Uncle drove from house to house in his gauche sedan. No one opened their door to greet the man in person. For the sake of death, however, concessions had been made. Bulging envelopes of pictures were stashed at the ends of driveways, between screen doors of porches and under welcome mats, permitting quick retrieval but precluding socialization.
Take the photos. Go. Just don’t ring the doorbell.
Not one of us liked uncle, would rather not see his face, but if uncle didn’t assemble the boards, who in God’s name would do it? No one would, that’s who. And didn’t grandpa deserve them? Uncle stood like a magnate at the head of the funeral parlor, beside my grandpa raised on a dais coffined in a bed of satin. A mourner from the line propped his hand upon the dais, casually leaning as if it were a bar, jawing away to uncle about local politics.
Was nothing anymore sacred?
No matter, I had a job.
I spent the wake not praying but playing archivist, taking photos of photos surrendered by family members. The photos were pinned to black velvet boards throughout the funeral parlor. Memory boards, they called them, mounted on wooden easels. Like grandpa, the vintage photos would never be seen again, would be returned to family like artwork out on loan.
This was my chance to do it. I wanted them all for myself.
I stood before the first board like a visitor at a gallery. Grandpa at Ellis Island in 1952, beside him a ghost from the future dressed in mourning wear. Fringed shawl across her shoulders clinging for dear life. Long black dress from a charity shop. Combat boots from high school.
A cell phone for a face. A flash instead of eyes.
Again this ghost haunts grandpa playing at a pinball machine. Hunched over the glass, he works the flipper buttons—dartboard on the wall, crushed beer can on a ledge—his grown granddaughter, yet unborn, superimposed like a shade. Surely there’s an app for removal of apparitions. For now, I had to move on. I’d exorcise myself later.
A photo of grandpa and grandma at a banquet hall. Grandma, rest in peace, arm linked through her husband’s, lime green leaves of her corsage sprouting from her white lapel. Tentacles of eight floating in a pool of oil, is the only thing I recall from the catered event. Laughter trailed behind me as I ran off to the bathroom. What’s the matter, girl? Not a fan of squid?
A picture of grandpa on stilts hobbling across the patio. Older members of the family seem to remember the stilts. They chuckle to themselves beside me. Oh, that silly grandpa! Or grandpa napping on our puffy leather couch, rammed against the piano because our house was small. Sad to think my father wished to chop up the piano. Hold on! my mother begged. Let me make some calls! Ultimately, it wound up in a school played by first-grade hands.
My father refused to believe it had a second life.
As for my atheist father, he’s parked near the open casket, staring at his father like a muted television. What’s dad thinking about if he doesn’t believe in God? As for my mother, she’s chatting with a nun from the old neighborhood, where everybody lived before the Newark riots. Sister read the obits and hitched a ride to the parlor—she’s ninety and cannot drive—but still, she wanted to come. Thank you for coming, sister. Please forgive my husband.
That’s okay, said sister. God loves him anyway.
As for me, I said hello to grandpa when I first walked in. Or should I have said goodbye? I don’t know how to pray. I kneeled on the padded pew and studied his powdered face. The tiniest bit of glue stuck to his eyelash. His waxy hands like mittens, fingers merged like fins. Blood red rosary beads draped across his suit, its hue the stony gray of his impending vault. Soon, they’d slide him into a wall to be above his wife. The set would be complete.
She’d been waiting on him for years.