Despite my pleadings, my parents didn’t come upstate for the memorial service. They contracted for a video crew with a satellite truck that narrowcast the event in real time to their home in Tenerife. The paparazzi, however, flocked to attend. The New York Post ran the headline “Dad of Star Found Dead in Toilet Torture.”
In lieu of flowers or sympathy cards, my mother sent my nana and me lavish gift baskets of Xanax.
Each time the telephone rang I expected the police to call me in for death by lethal injection. For the funeral, I wore a black Gucci veil over black Foster Grants. I wore a stroller-length vintage Blackglama junior mink and black gloves, just in case some crafty sleuth would attempt to acquire my fingerprints from the communion rail. To answer CanuckAIDSemily, little Emily, the actual church was a rustic clapboard structure where a dead body did not seem out of place, juxtaposed as it was with paper plates of peanut-butter cookies. The congregants seemed genuinely distressed by Papadaddy’s tragic demise, and they displayed their aboriginal upstate empathy by presenting me with a gift: a book. Unlike the Beagle book or the Call of the Wild book, this tome was freshly printed, a new title, bound in handsome almost-leather. It seemed to be this summer’s beach read, for everyone present also carried a copy. Here was the moment’s mega–best seller, the Angela’s Ashes or Da Vinci Code du jour. A quick perusal suggested a postmodern work told from multiple viewpoints—very Kurosawa in structure—plot-driven, a sword-and-sandal epic filled with magic and dragons, sex and violence. I accepted it, their rustic offering of condolence, as graciously as my mother would an Oscar.
Printed in gold leaf along the spine was the title: The Bible.
As fanciful as anything penned by Tolkien or Anne Rice, this new tome presented an elaborate yarn about creation. In my heart, it would easily displace the Beagle book, with Mr. Darwin’s somewhat didactic nineteenth-century flavor. His saga depicted existence as a one-shot endeavor, a desperate struggle to endure and procreate. It’s no comfort when confronted by death to be assured that you’re merely some flawed variation of life reaching the end of its evolutionary blind alley. Whereas the Beagle book depicted a narrative of death after death, endless adaptation and failure—all history literally glued together with sperm and blood—the Bible book promised a happy life everlasting.
Survival of the fittest versus survival of the nicest.
Which author, Gentle Tweeter, would you choose to read at bedtime?
This homespun church even held a weekly book club to discuss their newest literary sensation. To present the book, these simple upstate denizens coaxed forward a young boy child. As I was leaving the church with my nana, this darling towhead stumbled forth from their patchwork ranks. In both hands before him he carried this Bible book, and to my world-weary, eleven-year-old eyes he appeared an earnest sort, clad in his freshly laundered rags, a minor player destined to milk cows and sire similar agrarian laborers and ultimately die in not-undeserved obscurity, the probable victim of some future combine mishap. He, a rural David Copperfield, and I, a glamorous globetrotting fashion plate, we appeared to both be the same tender age. Some brutish farmwife pushed him toward me with her calloused hand, saying, “Give it to the poor girly, Festus.”
That was his name, Festus. He placed the book in my black-gloved palms.
While I was not immediately smitten, Festus did pique my romantic curiosity. A spark, most likely statically electric in nature, jumped between his person and mine, so strong that I felt the tiny shock through my elegant hand-wear. I accepted his gift with a simple nod and a murmur of gratitude. Feigning emotional distress, I pretended to collapse against him, and his sturdy farm urchin’s arms caught my fall. In our clinch, Festus’s prepubescent hands seized me bodily; only the Bible book lay between the full contact of our sensitive groin areas.
Festus, holding me an instant, whispered, “The Good Book will sustain you, Miss Madison.”
And, yes, Gentle Tweeter, Festus was an uncouth primitive, fragrant with the poultry manure lodged beneath his fingernails, but he did use the word sustain.
Ye gods. I was thrilled. “Au revoir,” I breathlessly bade my hardy swain. “Until we meet in…” I covertly checked the book’s title. “… in ‘Bible’ study.”
His ardent child’s lips whispered, “Fierce wristwatch…”
And from that moment forward I was putty in the young farm laborer’s hands. My fertile mind immediately began to spin romantic scenarios set in his world of subsistence agriculture. Together, we would scratch our daily bread from the hardscrabble upstate landscape, and our love would be the unvarnished stuff of a Robert Frost poem.
For comfort after the funeral, Nana Minnie had baked apple tarts and Bundt cake with lemon drizzle and apricot flan. Spiced crumb cake, maple bars, cherry grunt, peach cobbler, pear Betty, raisin slump, coconut crisp, walnut pandowdy, cinnamon buckle, plum trifle, and hazelnut fool. She built pyramids of pecan sandies on plates. Platters of gingersnaps and shortbreads. Busy frosting cupcakes and glazing doughnuts, she wasn’t much more of a widow than she’d been before. You never know the complicated deals two people negotiate in order to stay married beyond the first ten minutes. It could be she knew about Papadaddy’s traffic island antics. For my part I found the Jack London book on the parlor shelf and carried it back to my bedroom with a plate of cupcakes and read it, waiting for the chimpanzee embryos. By the middle of the novel I decided that what two people don’t say to each other forges a stronger bond than honesty.
Nana’s strawberry cupcakes were bribing me not to tell the truth. It might be the cupcakes were punishment for my lies. On my nana’s farm you could see only as far away as the next tree. That made it hard to think of the future. Any future.
Not the day of my papadaddy’s funeral, not the day after, not even the day after that, but a week after the funeral I was still eating. My Nana Minnie broke eggs, poured milk from a paper carton, knifed a yellow square of butter off a plate she took from the refrigerator. She sprinkled flour. Coughed. Spooned sugar. Coughed. Showing me all of the terrible things that go into making food: vegetable oil, yeast, vanilla extract, she dialed the oven temperature and ladled foamy batter into muffin tins, coughing the words, “When your mama was your age she was always bringing home head lice….”
Nana Minnie told her life backward while she cooked, reciting details like ingredients. Like how my mother used to wet her bed. How one time my mom ate cat poop and Nana pulled a tapeworm as long as a spaghetti out of her bottom. Even that image didn’t stop my eating.
She went on—at length—about how my mother had bought a lottery ticket and won the fortune that was to be her grubstake as an aspiring movie actor.
At night, the Beagle book stuffed between my mattress and box spring made sleep impossible. I’d lie awake with the book’s lump lodged in my spine, certain the local district attorney would knock at my bedroom door to serve a search warrant. The investigators would grill me under a bare lightbulb, insisting they’d found several words printed in reverse on my papadaddy’s dead wiener, printed backward in mirror writing. It was obvious those words had rubbed off or been transferred from the murder weapon. Those words were the fingerprints they needed to convict a suspect. The reverse words included Wollaston, wigwam, guanaco, Goeree, Fuegians, scurvy, and, most damning of all, Beagle. A team of police goons would toss the bedroom and discover the stashed book.