A moment later an older Black man dressed in an Army Service Uniform walked up to the lectern. He spoke briefly about their service together in Vietnam and the occasion on which my father had been awarded a bronze star with a “V” device for valor under fire. I had no idea my father had been given the medal. That’s how tight-lipped he was about his service.
Afterward, the pastor stood and gave the benediction.
“The God of peace, who brought again from the dead our Lord Jesus Christ, the great Shepherd of the sheep, through the blood of the everlasting covenant: Make you perfect in every good work to do his will, working in you that which is well-pleasing in his sight; through Jesus Christ, to whom be glory forever and ever. Amen.”
This concluded the service. The funeral director gave instructions to the congregation and the casket was lifted by a half dozen pallbearers who carried it outside to the waiting hearse. I followed the casket out. After the casket was in the car, one of the pallbearers—the man who had served in the war with my father—approached me. “Noel, my name is Steve Johnson,” he said, handing me a business card. “If there’s anything you need, anything at all, you just call. Your father was there for me. It would be a sincere honor to return the favor.”
“Thank you.”
“No, thank your father.” He turned and walked away. I looked at the card. Mr. Johnson was the owner of a trucking company.
There is a rarely used word that described the moment to me: apotheosis. It means the deification of mortals. I think it’s natural, especially at funerals, for people to make the deceased more than they were in life—only my father’s funeral felt a little different. The people around me seemed sincere in their praise and love for my father. And, like Wendy, they were authentic in their grief.
After the service, the cars lined up to drive to the cemetery for the burial.
“Are you going to join the procession?” Wendy asked.
“I need to go home and get the car,” I said. “I’ll meet you up there.”
“Do you know where the cemetery is?”
“It’s the same plot where my mother’s buried.”
“Of course. I’ll see you there.”
I walked home, got into my father’s car, and drove to the cemetery. My mind was still reeling with what I’d just experienced. My father had either done a remarkable job of fooling the masses or he had changed a lot since my childhood.
When I arrived at the cemetery I parked in the nearest space I could find, which was at least three hundred yards from the grave, and walked up the slick, snow-banked street to the gathering. The snow had been cleared from the site and artificial turf had been laid around the opening in the ground. The granite headstone was already in place. It had been there, with my father’s name on it, for almost twenty years, ever since my mother died.
I watched as the pallbearers struggled up the snowy hillside, laid the casket down, and then removed their boutonnieres and placed them on the casket’s lid.
In front of the casket was a canopied “portachapel” sheltering about twenty folding chairs. Wendy had saved a seat for me in the center of the front row. Also in the front row, two seats from Wendy, was the woman Grace. The graveside service was brief; the pastor said a simple prayer and then dismissed the crowd. As I got up to go Wendy said to me, “We’ll need to discuss your plans for the bookstore before you leave town.”
“Of course.”
“When you’re ready.”
I walked back to my car alone and drove home.
When I got back to the house, there were three large boxes on the front porch. I checked their shipping labels. They had come from my publisher. I could guess what was inside. Natasha had sent my things from my office. Or, more likely, my assistant had, as it was Lori’s signature on the labels. They hadn’t wasted much time in removing the evidence of my former employment. According to the shipping date, my office had been cleared out the day after I’d left town. No wonder Lori had sounded so anxious when I called.
I brought the boxes inside, soaked a washcloth in warm water, and laid on the couch with the cloth over my face. There was far too much in my life right now to process. Most of all I just wanted to be left alone.
I had forgotten it was Halloween.
The onslaught started early, hours before dark. I gave up on trying to rest, made myself some chili, and grabbed a book. For the next three hours my reading was interrupted every few minutes by the doorbell, followed by shouts of “Trick or Treat.”
Finally, I just put out what was left of the candy and turned out the porch light. It was a surreal ending to an already surreal day.
CHAPTER ten
A blank piece of paper is God’s way of telling us how hard it is to be God.
—Sidney Sheldon
SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 1
I woke the next morning with an emotional hangover. I drank a black coffee, then went out and ran to clear my mind. With the funeral over, it was time for me to figure out what I was going to do. In the last two months I’d lost my marriage, my apartment, my father, and now my job. Maybe this was how women ended up as cat ladies. It’s a good thing I was allergic to cats.
Running had neither cleared my mind nor my lungs, as the overcast sky was more brown than gray from one of the valley’s inversions. The weather only added to my feelings of suffocation beneath the weight of anxiety and loneliness.
I bathed and dressed, then drove up the canyon to Park City to get out of the inversion. It was still early in the ski season, but there was enough snow to attract skiers and the resorts’ parking lots were full. Seeing the crowds only made me feel lonelier.
It occurred to me that if I died at the house, it might be days, or weeks, before anyone found me. My only “friends” were people I worked with. At least I’d thought they were friends. More than likely, Lori had provided testimony for my termination, and Natasha had dropped the axe. And my former colleague, Diana, had kicked me out of our apartment. I really didn’t blame her for this—I was happy that she was working things out with her husband—it was just that the timing was unfortunate. There wasn’t a single person in my life whom I’d called a friend who wasn’t in some way distancing themselves from me.
This wasn’t the first time I’d felt this way. After my mother’s death, I’d felt like a loner for most of my life. Maybe that’s why I spent so much time lost in books. As Hemingway said, “There is no friend as loyal as a book.” But I knew better. I needed something more than paper. I needed to be around people. Looking back on this moment much later, I suppose that’s the reason I hired myself at the bookstore.
CHAPTER eleven
I love walking into a bookstore. It’s like all my friends are sitting on shelves, waving their pages at me.
—Tahereh Mafi
MONDAY, NOVEMBER 2
My father’s bookstore was located just a few miles north of the house, in what had become a trendy section of the city. It sat on the corner of Ninth and Ninth, across the street from a gelateria, a bread bakery, and a touring bicycle shop.
His store resembled an old English bookstore, with myriad-paned windows revealing carefully themed book displays. A sign hung across the front of the store: