Flux, chapter 21
Chapter 21: Momentum Flux
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As I recorded the audio, this chapter felt like a short story. If you’re new to FLUX, try it and let me know if you agree. Three more chapters till the end!1 There’s still time to start at the beginning with the T.O.C.
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March 2010
The light is different everywhere. In the parking lot outside a Starbucks, the surfaces—trees, tables, people—are all crisp and gleaming gold under a sharp dusting of pollen or coating of stardust. Everything stardust. Everyone entering with coffee orders in their heads and leaving with coffee orders in their hands is in a trance. They’re not seeing any of this. They’re missing all of it. The stardust, the true nature of things, the aching beauty.
Grace knows the price she just paid to see this. Too high a price. Reality has never looked so real and it’s marvelous and terrible and she feels the beating heart of every single person she passes. She feels their worries, their anger, their sadness, their hope. She’s like one of the angels in that film, “Wings of Desire,” who hears everyone’s secret thoughts all day, every day. And she knows, she hopes, this hyper awareness will fade. Before long, she’ll be in one of those trances herself. And she already mourns the loss.
At the church, the parishioners of St. Athanasius greet their handsome forty-something priest, Father Paul, with easy affection. His kind, modest smile fits the somber occasion. Grace thinks, Beatific. His aura is noble, but that could be his robes. Violet with a delicately embroidered gold cross on the chest. Regal yet approachable. Welcoming.
Grace moves to slip into the back row, but a black-suited man catches her elbow with firm purpose and escorts her to the front pew. When she hesitates, he blocks her escape and gestures to the seat. She relents and perches at the end on the aisle, tense and ready to bolt. She’s exposed, alone. Nothing but incense-laced space between her body and her mother’s coffin. A mahogany monstrosity chosen by her mother’s church friends after Grace bailed at the funeral home.
The viewing was surreal—the coffin so lacquered, it looked plastic. All two-tone slopes and curves and polished bronze fittings. Grace has no idea if this is what her mother wanted. Not that it matters now.
That was not her mother lying in the deep tufted white satin lining. Evoking less the clouds of eternal rest, more the Madame’s bed in a Western whorehouse. They’d dressed the body in emerald silk and pearls, folded the hands around a turquoise rosary. Lipstick and rouge, blue eye shadow and mascara on closed lids. An over-styled dark-haired wig that Grace had never seen before. Standing over her, Grace inhaled enough formaldehyde to embalm herself.
During the service, Father Paul drapes a white silk cloth over the coffin. He says it’s called a pall. He says it recalls Francesca’s white baptismal dress, when she was “clothed in Christ.” He sprinkles holy water over the pall and invites Grace to come up and do the same. But she’s frozen to the pew. Time stretches. His expression cycles empathy, concern, and hope on repeat. Her mouth is dry, face burning, palms itching, stomach tense. She can only guess what’s expected of her. Even if she understood, she couldn’t possibly move.
The standoff ends when he gives a solemn nod and returns to the pulpit. He intones more words. He instructs his flock “to pray and do penance for our dear, departed sister.” He invites close friends to say a few words. Grace stews alone in her shame and berates herself for overreacting and tries to ride reason back from weakness and self-loathing.
Organ music wafts from a hidden source. Then the choir starts up, spreading tender light over everyone. Her mother had once been in the choir, and they seem determined to give her a good send-off. The hymns aren’t familiar to Grace, but the feeling is. Her father’s parents, Grandma and Grandpa Evans, join her in the hard pew, one on either side. They listen together, wrapped in the warm arms of sound.
Grace closes her eyes and thinks of the nurse telling her to join a choir for “respiratory therapy” all those months ago. She’s overwhelmed with longing to join not any choir, but this very choir. Not for her lungs, but for her sanity. For her heart.
The cemetery workers have lined the hole with carpets of bright green plastic turf. As if bare earth is too raw, too real. As if putting a mother into the ground is too final, it must be clothed in false cheer.
The green carpet of plastic grass runs up and over the mound beside the grave. Who are they trying to fool? Is a pile of dirt so offensive? When it’s over, they’ll push that dirt over her mother’s garish casket with the Bobcat waiting at a discrete distance under a magnolia.
She imagines Dr. Hack saying, Denial of death isn’t life. But Dr. Hack has stayed away from this whole day, and who can blame her?
A frame of gleaming chrome rods and cylinders perches over the grave to support the straps holding the coffin. Like something her father would have designed at NASA, using repurposed parts from the space shuttle’s solar array.
Father Paul’s brief graveside service winds down. Grace pulls up an edge of the plastic grass and breaks off a clod of ochre earth. She hefts it, remembering the balls of cob they used to build the oven. And the conversation with Ned and her mother when they decided to build a cob oven at the Hickory Street Garden. Did that really happen?
