Paint It Black by Janet Fitch Read Free Book Online Page B

since that first phone call. The old rabbi talked about donations to a fund, and then the old men played the Bach, the sarabande. Two violins soaring together like birds, spiraling into the sky. After the doubt of Brahms, the pure yearning of Bach. She thought of Michael’s body on a pyre, smoke swirling up to a God who might care.
    Then it was over, and nobody had said a thing about who he’d been, or how he died. Though really, did she think they would? There was nothing to say except that he found life too painful to bear, a fucking empty room, and checked out, an act that spit in the eye of God and on his flawed Creation. But there was still the graveside—maybe they’d do it there. Or would they go? She didn’t know, she had never been to a Jewish funeral. She would just stay with everybody, clap in the right place. She could always come back later.
    The old men packed up their instruments, while others came forward, and Calvin Faraday. Together, they picked up the coffin on their shoulders and carried it out. She pitied Calvin, carrying his own son to the grave.
    She followed along, blending in with the crowd, hoping no one would notice her, guess who she was, know that she was the one who’d failed to save him, that it was her fault. Outside, she watched the bearers load the coffin onto the hearse. Two old men helped Meredith into a black limousine. She wore a black coat and a big veil over a brimmed hat. They practically had to carry her.
    Everybody got in their cars and turned on the engines and lights. Josie ducked below the dashboard and smoked a little of the joint she’d brought for afterward. She couldn’t wait, she needed it now, she would do her crying at home. There was lots of time, like the rest of her life.
    The hearse began to move, and they followed it slowly up the manicured green of the hill, the rows of brass plaques under the deodars, a neat carpet of death. They wound up at the high-rent district—even here, the rich had their exclusive zone, an enclave marked by a low sandstone wall. They parked in the same order at the leafless curb. The earth smelled damp as she approached the sandstone enclosure. The grave was presided over by a line of cypresses, like in Van Gogh, the word LOEWY chiseled into a stone in the wall.
    She took her place behind the other mourners outside the enclosure. She’d heard of a family plot, but hadn’t realized what it meant. His family was all buried here. The grandfather. A plot for Meredith and one for Michael, and room for husbands and wives and children. It had always been here. He’d grown up knowing there was a grave waiting for him. It was part of being a Loewy. She shuddered in the cold sun. He’d known where he was going to end up. The pyre was just a fantasy. Whatever he did, he couldn’t have escaped this rectangular hole in the ground, this pile of dirt covered by its blanket of Astroturf. If she’d married him, she would be buried in there, and if they’d had a baby, their child too. There was some
ming
for you. There was some fucking destiny.
    But there was no marriage, no child. No more Loewys. And she would be shipped back to Bakersfield or God knew what. Never with Michael, never again.
    A few folding chairs waited under a canopy. The old men helped Meredith to a seat. The bearers slid the box from the long car and carried it awkwardly, to the stand by the hole. She wondered that such old men could carry something so heavy, but maybe they knew how. Calvin slipped, but he righted himself. Her heart was crushing in. Just when she thought things would turn out right for them. She had loved him, but not enough. Not enough to stop it.
    She watched Meredith in her black coat and pearls in the brilliant sunlight, wondering just how far she could see behind that black veil. She hoped not very far. Josie stood behind an old woman in a mink coat, making herself as small as she could. If she could just get through this morning, this hour.
    In the