Mrs. Fletcher(24)
The line had shrunk considerably by the time she got up and made her way to the viewing pedestal, breathing through her mouth to avoid the sickly odor of the funeral bouquets, which always made her a little light-headed. She hated this part of the ritual, that chilling moment when you were face-to-face with an object that appeared to be a clumsy wax replica of someone you knew but was, of course, the actual person. As usual, everything about the presentation seemed slightly off, from the gray suit Roy was wearing—in Eve’s opinion, a windbreaker and a Hawaiian shirt would have been the way to go—to the pack of Camels and the bag of beef jerky that had been placed in the coffin to speed him on his way. Neither item seemed appropriate: Roy had quit smoking and sworn off red meat years ago. But the real problem was the vacant look on his face. Roy was a people person, always happy to see you, and interested in what you had to say, even if you were just chatting about the weather. Apathy didn’t suit him at all.
Some people kissed the dead person’s forehead, but it seemed both creepy and theatrical to Eve, not to mention vaguely unsanitary. She settled for patting him twice on the hand, very quickly.
“Goodbye,” she whispered. “We’re gonna miss you.”
All three of Roy’s surviving children were standing on the receiving line, and none of them seemed to think it odd or presumptuous for her to be there. Both of the daughters—Kim and Debbie were their names, though Eve couldn’t remember which was which—hugged her and told her how much their father loved coming to the Senior Center, and how highly he’d spoken of the people who worked there. Eve assured them that the feeling was mutual, and that their father was a lovely man who’d brightened everyone’s day.
George Rafferty was more reserved than his sisters, but he didn’t seem like he was holding a grudge. He seemed a little dazed, or maybe just exhausted.
“Thanks for coming,” he said, shaking her hand with robotic indifference. “Tough day. Good to see you. Means a lot.”
Eve wasn’t even sure he recognized her, which left her feeling vaguely offended as she left the funeral home. Come on, you know who I am! She was about to laugh at the selfishness of her reaction, but she was distracted by the cool evening air when she stepped outside, the dusky blue of the sky, and the freshly paved street in front of her, its blackness bisected by a bright yellow line, a world so inexplicably beautiful that she forgot what she was thinking about and just stood still for a moment, breathing it all in.
*
The Bikram instructor that night was Jojo, not Amanda’s favorite. She would have preferred Kendra, the soulful, slightly overweight woman who read inspirational meditations about self-acceptance during Savasana at the beginning and end of class. Kendra roamed the studio like a benign spirit, the goddess of encouragement, always ready with a supportive comment. Sometimes that was all you needed, a trinket of praise to get you through the most brutal poses, Utkatasana or Balancing Stick, the ones that made you hate your body and wonder why you even bothered.
“Let’s go, people!” Jojo clapped his hands as if summoning a dog. “Where’s the energy? There’s no such thing as halfway in Bikram!”
Jojo was a beautiful Asian man with the body of a gymnast and the soul of a drill sergeant. His adjustments were rare and brusque and sometimes borderline inappropriate, as if his lack of sexual interest in women gave him license to touch them wherever and however he pleased.
Even so, Amanda knew that complaining about Jojo was pure luxury, like whining about the prices at Whole Foods. The real miracle was that anybody taught Bikram yoga in Haddington. Ten years ago, when she’d left for Sarah Lawrence, there hadn’t been a single yoga studio in her hometown. Now there were three—Bikram, Prana, and Royal Serenity, whatever that was—as well as a CrossFit gym, a decent vegan restaurant, and a tattoo parlor whose owner had a degree from RISD. Without realizing it, she’d been part of a hipster reverse migration, legions of overeducated, underpaid twenty-somethings getting squeezed out of the city, spreading beyond the pricey inner suburbs to the more affordable outposts like Haddington, transforming the places they’d once fled, making them livable again, or at least tolerable.
Another reason for gratitude: Jojo’s classes were more sparsely attended than Kendra’s, so she had some room to spread out, no worries about her personal space getting invaded by a rude neighbor, or slipping on a puddle of fresh-squeezed man-sweat. She hated to be sexist, but it was undeniable: men were gross at Bikram. Everybody perspired, but certain guys took it to a freakish extreme, dripping like faucets throughout the entire ninety minutes of class, the foam of their mats squishing underfoot.
Tonight there were only five males in the class, none of them familiar, thank God. A couple of weeks ago she’d found herself standing one row behind a guy she’d hooked up with on Tinder, a forty-two-year-old graphic artist named Dell, with long graying hair and a sad little belly bulging over the waistband of his Speedo. Their eyes had met in the front mirror and he’d smiled in happy surprise. She was aware of his scrutiny throughout all twenty-six postures, and it had completely ruined her concentration. And then he’d tried to chat her up in the parking lot, as if they were old pals, rather than strangers who’d fucked once, just because they both happened to be bored and lonely at the same time.
She wasn’t sure why the encounter had unnerved her so much. Dell was a pretty nice guy—they’d actually done okay in bed together—and she was ninety-nine percent sure his presence at the studio was pure coincidence, not the beginning of a stalking nightmare. But it didn’t matter; it was just creepy to see him there, totally out of context, as if he were an actual human being, rather than a figment of her sexual imagination. She went home that night and deleted her Tinder account, so nothing like that would ever happen again.