock. As Smithfield guided the bulky black station wagon through the village center, residents lined both sides of the street to watch them pass. Men dressed in all manner of work clothes—fishmonger’s aprons and boots, carpenter’s belts and jeans—doffed ball caps and knit stocking caps. Women looked down in respect, a few shedding silent tears, blinking against the glare. The older kids were in school on this weekday, but a few younger children gathered and stared. One waved, another saluted as they passed. It seemed like a dream to Brooke. The faces, almost all of whom she knew by first name, appeared a cast of strangers there beyond the windshield. She shivered slightly though the car was warm with the heater running and the sun pouring in.
Onion had offered to come with her for the funeral, but she had responded without a moment’s reflection, “No. You stay and watch Jodie.” She thought the decision was for his benefit. She knew he didn’t want to come and wouldn’t force him into an uncomfortable situation. But part of the choice was for herself. She wanted this final farewell to be for her mainland family, for Greta’s mainland family that was, ultimately and finally, her only family.
Her decision to leave Jodie was similarly spontaneous but of complex subconscious origins. She’d never been away from Jodie overnight, and would have to spend one night on the mainland before returning the next day. But she didn’t want to precipitate a fight with Onion over taking Jodie to her family again, so soon after the Christmas trip. And she couldn’t imagine grieving in front of Jodie, confusing her daughter with the inevitable tears and sobs. Unlike the happy gatherings of just over a month ago, this sad duty must be out of sight of her daughter.
Once the ferry had cleared the harbor and was well into the crossing route, both she and Smithfield got out of the car to get some fresh air. The wind was brisker out here on the water but still not cold despite the time of year. Smithfield pulled out a pack of cigarettes and lit one. He extended the pack to Brooke. She shook her head. He tried to engage in some small talk between puffs on his cigarette, but Brooke barely responded with single-syllable answers. Finally he said, “Guess you want to be alone.”
She nodded. “You don’t need to watch over me.”
He sauntered down the deck. There weren’t many on the ferry this morning, but there was one young woman with long blond hair travelling in a pale green VW Beetle. She was throwing some potato chips to the gulls trailing the ferry. Smithfield walked up to her. Brooke wondered if he’d make much headway dressed in his black suit and white shirt with the burgundy necktie. For some unknown reason, she hoped he did. She hoped the girl would invite him back to her car, maybe share a joint with him or engage in some innocent pawing fun.
Brooke looked down at the gray-green water swirling past the rusting flanks of the ferry. She recalled looking down at this same water from this same spot of deck rail headed in the opposite direction more than a year and a half ago. It was cold and blustery that day in May, and all the other passengers were either in their cars or the lounge. But she walked out to the railing and stayed there for the two-hour trip, breathing in the salt air and a new freedom. She was going to meet Greta to begin her summer adventure on the island. She had no idea what she’d find out there, but she knew it would be exciting. She somehow knew it would change her life.
Now she was pointed toward the mainland with her aunt’s body safely encased in the coffin tightly strapped down in the black hearse. She’d never seen a hearse on the ferry before. It seemed at odds with all the surrounding life and racket—the gulls screeching, the diesel engines roaring, the water lapping, the sun shining, Smithfield chatting up the blond girl. The hearse appeared as a black hole in the midst of all this life.
But where was she in this picture? She rarely tried to take an eagle’s eye view of her life. The very thought of such a perspective terrified her. How could her actual life live up to any of her hopes and expectations? But Greta’s presence, in her heart more than in the coffin, wouldn’t let her dodge the question. Where did she fit in this picture? Was she the girl at the stern, feeding the gulls, flirting with the overdressed guy? Or was she the somber niece transporting her wayward aunt’s body back to her shocked family, to her final resting place in the ground? What were her duties? What were her responsibilities to the world, to family, to herself?
And to Jodie, a voice that seemed to originate simultaneously from inside and outside her head said loud enough to rise above the racket surrounding her.
“And to Jodie,” she repeated, with lips and voice in a low whisper. Her own needs, now and far as she could see into her future, were a dense quagmire of impulsive desires, contrarian ideals, and grudging disappointments. How could she sort through that? But her daughter’s needs going forward were simple: safety, sustenance, and opportunity. That was something she could commit her life to, a clarity of purpose that would give meaning and direction to her jumbled life.
And love? the voice asked.
“That’s part of everything else,” Brooke whispered, meaning for Jodie.
Is it? the voice asked.
But this last was lost beneath a long foghorn blast from the ferry’s bridge, marking the approach of land. Brooke looked around quickly, as if waked from a trance. She walked to the side of the hearse and climbed into the passenger’s seat. Where was Smithfield? she wondered, suddenly impatient to be on their way, though docking and auto release was still ten minutes or more into the future.
Smithfield emerged from the VW Beetle a few minutes later, straightened his tie, slicked his hair into place, and took his seat behind the steering wheel, once again focused on delivering his charge and his cargo to the church and the family and friends waiting there.