The others drift away to the reception. Grace tosses the clod onto the casket, where it shatters and rolls off the slick surface into the green-covered hole. She pictures the workers folding the fake turf over everything like a pie crust.
She’s compelled to remain until the thing is done. In silence, three men lower the coffin, finesse the straps away, disassemble the chrome frame, and roll up the carpets. They shovel dirt from the pile into the hole. The thought of all those layers of plastic and satin and silk and wood between her mother and the good earth makes Grace want to jump down, pull her out, and lay her gently on the soil.
Instead, she watches the men shovel, feeling guilty for not offering to help. Maybe the cemetery has a protocol for grieving families. No Bobcat if someone lingers. Maybe they’re frustrated with her for causing them extra labor and delaying their schedule. The very idea of a schedule in such a time-divorced place makes her smile. Maybe she’s being selfish. But she can’t leave.
Her mother’s church friends organized the reception in the large parish hall. Half a level down from the street, it has all the charm of a basement rec room: white-painted concrete block walls, sand-colored linoleum floor, white ceiling tiles inlaid with bright fluorescents. Light slants between vertical blinds covering the wide, high windows. Plastic sprays of daisies and ivy spill from baskets hung between each window. Against the far wall, an American flag hangs limp from a gold, eagle-topped pole.
Grace stands at the entrance to take it all in. Purple cloths drape large round tables where people of all descriptions sit on tan metal folding chairs, eating and visiting. Long, cloth-covered tables line one wall with food and drinks. She spent hours in a very similar room, down to the smell, with her grandparents on Holland Island. Fish fries, bingo, quilting bees, rummage sales, birthday parties (including her own 8th birthday), volunteer dinners, Eagle Scout Courts of Honor, wedding receptions. The same red punch and twin coffee urns perking away beside stacks of black plastic coffee cups. The food table laden with the same macaroni salad, the same deviled eggs, Jell-O molds (green, red, and orange), the same casseroles and plates of cookies and brownies. Of course there’s a sheet cake at the end. Grandma Evans always helped bake those special occasion cakes. Grace imagines script frosting saying Happy Deathday, Francesca. Instead, tasteful flowers and leaves adorn a field of pale pink frosting. She hopes she won’t be asked to participate in a cake-cutting ceremony.
Evelyn greets her with a kind expression and steers her to a table of her mother’s closest friends. She’s met them all at the house more than once, but the only names she knows are Evelyn and Marianne from the garden. She sits in the offered chair. How in hell is she going to get through this?
“She looked so beautiful, didn’t she?” one says.
Smile. Nod.
“So peaceful, dear lady.”
Smile. Nod.
“They did a fine job.”
Smile. Nod.
Someone sets a plate of food in front of Grace along with a plastic cup of red punch, a crinkly plastic bottle of water, and napkin-wrapped plastic utensils.
The women have white hair, dyed-red hair, blonde hair, short and styled, long and straight, pulled-back, braided in rows. They wear dresses with suit jackets, blouses with slacks, in blacks and grays with pastel scarves.
One says, “Denise, the casket is purr-fect.”
Nods and smiles all around. “It was between the Seville and the Paragon,” a woman replies, presumably Denise. “I could never have decided if not for Evelyn.”
“She always did love Mahogany,” Evelyn says.
Solemn nods.
“Nothing but the best for our dear Francesca,” one says.
Eating prevents talking, so Grace picks at the food and returns for more. They seem to enjoy the chance to catch up with each other, ask about children, grandchildren, work, vacations. Grace is grateful they ask her no questions. They seem to know to leave her in peace.
One mentions that the seventh-grade science teacher has been put on bed rest. She’s in her sixth month of pregnancy.
“Twins, can you believe it?” another says. “I don’t know how she’ll manage with three little ones already.”
“Matthew is a very attentive father,” another says. “And she has us.”
“Alora is scrambling to find a qualified substitute. Three months is a big ask,” Marianne says. She makes a point of meeting Grace’s eyes. Or is her imagination playing tricks?
There are at least eighty people in the room. Some men and young people, but mostly women from thirties to seventies. More white than Black and Latino, but more diversity than Grace saw at her university. The priest shed his fancy robes for plain black slacks and a black shirt with a white collar. He moves among the people, touching arms, leaning in to smile, listen, and laugh with them.
Grace didn’t notice him enter, but now she hears Ned’s voice. And there he is, back to her, at the sheet cake, talking to Evelyn. He’s wearing a dark navy suit, well cut. She’s surprised he even owns a suit. One that fits that well.
She watches them. Evelyn touches his forearm, leans in for a confidence. He nods. Is that a smile? Are they talking about her? Evelyn levers a piece of cake onto a paper plate and offers it to him. He accepts with a little bow that squeezes Grace’s heart with an aching need to be in the blast radius of his kindness.
The two of them turn, as if hearing her thoughts. She looks away, embarrassed. She hopes he comes over. She dreads it. She wants to crawl under the table and disappear.
