Rest in Peace, MaryAnne
I have always enjoyed funerals. I don’t mean I’m glad someone has died, but my not liking that isn’t going to change it. What I mean is, I enjoy the drama involved. People dressed up and crying and paying their respects, like characters in a tragic play or movie. Mourning, like I’m doing now with all these other people in the Bischoff-Maggard Funeral Home, mourning MaryAnne Hoskins, my best friend since the fifth grade at Jefferson Elementary School.
“Let us bow our heads in prayer,” Pastor Addams says in a passable grief-stricken voice. My mother squeezes my hand, and I squeeze hers back. She’s glad I’m here, no matter the reason. That’s another thing about funerals. They bring people together.
Pastor Addams is cautious with his phraseology. He started preaching at our church several years after I left for Chicago, so I don’t know him. I have to give him credit for the job he’s doing today, though. Preaching a funeral for a woman whose husband shot her, then killed himself, is no easy task.
“MaryAnne Hoskins was a loving woman,” the pastor continues after the amens have been said. “Everyone who knew her loved her in return.”
Oops, maybe not so careful with his phraseology after all. According to my mom, loving everybody was what got MaryAnne killed. But Bob was never wrapped too tight anyway, so who’s to say what set him off? He might not have liked the way she cooked his eggs that morning.
In high school, I double-dated with Bob and MaryAnne. I was going with Frank Jacobs then. Frank’s dad worked at the steel mill with my dad, and they lived two blocks down from us. Everybody thought Frank and I would get married, but we knew better. At least I did.
Bob beat on MaryAnne even back then. We were at the drive-in one night, MaryAnne and Bob and Frank and me, and they got into it. While he was buying popcorn, Bob had caught MaryAnne flirting with a football player from the next town over. They got into it pretty good in the car, and he ended up hitting her, open-handed, but hard. She cut her lip on her teeth.
Frank got him to stop, and they went for a walk. When Bob got out of the car, he was breathing hard and kept pulling at the crotch of his jeans like they were too tight. He was smiling as he and Frank headed towards the side of the lot where it was dark and they could smoke a joint. I went to the bathroom with MaryAnne so she could rinse her lip. She was laughing the whole time, her pretty face flushed with excitement. Bob had been right. She had been flirting, and she made sure Bob saw it. It was a game to her to get him mad like that, a game that both of them enjoyed, kind of rough foreplay, I guess. I sort of understood it back then. The only way to get any excitement in our town was to create your own.
There’s a commotion at the front of the room. MaryAnne’s mother has swooned and fallen over on MaryAnne’s brother. See, that’s what I mean. Funerals are full of drama, real life tragedies, and sometimes even a little comedy. Like the time Aunt Edna leaned over to kiss Doctor Wilson’s corpse goodbye and got her earring caught on his tie. I don’t think there was a straight face in the house after that one.
“Oh, poor Geneva,” my mother whispers and squeezes my hand again. I cluck sympathetically and squeeze her hand. We’re both starting to get a little sweaty around the palms.
My mother was breathless with excitement when she called me to tell me the news. We were fixing dinner together, Nick doing the salad and the bread, me doing the zucchini lasagna, both of us doing the wine. Nick answered the phone. He handed it to me with a worried look on his face.
“It’s your mother,” he said. “I think something’s wrong.”
“Honey, I’ve got some bad news,” she said, wheezing like an overworked vulture. “It’s terrible. MaryAnne Hoskins is dead. Bob shot her, then killed himself. I can hardly believe it.”
I can, I thought, dropping into a kitchen chair. Nick was hovering, and I glared at him, not really meaning to. He went into the living room.
“At least there are no children,” my mother was saying. “We can be thankful for that.”
“When?” It was all I could think of to say.
“This morning. The paper boy was right out front and heard the shots. He ran next door and told the McQueens to call 9-1-1. You remember Justin McQueen, don’t you? He worked the blast furnace with your father in ’97.”
I mumbled something.
