All Adults Here(64)
“Robin,” August said. “It’s my middle name. It goes both ways. It’s used for both boys and girls, I mean.”
“Nice to meet you, Robin,” Cecelia said. “I won’t tell anyone, I swear. Not anyone in the world, as long as I live, not until you tell me it’s okay.” It was important that August knew that—that Robin knew it. She was done telling secrets. Not for her friends, not for her grandmother, not for anybody. Cecelia leaned sideways, until their heads were touching. She wasn’t the only one who wanted to fast-forward, she understood. Maybe everyone wanted to zoom through space in one direction or the other, and the trick was finding people who wanted to go the same way you did, to help pass the time. The bus came around the corner, circling back to pick up the kids coming from after-school activities, and the driver offered a friendly honk, acknowledging that she’d seen them waiting. Cecelia felt like a much larger alarm should sound every time someone in school said or thought or did something enormous and life-changing, something that their adult selves would remember for the rest of their lives, every time a bowling ball began its heavy roll. But of course then that alarm would sound constantly, all day long, and no one would be able to learn anything at all.
Chapter 29
Barbara Baker, Rest in Peace
Barbara had been a Quaker, and so the memorial service was at the Clapham Valley Congregation of Friends, with the reception to follow in the basement. Astrid dragged Porter and Cecelia, promising to take them to a movie afterward, all three of them stuffed with homemade caramels and snickerdoodles and salads with mysteriously pink dressing, the only foods that Astrid had ever been served in a church basement of any denomination. Birdie was going to meet them at the church. It made Astrid nervous in a way she didn’t like to think about. She and Birdie had been to a thousand places together—at the shop, at the movies, at every restaurant in town, at the dry cleaner, at the bookstore, at the garden center, at Heron Meadows. There were lots of gay and lesbian couples in Clapham and the surrounding towns, many of them gray-haired just like Birdie and her, eating breakfast at Spiro’s, arguing over which new hose to buy at Frank’s hardware store, browsing at Susan’s Bookshop, all the things that made up the days and lives of anyone. But somehow this felt different—it was An Occasion, the kind of event where people held hands with their spouses and thought about their own funeral arrangements. Astrid was nervous.
“What are Quakers?” Cecelia asked under her breath, as they pulled open the light wooden door. “I mean, like, where do they fall on the heaven/hell scale?”
Porter shrugged. “I think they’re kind of like the do-unto-others religion,” she said. “No heaven or hell.”
“Heaven!” Astrid said. “Why not believe in heaven? It’s absurd, but so is everything else in life. It’s dessert, right, heaven? What you get at the end, for being a good person?”
“Do you believe in heaven, Mom?” Porter stopped in her tracks. “Seriously? Like, angels?” On the other side of the door, a large crowd filled nearly all the pews. The room was simple, with diamond-shaped windows of red, yellow, and green. It felt how Porter imagined preschool would look in Sweden. Pale, and light with the sun.
“Of course not, not in a literal sense,” Astrid said. “But I’m not a humanist. My grandparents left their country in order to have more freedom.” She rolled her eyes. “Of course, Barbara believed in people doing good for goodness’ sake. Good god, it’s the lyrics to ‘Santa Claus Is Coming to Town’!”
Bob Baker was standing a few feet inside the entrance, greeting mourners as they entered. Standing beside him was a woman who looked just like Barbara, only with a feathered blond bob, her bangs winging out to the sides like a host on the Home Shopping Network, a woman who had found Her Look in 1984 and was sticking with it, come hell or high water. Astrid shook her head. “It’s the sister.”
“Barbara’s sister?” Porter asked. “Does she live here?”
“Vermont,” Astrid muttered through clenched teeth. “Dog breeder.”
“Isn’t that kind of like being a pimp?” Cecelia asked. “Like, haven’t we all agreed, as a culture, that the concept of ‘purebred’ sounds like eugenics, and that we should just adopt? What kind of creep chooses genetic material?”
“Um, hello? First of all, could you be a little less smart, please?” Porter asked, and then pointed to her belly: “And second of all, some of us need a little help, you know.”
“Why didn’t you adopt, Porter? That’s actually an excellent question, Cecelia.” Astrid paused. “Did you ever consider it? No judgment. I’m just curious.”
Porter rolled her eyes. “We are at a funeral. Can we talk about my decision to carry my biological child later?” She shoved Cecelia in the back.
“I was talking about dogs,” Cecelia said.
“Are you a dog lover too?” a voice asked. The three Stricks turned around to find Barbara’s sister mooning at them. There were embroidered dogs all over her sweater. Barbara never would have worn anything so garish.
“I have goats,” Porter said. “But, yes, big dog lovers, all of us. So sorry for your loss.”
Astrid stuck out her hand. “Very sorry for your loss. These events aren’t easy, I know. I lost my husband. People expect you to be the host, when all you want to do is stay in bed. Bob told me you’ve been a great help.”