Carrion
“She never has a single nice thing to say about anyone while they’re topside, but by God, that bitch can write a eulogy,” Seamus said. His bitter laughter clashed with the solemn moment outside the funeral home, reminding his Aunt Maggie of the sound her blender made when she forgot to remove a pit from a peach before throwing it in. Cacophonous and harsh when she expected softness.
He clumsily twisted the cap off of his narrow flask, fingers frozen, and ebulliently raised his drink to the overcast sky. His brow furrowed for a moment while he imagined that someday, this would be his funeral, and his sister Shiela, five years his senior, might not be around to deliver such a moving send-off.
“It’s the only reason anyone invites her to Christmas and Easter anymore,” Maggie said.
She was embarrassed to agree with him. She wasn’t fond of either of them and generally found her niece’s lust for the spotlight grating, but she could admit that Shiela had an uncanny ability to reanimate a person with her speech. She always thought that Shiela should’ve put her one talent to use and become a funeral director. Or hell, even a pastor. Those get enough stage time to sate her. Either would’ve been her true calling in comparison to her repeated auditions for American Idol. Shiela’s confidence and eloquence won her the honor of delivering the eulogy, no matter who died. They all wanted to be remembered in the vibrant and effusive way that she was uniquely able to capture.
Maggie sighed and shifted her weight toward Seamus. She recounted Shiela’s scatological joke at Kate’s expense last Christmas and weighed it against the tear-jerking speech she’d just delivered for her son-in-law. The eulogy won, which was notable, however narrowly, because the Christmas incident had set Kate back months in therapy. Maggie clenched her jaw and politely placed a shriveled, cold hand on his arm. “But anyway, it’s been ages. How have you been?”
Seamus let out a sardonic chuckle. “Better than Gary,” he said, and tilted his head toward the door of the funeral home, referencing the closed casket containing his cousin Kate’s husband.
Maggie wrinkled her nose, smiled with teeth, and folded her hands inside the sleeves of her wool pea coat. Her face was a grotesque combination of conflicting expressions. She didn’t expect better of her nephew but was still surprised.
Seamus only saw her grin and read it like a green light. “I mean, hell, I’m divorced, the economy is in the shitter, and I lost half my annual savings in a crypto scam, but at least I’m not lights-out in a cardboard box like — ”
Shiela erupted from the funeral home door. Her olive complexion lit up in contrast with the scarlet cocktail dress that rode up a little too high. Her stockings bore scars on her thighs from her press-on nails that she hoped no one would notice, but they did, if only because she kept drawing attention to the area by tugging her dress down so often. Her urgency was infectious, inundating, and insufferable. She smiled apprehensively at Seamus, who returned a neutral expression. Whether he received her with warmth or with a pitchfork depended on the weather. She’d hoped to dodge her aunt, but the old woman couldn’t have picked a more unavoidable place to stand.
“Aunt Maggie! I haven’t said hello yet.”
Maggie winced, even though she knew she wasn’t lucky enough to elude one of her niece’s frenetic entrances all day. “Shiela,” she said with raised eyebrows, and slid her hands into her pockets.
Seamus avoided eye contact with both of them. He looked down, swirled his flask, and unmusically whistled a few bars of an Ed Sheeran song that he’d heard on the radio at least twice on the drive over. He was even more tuneless than his sister. More relatives trickled out of the funeral home, bleary-eyed and worn out. They coagulated in clusters on the sidewalk and street around his aunt and sister.
“It’s so good to see you,” Shiela said.
Aunt Maggie didn’t smile or nod as she looked Shiela up and down. Her upper lip twitched — a warning shot. Seamus tried to whistle again to break the tension, but this time it sounded more like the alphabet song, which only seemed to make things worse. Shiela widened her eyes and mouthed to him with smudged crimson lipstick, What the fuck?
“Red. Only whores wear red to weddings.”
