Confessions of a Curious Bookseller(82)
Did I tell you Butterscotch died? You and Mother never ask about him, and it isn’t like me to bring things up unprompted, so I’m not surprised if I haven’t yet mentioned it. I briefly considered bringing his ashes and doing a combined funeral, but I don’t think Mother would allow it. It’s a shame how animals, which are sometimes closer to us than any humans, rarely get the same amount of pomp and circumstance upon their deaths.
Regardless, I will be there. See you Sunday.
Best,
Fawn
P.S. I don’t have to go up and say anything, do I?
July 8, 2019
Jane has passed.
They say death happens in threes, so I hope that is all I have to endure this year. She did not deserve to be so alone. But then again, I suppose she wasn’t, not at the very end. I had gone in as I usually do in the evenings with a bottle of wine and two glasses (her glassware is never cleaned very well), looking forward to a game of gin. I found her in her chair, eyes closed, while a televangelist screamed on the television. I touched her shoulder to wake her, but she didn’t wake up. So I put my hand on hers, and it was cold to the touch. I stood there in disbelief for some time, the televangelist shouting in the background about how when you are in heaven you are never alone. Your loved ones surround you, and you will never know sadness. That didn’t sound very comforting to me, for what’s the point of existing, even in heaven, if you don’t feel anything aside from bliss? And without the compass of sadness, how do you even know what real happiness feels like? I shut off the television and just watched her for a little while, profoundly shaken. I poured myself some wine and called the ambulance as well as her daughter, who will be flying in from Hawaii first thing tomorrow. I didn’t cry because I thought she didn’t want to die, but instead I cried for all the time she sat here alone. Being alone isn’t bad unless you don’t want to be alone, and I don’t. I don’t think she did either. And that is why I sat there and wept.
It’s funny how, when people die, you think about all the things you didn’t get to talk about. Not necessarily what you never said—that’s something entirely different—but rather what conversations you never had. For instance, my father and I never discussed penguins or architecture or the Berlin Wall. Not once. If we had, I wonder how different things might have been between us. We never discussed astronomy or politics or literature. Never paintings, never opera. I must admit that he was so wrapped up in getting through every terrible moment, or cherishing the time he could close his eyes and shut us all out, that I have a difficult time mourning him. However, in a funny way, it makes me miss him more. One could argue that it’s hard to miss what was never there, but I disagree.
I wish I had gotten to know Jane sooner so I had the opportunity to know her longer. I miss her so much.
From: Florence Eakins
Sent: Tue, Jul 9, 2019 at 7:30 PM
To: Fawn Birchill
Subject: A few words
Hi Fawn,
It would be great if you could say a few words at our father’s funeral. After all, you are his eldest daughter.
Flo
From: Fawn Birchill
Sent: Tue, Jul 9, 2019 at 9:08 PM
To: Florence Eakins
Re: A few words
Florence,
As far as many funerals go, they tend to be on the verbose side. Most people want to get in and out as soon as humanly possible, as they are simply too difficult to withstand—especially if you liked the deceased. So I’m smart to the idea of someone asking me to say “a few words,” as you well know you’d rather have me give a speech. Yes, I am quite eloquent, being surrounded by literature each day; however, I wish not to participate in the morose proceedings. Not only do I bristle at the idea of public speaking, but also I quite honestly have nothing to say about Father. I can say literally a few words (as you requested), and they would go something like this: “As fathers go, he was an interesting one.” And I would leave it at that. Surely you do not want me to speak, for, given our childhood history (something you’ve managed to squash down into the recesses of your brain), there is little good that I can talk about.
I could mention that after Aunt Tilly took us shopping at the King of Prussia mall and bought us high-end clothing that fit us, Father made her return all of it so we would “stop walking around like little prima donnas.” Or the time you had a friend over for dinner and Father wouldn’t let her leave the table until she had finished all her peas. Do you remember how she cried afterward? I believe you consoled her by taking Father’s toothbrush and rubbing it around inside the toilet bowl. Or all the times he prayed in the checkout line at the grocery store “just to kill time” instead of talking to his daughters like a normal person would. Or the time our cousin from Wilkes-Barre (the smelly one) took me to prom, and when he tried to kiss me and I called Father to pick me up, he didn’t believe me and instead left me there with him. Or that time the young marine kept coming around to take you out and Father chased him off with a shotgun. He was actually a decent-looking man. Or, perhaps worst of all, how he made you sit in the back room of the store for years doing the books instead of letting you do your homework while he forced me to clean, run the register, and take deliveries. It’s a shame how you forget these things, Florence, and act as if none of it ever happened.
All that said, clearly I have come up with a litany of phrases for his funeral, so if you are in dire need of a speech, I suppose I am your huckleberry.