August 9, 2006, 8:46 a.m.
Cabel knocks on the door. “I’m sorry to bug you,” he says. “I’m not trying to. I know you need space. But here’s a little breakfast so you don’t have to mess with it.”
Janie bites her bottom lip. Takes the tray. “Thanks.”
“Back later.” He sprints across the yards back to his house.
Janie knocks firmly on her mother’s bedroom door.
“What now?”
“Mother? I’ve got some breakfast for you,” she says through the closed door. “Cabel made it.
He’s going to be back here at ten thirty to pick us up for the funeral, so you need to be ready.”
Silence.
“Mother.”
“Just set it on my dresser.”
Janie enters. Dorothea Hannagan is sitting on the edge of her bed, rocking back and forth. “Are you okay?”
“Set it there and git outta here.”
Janie glances at her watch, sets the plate on the dresser and leaves the room, a sinking feeling in her gut.
She hops into the shower and lets cool water wash over her. It’s not as hot outside today. That’ll be a relief at the funeral, standing out by the grave site in the sun.
Janie’s only been to one other funeral in her life—her grandmother’s in Chicago a long time ago.
That one was in a church and there were lots of blue-haired strangers there. They had ham buns and sugar cookies and orange drink afterward, she remembers, and Janie ran around the church basement with a bunch of distant cousins until the old people made them stop. That’s about all
Janie remembers.
Janie chose a grave-site service for Henry. It’s harder for people to fall asleep when they’re standing around outside.
Even the drunk ones.
9:39 a.m.
She remembers now why she’s not fond of dresses.
9:50 a.m.
Janie knocks tentatively on her mother’s door.
There’s no answer.
“Mother?”
With only forty minutes to go before Cabel picks them up, Janie’s getting nervous. “Mother,” she says, louder this time. Why does everything have to be so hard?
Finally, Janie opens the door. Dorothea is sitting on the bed, a glass of vodka in her hand. Her hair is still greasy. She’s still wearing her nightgown. “Mother!”
“I’m not going.” Dorothea says. “I can’t go.” She doubles over, wraps her arm around her stomach like it hurts, still holding the glass. “I’m sick.”
“You are not sick, you’re drunk. Get your ass into the shower—now.”
“I can’t go.”
“Mother!” Janie’s losing it. “God! Why do you have to do this? Why do you have to make everything so fucking hard? I’m turning the shower on and you are getting in it.”
Janie stomps to the bathroom and turns on the shower. Stomps back to her mother’s room and grabs the drink from Dorothea’s hand. Slams it down on the dresser and it splashes all over her hand. Pulls her mother up by the arm. “Come ON! They are not going to delay this funeral for you.”
“I can’t go!” Dorothea says, trying to sound firm. But her frail body is no match for Janie’s strength.
Janie pulls her mother to the bathroom and pushes her into the shower, still wearing her nightgown. Dorothea yells. Janie reaches in and grabs shampoo, washes her mother’s hair. It’s so greasy that it doesn’t lather. Janie takes another handful and tries again.
Dorothea claws at Janie, also now sopping wet in her dress. Janie holds her mother’s head back so the water runs over her, rinsing out the shampoo. “You ruin everything,” Janie says. “I’m not going to let you ruin this. Now,” Janie says as she turns the water off and grabs a towel, “Take off that ridiculous nightgown and dry yourself. I can NOT believe this is happening. I am so done with this.” Janie turns abruptly and stalks off, soaking wet, to her own room to find something else suitable to wear.
All Janie can hear is some shuffling around in the bathroom. She runs a brush through her hair and fixes her soggy makeup. And then she goes to Dorothea’s bedroom, takes out the dress and undergarments, and carries them to the bathroom. Finds her mother still drying off.
Janie looks at her mother, a bedraggled rat, so thin her bones poke through her skin. Her face is tired, dejected. “Come on, Ma,” Janie says softly. “Let’s get you dressed.”
This time, Dorothea goes quietly, and in the dusty light of Dorothea’s bedroom, Janie helps her mother get ready. Brushes her hair, pulls it back into a bun. Flips the light switch and puts some makeup on her. “You have nice cheekbones,” Janie says. “You should wear your hair back more often.”
Dorothea doesn’t respond but her chin tips up a notch. She wets her lips. “I’m going to need the rest of that glass,” she says quietly, “if I’m gonna get through this.”
Janie looks her mother in the eye, and Dorothea’s gaze drops to the floor.
“I ain’t proud of that, but it’s the truth.” Dorothea’s lip twitches.
Janie nods. “Okay.” She turns as she hears the front door open and Cabel’s car running in the driveway. “We’ll be right there!” she calls out.
“Take your time, ladies. I’m a few minutes early,” Cabe says.
Dorothea drinks the vodka in two swallows and cringes. Breathes a sigh, but it sounds more like a burden than a relief. She takes the bottle of vodka from the table by her bed and fumbles with her purse, pulling out the flask. Filling it, spilling a little, replacing the cap.
Janie doesn’t say anything.
Dorothea closes her purse and turns to Janie. Janie helps her with her shoes.
“Ready?” Janie asks. “After you.”
Dorothea nods. She walks unsteadily to the hallway.