“It’s a sin the way MaryAnne was carrying on these last few years. I know she was a friend of yours, Andrea, but friend or no friend, I’m surprised Bob held it together as long as he did. A man’s got his pride, you know that. When a woman takes it away from him, anything can happen.”
“I gotta go, Mom,” I said and hung up.
I sat there for a while in the kitchen, then went into the living room and told Nick I had to go home for a funeral. He asked if I wanted him to come with me, and I said no. Then we ate dinner.
They’ve got MaryAnne’s mom calmed down. I never did like that woman. She reminded me too much of my mom, and since it’s not right to dislike your own mother, I disliked her instead. MaryAnne disliked mine. It worked out well for both of us.
Bob’s mother and father are here, too. His funeral is tomorrow. It was decided to have them on separate days so people could go to both. Regardless of how all this happened, they both belonged to the town and respects must be paid.
I think of Nick, sweet, gentle, considerate Nick who has never even raised his voice in anger with me. I wouldn’t tolerate it if he did. Why, I wonder, did MaryAnne and I turn out so differently? We came from the same pot, fed by steel mill fumes and beer-drinking fathers and docile mothers. Is it really nature, not nurture, after all?
Everyone is bowing their heads, and I didn’t even hear the pastor give the order. My mom squeezes my hand again. I squeeze back and wonder who MaryAnne was screwing. Probably nobody too interesting. Poor MaryAnne and Bob--still playing the game after all these years. Considering what happened, I guess it must have stopped being fun somewhere along the line.
It looks like things are winding down, thank goodness. It’s awfully hot in here. Funny, but it’s not nearly as interesting as I thought it would be. It’s too sordid and sad to be good drama.
My mom finally lets go of my hand. I wipe it on my skirt and slip into the line filing past the casket. MaryAnne had put on a little weight since I’d last seen her five--no, six--years ago this Christmas. Other than that, she looks pretty much like she did that night in the bathroom at the drive-in. Of course, she’s not laughing now. In fact, she looks a little surprised. Probably didn’t think Bob had it in him.
The sun has come out while we’ve been inside. I’m going to pass on the cemetery. It will be too hot, and besides, I want to give the office a call. Maybe I’ll call Nick, too, just to see what’s been happening while I’ve been gone. Maybe I’ll even tell him I miss him. No games, no drama, just the truth.
“Let us bow our heads in prayer,” Pastor Addams says in a passable grief-stricken voice. My mother squeezes my hand, and I squeeze hers back. She’s glad I’m here, no matter the reason. That’s another thing about funerals. They bring people together.
Pastor Addams is cautious with his phraseology. He started preaching at our church several years after I left for Chicago, so I don’t know him. I have to give him credit for the job he’s doing today, though. Preaching a funeral for a woman whose husband shot her, then killed himself, is no easy task.
“MaryAnne Hoskins was a loving woman,” the pastor continues after the amens have been said. “Everyone who knew her loved her in return.”
Oops, maybe not so careful with his phraseology after all. According to my mom, loving everybody was what got MaryAnne killed. But Bob was never wrapped too tight anyway, so who’s to say what set him off? He might not have liked the way she cooked his eggs that morning.
In high school, I double-dated with Bob and MaryAnne. I was going with Frank Jacobs then. Frank’s dad worked at the steel mill with my dad, and they lived two blocks down from us. Everybody thought Frank and I would get married, but we knew better. At least I did.
Bob beat on MaryAnne even back then. We were at the drive-in one night, MaryAnne and Bob and Frank and me, and they got into it. While he was buying popcorn, Bob had caught MaryAnne flirting with a football player from the next town over. They got into it pretty good in the car, and he ended up hitting her, open-handed, but hard. She cut her lip on her teeth.
Frank got him to stop, and they went for a walk. When Bob got out of the car, he was breathing hard and kept pulling at the crotch of his jeans like they were too tight. He was smiling as he and Frank headed towards the side of the lot where it was dark and they could smoke a joint. I went to the bathroom with MaryAnne so she could rinse her lip. She was laughing the whole time, her pretty face flushed with excitement. Bob had been right. She had been flirting, and she made sure Bob saw it. It was a game to her to get him mad like that, a game that both of them enjoyed, kind of rough foreplay, I guess. I sort of understood it back then. The only way to get any excitement in our town was to create your own.