Of course he comes over. His presence lightens her mood like a heron landing in shallow water.
“Is this seat taken?” he asks.
She shakes her head, not daring to look up at his face.
The chair creaks as he settles in. He sips coffee. It smells acrid, overcooked, and watery.
“Nice turnout,” he says.
Grace nods. He’s wearing a bright white shirt and a tie patterned with slender white lines and figures on an indigo background.
“She was well loved,” he says.
She nods. At the front of the room beside the flag, a middle-aged guy tunes a guitar. A teenaged girl joins him with a mandolin. A few more people drift to them, carrying chairs and instruments. A violin, another guitar, an upright bass.
“Bluegrass?” she asks.
“My guess,” he says.
She looks directly at him. “Thanks for the card.”
He blinks away surprise, replaces it with care. “Of course.” He takes a bite of cake, chews, swallows. “This isn’t half bad. Have you had any?”
She shakes her head. The musicians have begun to jam. They’re not bad, either.
“At least no one brought a banjo,” Grace says.
Ned snort-laughs. “Not in the mood for a little ‘Foggy Mountain Breakdown’?”
She sighs. “At least the breakdown part would be accurate.”
“Breakdowns can lead to breakthroughs,” he says.
She groans. “Did you really just say that? And you actually believe it?”
Ned smiles. “I don’t have to believe it. I’ve lived it.”
They watch the musicians play a fast reel that they all either know or are making up on the spot. “Example,” she says.
He doesn’t hesitate. “The day I met you.” He takes another forkful of cake and chews, watching her. As if that’s all he needs to say.
She wants to ask for more, but resists giving him the satisfaction, then resists her resistance and says, “How so?”
He takes his time. Swallows the cake, chases it with coffee. “It means, the night before we met, I was up till all hours crying on my sponsor’s shoulder. It was a real pity party.” He stops to shake his head, rub his face, and sigh. “Even after all this time, I just . . .” He sighs again. “I had a run-in with my ex and was dying for a drink.” Grim smile. “Shameful, I know. So weak.” He closes his eyes and puts his hands on his face the way a child does to hide.
Grace touches his wrist. “Ned, you’re . . . the strongest person I know.”
He peers through his fingers. “Thanks. I don’t want to . . . take up space. Here of all places, today, of all—”
“Stop.” The tension she’s been feeling all day, for days, really, eases enough for her to feel her heart’s soreness. The sharp soreness of a pulled hamstring. Or a torn one. “I’m glad you came.”
He sighs out a sweet coffee-breath. “That’s a relief. It feels selfish . . . But I couldn’t not come.”
Grace’s eyes fill. She blinks to check them, then, fuck it, lets them spill. “I’m sorry, Ned. I shouldn’t have—”
He grazes her lips with a fingertip. The touch sparks electric current. “Shhhh. I don’t need an apology—”
She takes his hand and traps it on the table beneath her two. “You shush. I was awful and you deserve better. It’s no excuse, I know, but I’m just . . . I’m at rock bottom.” She groans. “Fuck. Listen to me, what a whiner.”
“Hey, hey.” He pulls his hand free and covers hers. She removes hers and covers his. “Are we ‘bout to bust into a round of rock-paper-scissors?” he asks. “If so, prepare to lose. I can’t help it, I’m just that good.”
They laugh. Sweet release.
“Grace, I’m devastated by all that you’re going through. And I want you to know: rock bottom makes a pretty solid foundation to rebuild.”
Grace groans through a smile. “I miss your Nedisms.”
He returns her smile. “Is that what they are?”
“Oh, yeah.”
“Like . . .?”
She tips her head back to gaze at the ceiling. There’s a small brown stain on the tile above. “My favorite? ‘Sometimes I wrestle with my demons, and sometimes’—”
“‘—we just snuggle.’” He moves his chair closer and pulls her into a sideways hug. “I’ve missed you. A lot.”
Grace rests her head on his shoulder. “Yeah.” She closes her eyes, listens to the coffeehouse hum of mingled music and conversation. Serious, intent, light. Laughter, bass voices, sopranos, kids, elders. A symphony of community.
She sits up. “What’s the story with the tie?”
He looks down, as if seeing it for the first time. “Oh yeah. Hélène insisted. Said you’d understand.”
She blinks.
“No?” He smiles and points to the center. “It’s the constellations, see? That’s Gemini right in the middle. That’s . . . you.”
Her throat aches to imagine Hélène thinking of her. “That’s sweet.”
“She’s worried about you.”
“Really? She said that?”
“Of course. She . . . wanted to come, but her mother . . . thought it wasn’t . . .”
“I get it.” Grace sips water. Looks around. Watches the musicians. Warmth radiates off Ned’s body. “I need a Plan B. No, not even B. I’m on at least Plan D . . .or E.”