Seamus and Shiela froze. A few heads turned their way. Shiela folded her arms over her chest, as if she could make herself small enough that no one would notice the color of her dress, or how poorly it fit.
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Her eyes darted between Maggie and Seamus, and her lips trembled. “It’s not a wedding, Aunt Maggie,” she said. She wondered if — no, hoped that — her aunt was experiencing an onset of dementia, and that the next time she’d see the relatives who witnessed this mortification would be at her funeral.
“Same principle. Everyone else here is in black. Showing respect. Tasteful. You, you have a message to send.”
Shiela shook her head and smiled with an open mouth. Perhaps she was baring her teeth to Maggie. “There’s no message. I thought Kate said — I didn’t realize –”
“Please. You were always trying to bed my daughter’s husband and we all know it.”
Seamus didn’t move and hoped his sister and aunt would forget he was there, and he’d be relieved of his obligation to say something, anything. He knew a person with scruples would intervene. But he was not one for intervening, especially when he tacitly agreed. He looked around as if he were expecting his courage to round the corner. It would never come.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Shiela softened, tilted her head, and lowered her voice. “Do you need to sit down?” She gathered her long, wavy hair to one side, anxiously running her fingers through it, as she often did when she was unsure of herself. One errant brunette strand slipped beneath her press-on nail and ripped it clean off, and it unceremoniously fell to the ground. She wasn’t sure if it would be more undignified to litter or to bend over and pick it up. Seamus didn’t notice.
“Vultures. The both of you, vultures.” Maggie said and pointed two wrinkled fingers at Shiela and Seamus. “Always feeding on the dead.”
An unspoken argument broke out between Seamus and Shiela, who glared at each other with accusatory eyes as if one were responsible for the other’s indictment. Kate emerged from the funeral home in oversized sunglasses and a black veil. Seamus thought she looked odd without her husband, who’d functioned as her guard dog. Although, he never understood why Kate supposedly needed such protection. He thought she had plenty of her own teeth. Maggie rushed to her side, defensive and fierce, leaving Seamus and Shiela to silently bicker.
The sprawling family followed Kate and Maggie’s shuffle toward Venezia’s, the three-star Italian restaurant across the street from the funeral home that stayed afloat by ensnaring grieving families. We’re sorry for your loss, read a sad bulletin taped to the inside of the window.
Shiela elbowed Seamus while they awaited the hostess. “Did you notice who got lip filler?”
Seamus curled his fingers into fists and dug his nails into his palms. “Don’t,” he said. “Her husband isn’t even in the ground yet.”
They had hardly sat down in their reserved room when Shiela claimed the spotlight again, clanking a fork against a water glass from her uncle’s place setting. She reprised her eulogy, enthusiastic to milk a few more minutes of attention out of her captive audience, who would nonetheless enjoy it. She dropped the fork on the floor twice and returned it to her uncle’s napkin regardless.
Shiela dragged her chair across the floor and halted the room with its shrill squeak. Maggie sighed with contempt and mourned the grief rituals of her grandparents, who left everything but each other behind in Ireland. The frozen clocks at the time of death. The blankets thrown over mirrors. The cold breeze rushing in through the windows, wide open regardless of season, to allow the spirit to pass on. Maggie’s mother buried those rituals with her parents.
Maggie gently placed both hands on Kate’s shoulders and whispered that she was going to the lady’s room.
Kate leaned on Seamus’s shoulder, transiently reminding both of them of the closeness in their childhood that had slowly split over the years. “Gary never stopped drinking,” she said, softly. “He lied to all of us about getting sober. Even fooled the judge.”
Seamus tensed up in his chair. Unthinking and unfeeling, he shrugged. “I haven’t had more than two in a day in years. I call it Seamus Sober.”
Kate sat up straight and brushed her arm off where she had leaned on him. She said nothing. She slid her sunglasses back on, crossed her arms, and lamented that she’d not told Seamus the dress code was bright colors instead.