There’s a commotion at the front of the room. MaryAnne’s mother has swooned and fallen over on MaryAnne’s brother. See, that’s what I mean. Funerals are full of drama, real life tragedies, and sometimes even a little comedy. Like the time Aunt Edna leaned over to kiss Doctor Wilson’s corpse goodbye and got her earring caught on his tie. I don’t think there was a straight face in the house after that one.
“Oh, poor Geneva,” my mother whispers and squeezes my hand again. I cluck sympathetically and squeeze her hand. We’re both starting to get a little sweaty around the palms.
My mother was breathless with excitement when she called me to tell me the news. We were fixing dinner together, Nick doing the salad and the bread, me doing the zucchini lasagna, both of us doing the wine. Nick answered the phone. He handed it to me with a worried look on his face.
“It’s your mother,” he said. “I think something’s wrong.”
“Honey, I’ve got some bad news,” she said, wheezing like an overworked vulture. “It’s terrible. MaryAnne Hoskins is dead. Bob shot her, then killed himself. I can hardly believe it.”
I can, I thought, dropping into a kitchen chair. Nick was hovering, and I glared at him, not really meaning to. He went into the living room.
“At least there are no children,” my mother was saying. “We can be thankful for that.”
“When?” It was all I could think of to say.
“This morning. The paper boy was right out front and heard the shots. He ran next door and told the McQueens to call 9-1-1. You remember Justin McQueen, don’t you? He worked the blast furnace with your father in ’97.”
I mumbled something.
“It’s a sin the way MaryAnne was carrying on these last few years. I know she was a friend of yours, Andrea, but friend or no friend, I’m surprised Bob held it together as long as he did. A man’s got his pride, you know that. When a woman takes it away from him, anything can happen.”
“I gotta go, Mom,” I said and hung up.
I sat there for a while in the kitchen, then went into the living room and told Nick I had to go home for a funeral. He asked if I wanted him to come with me, and I said no. Then we ate dinner.
They’ve got MaryAnne’s mom calmed down. I never did like that woman. She reminded me too much of my mom, and since it’s not right to dislike your own mother, I disliked her instead. MaryAnne disliked mine. It worked out well for both of us.
Bob’s mother and father are here, too. His funeral is tomorrow. It was decided to have them on separate days so people could go to both. Regardless of how all this happened, they both belonged to the town and respects must be paid.
I think of Nick, sweet, gentle, considerate Nick who has never even raised his voice in anger with me. I wouldn’t tolerate it if he did. Why, I wonder, did MaryAnne and I turn out so differently? We came from the same pot, fed by steel mill fumes and beer-drinking fathers and docile mothers. Is it really nature, not nurture, after all?
Everyone is bowing their heads, and I didn’t even hear the pastor give the order. My mom squeezes my hand again. I squeeze back and wonder who MaryAnne was screwing. Probably nobody too interesting. Poor MaryAnne and Bob--still playing the game after all these years. Considering what happened, I guess it must have stopped being fun somewhere along the line.
It looks like things are winding down, thank goodness. It’s awfully hot in here. Funny, but it’s not nearly as interesting as I thought it would be. It’s too sordid and sad to be good drama.
My mom finally lets go of my hand. I wipe it on my skirt and slip into the line filing past the casket. MaryAnne had put on a little weight since I’d last seen her five--no, six--years ago this Christmas. Other than that, she looks pretty much like she did that night in the bathroom at the drive-in. Of course, she’s not laughing now. In fact, she looks a little surprised. Probably didn’t think Bob had it in him.
The sun has come out while we’ve been inside. I’m going to pass on the cemetery. It will be too hot, and besides, I want to give the office a call. Maybe I’ll call Nick, too, just to see what’s been happening while I’ve been gone. Maybe I’ll even tell him I miss him. No games, no drama, just the truth.
