Later

4

The funeral was three days later. It was my first one, and interesting, but not what you’d call fun. At least my mother didn’t have to be Comforter in Chief. Mr. Burkett had a sister and brother to take care of that. They were old, but not as old as he was. Mr. Burkett cried all the way through the service and the sister kept handing him Kleenex. Her purse seemed to be full of them. I’m surprised she had room for anything else.

That night mom and I had pizza from Domino’s. She had wine and I had Kool-Aid as a special treat for being good at the funeral. When we were down to the last piece of the pie, she asked me if I thought Mrs. Burkett had been there.

“Yeah. She was sitting on the steps leading up to the place where the minister and her friends talked.”

“The pulpit. Could you…” She picked up the last slice, looked at it, then put it down and looked at me. “Could you see through her?”

“Like a movie ghost, you mean?”

“Yes. I suppose that is what I mean.”

“Nope. She was all there, but still in her nightgown. I was surprised to see her, because she died three days ago. They don’t usually last that long.”

“They just disappear?” Like she was trying to get it straight in her mind. I could tell she didn’t like talking about it, but I was glad she was. It was a relief.

“Yeah.”

“What was she doing, Jamie?”

“Just sitting there. Once or twice she looked at her coffin, but mostly she looked at him.”

“At Mr. Burkett. Marty.”

“Right. She said something once, but I couldn’t hear. Pretty soon after they die, their voices start to fade away, like turning down the music on the car radio. After awhile you can’t hear them at all.”

“And then they’re gone.”

“Yes,” I said. There was a lump in my throat, so I drank the rest of my Kool-Aid to make it go away. “Gone.”

“Help me clean up,” she said. “Then we can watch an episode of Torchwood, if you want.”

“Yeah, cool!” In my opinion Torchwood wasn’t really cool, but getting to stay up an hour after my usual bedtime was way cool.

“Fine. Just as long as you understand we’re not going to make a practice of it. But I need to tell you something first, and it’s very serious, so I want you to pay attention. Close attention.”

“Okay.”

She got down on one knee, so our faces were more or less level and took hold of me by the shoulders, gently but firmly. “Never tell anyone about seeing dead people, James. Never.”

“They wouldn’t believe me anyway. You never used to.”

“I believed something,” she said. “Ever since that day in Central Park. Do you remember that?” She blew back her bangs. “Of course you do. How could you forget?”

“I remember.” I only wished I didn’t.

She was still on her knee, looking into my eyes. “So here it is. People not believing is a good thing. But someday somebody might. And that might get the wrong kind of talk going, or put you in actual danger.”

“Why?”

“There’s an old saying that dead men tell no tales, Jamie. But they can talk to you, can’t they? Dead men and women. You say they have to answer questions, and give truthful answers. As if dying is like a dose of sodium pentothal.”

I had no clue what that was and she must have seen it on my face because she said to never mind that, but to remember what Mrs. Burkett had told me when I asked about her rings.

“So?” I said. I liked being close to my mom, but I didn’t like her looking at me in that intense way.

“Those rings were valuable, especially the engagement ring. People die with secrets, Jamie, and there are always people who want to know those secrets. I don’t mean to scare you, but sometimes a scare is the only lesson that works.”

Like the man in Central Park was a lesson about being careful in traffic and always wearing your helmet when you were on your bike, I thought… but didn’t say.

“I won’t talk about it,” I said.

“Not ever. Except to me. If you need to.”

“Okay.”

“Good. We have an understanding.”

She got up and we went in the living room and watched TV. When the show was over, I brushed my teeth and peed and washed my hands. Mom tucked me in and kissed me and said what she always said: “Sweet dreams, pleasant repose, all the bed and all the clothes.”

Most nights that was the last time I saw her until morning. I’d hear the clink of glass as she poured herself a second glass of wine (or a third), then jazz turned way down low as she started reading some manuscript. Only I guess moms must have an extra sense, because that night she came back in and sat on my bed. Or maybe she just heard me crying, although I was trying my best to keep it on the down-low. Because, as she also always said, it’s better to be part of the solution instead of part of the problem.

“What’s wrong, Jamie?” she asked, brushing back my hair. “Are you thinking about the funeral? Or Mrs. Burkett being there?”

“What would happen to me if you died, Mom? Would I have to go live in an orphanage home?” Because it sure as shit wouldn’t be with Uncle Harry.

“Of course not,” Mom said, still brushing my hair. “And it’s what we call a moot point, Jamie, because I’m not going to die for a long time. I’m thirty-five years old, and that means I still have over half my life ahead of me.”

“What if you get what Uncle Harry’s got, and have to live in that place with him?” The tears were streaming down my face. Having her stroke my forehead made me feel better, but it also made me cry more, who knows why. “That place smells bad. It smells like pee!”

“The chance of that happening is so teensy that if you put it next to an ant, the ant would look like Godzilla,” she said. That made me smile and feel better. Now that I’m older I know she was either lying or misinformed, but the gene that triggers what Uncle Harry had—early-onset Alzheimer’s—swerved around her, thank God.

“I’m not going to die, you’re not going to die, and I think there’s a good chance that this peculiar ability of yours will fade when you get older. So… are we good?”

“We’re good.”

“No more tears, Jamie. Just sweet dreams and—”

“Pleasant repose, all the bed and all the clothes,” I finished.

“Yeah yeah yeah.” She kissed my forehead and left. Leaving the door open a little bit, as she always did.

I didn’t want to tell her it wasn’t the funeral that had made me cry, and it wasn’t Mrs. Burkett, either, because she wasn’t scary. Most of them aren’t. But the bicycle man in Central Park scared the shit out of me. He was gooshy.