Free Bereavements by Richard Lortz Page A

opinions and advice that would ensue; the usual delays and fuss.
    The dress was no bother, but her hair, freshly washed, looked like a fright wig. Still, it was always easy to manage. She brushed it quickly, parted it perfectly in the center, pulled it back, securing it with pins and a small jeweled comb Jamie had given her. This, the comb, was a sudden fresh wound, and the pale hand hesitated, then finally, with determination, pushed it into place.
    Shoes? They didn’t matter because they didn’t show, so she wore what she had been wearing all day: old, comfortable, dark brown.
    Rings? She opened the largest of her jewel boxes. Yes; a few.
    Bracelets? Why not? They’d be fun. Six, or eight, or ten of thin pale gold, like a gypsy. Let them jangle—speak if words with the boy became too few or a silence unendurable.
    Finished, she stood back for a view in her mirror, turned, and turned again.
    Admit it!
    She looked truly handsome, the faint blush of rouge high on the cheekbones, touched to her lips, deceptively warming the corpse, giving an appearance of life to an otherwise bloodless complexion. How much her health had gone! How she had let it go, of course, in one of the subtler forms of suicide. But she hadn’t time to think of that. Not now.
    A perfume! She stopped, embarrassed. The bath soap had left scent enough. She was behaving less like a mother preparing for a long-awaited visit from a son than a wily temptress anxious to seduce a potential lover!
    The phone rang, no more abruptly than usual, but so it seemed, just as it seemed inordinately insistent and loud! Had stupid Rose in her dusting accidently turned up the little volume wheel underneath?
    Answer it!
    Why let it ring five, six, seven times, the first button glowing, as if she was still in her bath or too depressed to want to speak to anyone at all?
    Because she knew it was Dori—calling to report that there was no Angel, no red church, no Madison Avenue, not even a street numbered 103rd.
    They were all in some other city. Some other life. Some other dream.

    It wasn’t Dori.
    Rose told her twice that it was a Mr. Carlson-Wade.
    “Who?” (The name did sound familiar.)
    “Mr.” (Pause.) “Carlson.” (Pause) “Wade.” Clipped, precise; perfect clarity and volume; bordering on insult and intended to do just that.
    “Oh. Oh! Goodness, yes! Of course! Put him on.”
    The answering voice to her hello was virtually a baritone, a base tenor at least, if there was such a thing: so deep it couldn’t possibly match his age and confessed small size—his five-foot-zero, or whatever.
    The call (he said, with some nervous laughter) was an R.S.V.P.—he knew it wasn’t needed, or asked for. But he did want to tell her personally (was his voice trembling?—had he had to summon up courage, purpose, will to make the call at all?) that he accepted her invitation and would be there on Saturday, promptly at three.
    That would be fine . . . (taking off one ring of four because it seemed too many). Yes . . . Yes; a confirmation was always helpful. Yes . . . (her gold bracelets jangling).
    Should he what?
    Tea?—yes, she had mentioned tea in her letter; so (he inquired) mightn’t it be a good idea if he brought something? He would like to.
    Brought something? Her mind was blank. Such as what?
    Well . . . Whatever she suggested. A cake, perhaps. There was a good bakery at his corner. A layer would be nice, wouldn’t it? Did she like coconut? Chocolate? Better yet, why not a half dozen petit fours? The bakery was French and made simply marvelous . . .
    But—But—she had a cook, who could make such delectable confections that they would, at the very first bite, promptly curl his toes, and his hair besides. Nevertheless . . . (she said, when he laughed but didn’t speak), nevertheless . . . if his French bakery was so good, why didn’t he, after all, yes, why didn’t he bring the petit fours?
    Her cook simply had no talent for those . . .

    Angel was, at first,