Funeral Hotdish Read online

  “I hear the entire class took it.”

  “Not everyone, but most of them.”

  “What were they doing?”

  “Somebody said it was just a goof. Their senior prank. They thought all the kids in the cities were doing it, so they’d try it too.”

  “It’s supposed to be safe.”

  “You’re not supposed to die from it.”

  “Who got it for them?”

  “Where did it come from?”

  “Can you believe there’s stuff like that here?”

  Someone—doing a quick survey to be sure there were no Roths in this circle—offered, “That Johnny Roth was the one behind it, I’m told. He got it from some kid in town who’s selling drugs. Can you believe that? We’ve got a drug dealer in town!”

  “It’s the kid they call Crabapple.” That was Maggie Bonner, who’d come into the dining room to share some of her knowledge. “He’s one of those Harding boys—the one Huntsie hired at the body shop.”

  “Oh, my God. I know him. He worked on my car!” Angie spit out the words like she was guilty of something for having the boy fix her transmission.

  “It’s Darryl. I think he was the youngest—they farmed the old Hermann place north of town.” Norma could always be counted on to know the location of any family in these parts. “But they lost it in the eighties—remember, his dad shot himself in the barn the day of the auction?”

  “That’s him?”

  “Yeah. They had four boys in that family—three girls—they all left after the foreclosure. Except this one. He was just a little boy then. Stayed on with his grandma, but she’s gone now. He lives north of town on the old Johnson place.”

  “How old is he?” Nobody knew for sure, but Norma guessed in his early twenties.

  “You know, they suspected him for a long time but Sheriff Potter just sat on his hands.” That was Maggie again, offering only a thimble of what she knew.

  “They did? Who?”

  Maggie stayed quiet, thinking it best not to tell too much just now. But she did offer the latest news. “Oh, he skipped right away, that’s what I heard.”

  “He left town?” Angie wondered if her Earl knew.

  “Yeah, they say he was at the dance and he ran as soon as he saw what was happening. He’s not only a pusher, he’s a coward.”

  “If he’s smart, he’ll never come back here.”

  “I hate to think what would happen to him if he did.”

  “I hope they catch him and put him away forever.”

  “Better that than letting someone get their hands on him.” That caused a pause, as each woman of the Judith Circle imagined a town full of someones.

  In the kitchen, Gertie had big pots of water boiling as she finished browning the meat. “Bacon,” she yelled, and Maggie rushed back to deliver the bits. They spit as they hit the hot cast-iron pan. Gertie wielded her wooden spoon like a baton, letting the bacon cook, but not crisp. When it was just right, it joined the hamburger in one of the three electric roasters that would be brimming before Mass.

  “I wonder how Huntsie’s feeling,” Angie continued. “He couldn’t have known or he’d never have hired that kid.”

  “I feel sorry for him. You know Huntsie. He’ll take some blame.”

  “Celery,” Gertie ordered, still pretending she wasn’t listening in. She got her wish, adding the pieces to the film of bacon grease she’d left in the pan.

  Maggie helped finish up the onions—Mary never could get them done in time—and was ready when they were announced.

  “Anyone know how Johnny’s doing?”

  “He’s still in a coma. They’re not sure he’ll come out of it.”

  “You know, he loved Amber. This will kill him.”

  “Nettie was right to try and keep her daughter away from that boy.”

  “Oh, I don’t think he’s a bad kid. Maybe a little wild. But he’s really not a bad kid.”

  “Well, how about that uncle of his? Always yelling about the government and refusing to pay his taxes. I think he’s nuts.”

  “Yes. LeRoy Roth is nuts. That, I know for sure.”

  The celery was soft and the onions were barely transparent when they went into a roaster. From one of her big pots, Gertie used a king-sized strainer to capture the macaroni that had started to cook. This moment was crucial, because if the macaroni went even a minute too long, it would be too mushy by the time it finished baking. Nobody liked mushy hotdish.

  “That poor girl. She had so much to live for. And to die like that…”

  “What a shame.”

  “What a waste.”

  Gertie made certain all her roasters had equal ingredients before she dumped the bags of frozen mixed vegetables into the pots of boiling water. They needed three minutes in their bath. “Are the soups mixed?” she asked over her shoulder and Wanda assured her they were, although there were two cans of celery soup yet to open.

  Somewhere in this kitchen there was a written recipe for the dish that was consuming so much attention. If anyone bothered to consult it, it wasn’t Gertie.

  But for the curious, there was a piece of lined tablet paper with handwritten instructions on how to feed a funeral crowd. Probably any church anywhere in North Dakota had a recipe like this.

  The one in Northville was smeared with grease and tomato sauce, but then, few favorite recipes anywhere in town didn’t wear the evidence of their popularity.

  At the top of the page, printed in neat capital letters, was the unappetizing title of the casserole served at every St. Vincent’s funeral:

  FUNERAL HOTDISH

  Chapter Six

  Wednesday, October 20, 1999

  The St. Vincent’s funeral bell started ringing at nine forty-five a.m.

