“I can’t believe how many people came,” Janie says. “Thank you. It means a lot.”
Carrie grabs Janie’s hand and squeezes it. “Of course we’d come, you idiot.”
Janie smiles and squeezes back. “Hey,” she says, “where’s your ring?” and then she stops, worried.
Carrie grins and grabs Stu’s hand with her free one. “No worries. We decided that we weren’t quite ready for that, so I gave it back. He’s keeping it safe, aren’t you, honey?”
“Very,” Stu says. “Thing was freaking expensive.”
Janie grins. “I’m glad you guys are doing okay. Thanks again for coming, and Carrie—thanks for all you did.”
“Most entertaining funeral I’ve ever been to,” Carrie says.
Stu and Carrie wave good-bye and walk through the grass to Ethel, swinging hands. Janie watches them go. “Yeah,” she says. “Way to go, Carebear.”
Janie goes over to the strangers who remain in a small group, talking quietly. “Thank you very much for all you’ve done,” Janie says.
One speaks for all of them. “No thanks necessary. It’s an honor to care for the bodies of the deceased. Our sincerest condolences, my dear.”
“I—thanks. Er . . .” Janie blushes. She looks around and spies the rabbi. Goes to say good-bye. Afterward, seeing no one else, Janie makes her way to the car.
“Not one single flower!” Dorothea is saying. “What kind of funeral is that?”
Cabel pats the woman on the hand. “Jews don’t believe in cutting down a living thing to honor the dead, Ms. Hannagan. They don’t do cut flowers.”
Janie closes the door and leans her head back on the seat. It’s nicely cool inside. “How d’you know that, Cabe?” she asks. “Ask-a-rabbi-dot-com?”
Cabel lifts his chin slightly and puts the car into drive. “Maybe.”
4:15 p.m.
When there’s a knock at the screen door, Janie rouses herself from a nap on the couch, her mother safely tucked away in her room. She fluffs her hair and grabs her glasses.
It’s Rabinowitz.
“Hi. Come in,” Janie says, surprised.
He’s carrying a box in one hand and a basket of fruit in the other. He brings them inside and puts them on the kitchen counter. “This is to help sweeten your sorrow,” he says.
Janie is overcome. “Thank you.” The words seem too small to express what she is feeling.
He smiles and excuses himself. “I’m still on duty but I wanted to drop them off. I’m sorry for your loss, Janie.” He waves and ducks out the door.
All of the nice.
All of it.
It only makes it harder.
4:28 p.m.
Lies back down on the couch, full of cake.
Thinks about what happens next.
Knows that soon she’ll say good-bye to Cabe forever.
And that?
Despite the benefits,
Will be the hardest thing she’s ever done.
6:04 p.m.
She walks up Henry’s bumpy driveway, backpack on her back, carrying a suitcase and a bag of clothes. Two forlorn boxes rest in front of the door. Janie goes inside to deposit her stuff and then pulls the boxes inside.
She rips open the first box and pulls out a baby’s snowsuit. Goes over the ancient computer and turns it on. Rifles through the notebook that contains the order log, then opens the file drawer under the table. Repackages the snowsuit and writes the address on the box.
Janie opens the second box. Pulls out a bubble-wrapped package.
A snow globe.
It’s not listed as an item that needs to be shipped out.
It’s for Cathy, she’s sure.
Paris. Janie shakes the globe and watches the golden, glittery snow swirling about the gray plastic Eiffel Tower and Notre Dame.
How stunningly tacky.
Yet totally full of a certain sort of special.
Janie smiles, wraps it up again and puts it back in the box. Writes on the box with a black marker:
TO CATHY, ONE LAST GIFT.
FROM HENRY.
Janie finishes her father’s business and then she searches, and finds, the ancient rental agreement. Discovers that Henry’s been month-to-month since 1987, just mailing in a check faithfully so it arrives by the first of each month. It’ll be easy continuing on from here.
Oh, she’ll let the landlord know Henry passed on. But she’ll make it very tempting for the landlord to accept Janie as the new tenant. She can even pay the first year in advance if she has to.
She shuts down the computer.
Pulls the sheets off the bed and puts them in the little old washing machine. Decides she’s going to clean up the place and sleep here tonight.
Here, in her new home.
It’s such a freaking huge relief.
MEMORIES
8:43 p.m. Still the funeral day.
The first evening in her new place. Isolation, day one.
Laundry done, house dusted, sandwich eaten, grocery list made, Janie sits on her new bed with Henry’s shoe box full of memories.
Inside:
• fourteen letters from Dottie
• five unopened letters to Dottie from Henry, marked “Return to Sender”
• a small, tarnished medal from a high school cross-country team
• a class ring
• two envelopes containing photographs
• a loonie and a silver dollar
• nine paper clips
• an old driver’s license
• and a folded piece of paper