“You don’t need to think about plans or anything right now. Give yourself some grace, Grace.” His body vibrates with mirth. “Good thing the alphabet has so many letters. I’m on, like, P or Q by now.”
“I did decide one thing. I’m joining the choir.”
“Oh yeah? Which choir?”
“This one. Here. At St. Athanasius.”
He nods. “Good. I’m glad.”
“Well, you’ve clearly never heard me sing.” She laughs. “I’m terrible—”
He squeezes her shoulder. “Everyone can sing. Even a jaded scientist.”
“Ex-scientist.”
His expression is grave. “Hooboy. That’s . . .”
“Accurate. I’m serious.”
He takes a deep in-breath. “I hear you. And . . . it’s . . . you don’t need to go making big decisions right now.”
“I’ve never been so certain of anything in my life.”
Ned drains the last of his coffee and makes a face. “Think I need another piece of cake to wash that down.” He shifts in his chair. “Look, I don’t doubt your sincerity. Maybe it’s less a question of who you are, as of what you’re doing. Like, maybe you’ll always be a scientist. You’re curious about the world, you wonder how it all works, you’re eager to learn and share what you know. But the form that takes is . . . an open question, that’s all.”
“Wide open, yeah.” She could tell him how good it feels to be seen like this, and by him in particular. She folds his words over herself like a favorite fleece jacket, soft and thick and comforting. Tired of talking, she snuggles into his solid warmth. He puts his arm around her, and she rests in his quiet breathing.
The priest stands behind a microphone at the far end of the room. A small, plain wood cross hangs on the wall behind him. He thanks everyone for coming and for their generous contributions to the Hickory Street Garden Scholarship Fund. He says a few kind words about her mother. Then he invites others to share as they are moved. And they do, women and men, in a steady stream of love and humor and gratitude for Francesca’s presence in their lives.
At one point, a boy of fifteen or sixteen stands up. His white dress shirt is too big, like he borrowed it from his father or an older cousin. It’s untucked over black jeans and work boots. His sandy-brown hair is so close-cropped, his scalp shines through. He must have been one of her mother’s students.
“Miss Francesca found my notice on the church bulletin board and called me to help clean out her gutters. So, I show up there, gloves on, ready to work. Well, she’s already set up the extension ladder, which, I’m not gonna lie, that impressed me.” His pause for soft laughter to ripple through the room has the timing of a pro.
“So, I say hi and step on the bottom rung, ready to swing up. And she says, ‘Wait, young man.’ I think she’s worried about my safety, so I say, ‘It’s okay, Miss F, I’ve done this a lot.’ But she says, ‘No, son. I just need you to hold the ladder for me.’” The room erupts in knowing laughter. After basking briefly, he continues, “And, God as my witness—” His face flushes as he throws a glance at the priest. “—ssssorry, Father.” The priest smiles, nods. “Anyways, she scampers up the ladder, I mean like two stories up she climbs, while I’m down here holding on for dear life.”
He holds up his hands to grip an imaginary ladder. “I’m thinking, if anything happens to Miss F on my watch, holy shit.” Another red-faced glance at the priest.
Father Paul says, “Well, Zachary, I would make a different choice, but now we’re all worried about Miss Francesca, so please get her down safely.”
More laughter. Zachary grins. “Okay, yeah, thanks, Father. So, she’s up there, the ladder is wiggling, but I’ve got it. Feet planted firm.” Here, he takes a sturdy, wide-legged stance to go with the raised arms and gripping hands. “At one point, I look up and here comes a big clod of mud and leaves, hits me right in the face.” He slaps his face with both open palms. The blow echoes through the room. Everyone laughs. Grace is laughing and crying. “She turns to look down and apologize so I yell up, ‘Don’t do that, I’m fine. Just please finish up and come down.’” He wipes the imaginary mud out of his eyes. Grace can smell it.
“Well, she makes it down, thanks me, pays me my rate, and tries to send me on my way. ‘What about the ladder?’ I say, ‘At least let me help you with that.’ But she acts all insulted and says, ‘What do you take me for, a helpless old lady? Zachary, I know your mother raised you better than that.’ Hand to God, that’s what she said.” He’s so in the story he forgets to seek the priest’s forgiveness.
Grace rises to give him a standing ovation. At first, the boy, the priest, and Grace are the only ones standing.
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Gemini by Jina Choi from Noun Project (CC BY 3.0)
In the beginning I was a bit embarrassed, even ashamed that I was laughing. The inappropriateness but then at the end, I laughed more. Then cried for a brief moment. Blue eye shadow. Plastic grass. Holding a ladder. This is a very picturesque chapter despite death. Or maybe because of, death.
Grace finally breaks down! So many rich details in this chapter really bring it to life. This line in particular made me smile: “an aching need to be in the blast radius of his kindness.”