  Most churches don’t even have such a bell anymore. If they ring any at all, it’s their regular bell with tuned chimes. But St. Vincent’s still has a twelve-hundred-pound A-flat bell that’s been devoted to funerals since 1909, when they shipped it all the way from the Menelly Co. of Troy, New York.

  It’s so loud you can hear it all over town. It’s such an awful sound that anybody who hears it feels its sadness—and relives the moment it rang for one of theirs. If the Catholic Church wants to transform death into a joyous celebration of life in heaven, somebody better tell the people of St. Vincent’s they have to get a new bell first.

  There’s no joy in the single stroke it makes. One long note. Eerie reverberation. That sound alone can bring tears to your eyes. And in this town, you always know whose casket is being carried up the front steps as the sad bell sings its final song.

  Amber’s family arrived behind the funeral coach—K.C. never let anyone call it a hearse—in a white limousine. K.C. had ordered it special from the funeral home in Wahpeton. He thought it more appropriate than the black limo he owned.

  The lavender casket gleamed as it was carried up the steps, the boys and girls of the Class of 2000 gathered around it—the boys in suits, the girls in their best Sunday dresses. The boys took hold of the casket handles, while some girls walked in front of it and the rest behind. One boy had to guide Maxine because she was so broken up, she couldn’t walk on her own.

  Nettie walked immediately after them, on Dennis’ arm. As the procession moved down the main aisle, Nettie’s family was overcome to see every single seat filled by their friends and neighbors. All except the first five rows on each side, which were reserved for the immediate family. Nettie was too blinded by grief to see any of it.

  When the casket reached the altar, K.C. opened the lid and repositioned the spray of pink roses with “Beloved Daughter” on the sash. To the right was a standing bouquet of pink roses with “Cherished Granddaughter.” On the left, another arrangement—this one of mixed flowers—with “Wonderful Niece.” A basket of daisies sat on the floor with “Beau
tiful Cousin.” Then it became impossible to distinguish one from the next in the wall of flowers that filled the front of the church.

  Amber looked pretty again. Everyone remarked at the visitation that K.C had done a wonderful job. She was wearing a white silk dress she’d been making from a Vogue pattern. It wasn’t hemmed and the zipper was still pinned in place, but K.C. had assured Nettie that didn’t matter. On her right shoulder was a corsage of pink roses. Johnny Roth’s mother had sent them to the girl she always hoped would tame her son. Everyone thought it was damn nice of Nettie to let her daughter wear it.

  The funeral bell kept tolling until the entire family was in its seats. For the next hour, Father John tried to bring comfort and words of salvation to a gathering that drowned him out with their sobs. His voice even broke once.

  Anyone peeking into St. Vincent’s on this day, would have seen tears in the eyes of men you’d never imagine knew how to cry. Would have seen teenage girls shuddering in grief as they clung to one another, while macho teenage boys hid wet Kleenexes. Would have seen women biting their lips trying not to let their sorrow add to the grief of others. Would have seen an entire town weep—a safe little place in safe North Dakota with its lowest-crime-rate-in-the-nation and its fixation on family values.

  But that wasn’t strange under the circumstances. Youth plucked from its glory is always sad, in any setting. Why should one so young be cheated out of life when so many already old were willing to leave this all behind? Who wouldn’t cry losing a pretty girl who’d never have children and make a beautiful home or even dance at her senior prom?

  So the curious spying on St. Vincent’s that day would have been touched, but not surprised, at the public show of grief.

  Yet that’s not all that would have been noticed.

  Anyone paying attention—anyone who’s own eyes didn’t cloud up or weren’t distracted searching for a hankie—anyone really looking would have been frightened by the fury behind so many wet eyes.

  ***

  Our Father, who art in heaven.

  “What a goddamned shame.”

  “I don’t think they’ll ever get over this.”

  “Oh, Amber, the prom won’t be the same without you.”

  “Geez, Spud made it. I thought he was on a long haul.”

  “Leona will make a profit this month. I’ve never seen so many flowers.”

  Hallowed be thy name.

  “This shit has got to stop.”

  “Did I turn off the iron?”

  “Richard, our daughter is in heaven with you. Wish I was there, too.”

  “What’s left for Nettie now? Oh, that poor woman.”

  “I never want to be buried. I’m going to be cremated.”

  What is this world turning into?

  Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven.

  “What’s she going to do with Amber’s clothes? Please, not Goodwill.”

  “I’ve got to stop and get a part for the tractor.”

  “This is going to kill Grandma and Grandpa. They doted on that girl.”

  “We bought all that nail polish. Maybe her mother will give it to me.”

  “I didn’t put my life on the line in Korea for a punk to ruin our town.”

  Give us this day our daily bread and forgive us our trespasses.

  “This isn’t going to happen to me. I’ll never take that stuff again.”

  “Shirley brought her whole brood. One, two, three, four, five, six now.”

  “Everybody’s here. Lutherans, Protestants. Methodists.”

  “It isn’t right that an old man buries his granddaughter.”

  “You should have seen our daughter play basketball. She was good!”

  “Amber loved wearing her dad’s old school jacket.”

  “That fucking sheriff.”

  As we forgive those who trespass against us.

  “She always was a good-looking girl. Even when she was chubby.”

  “What do the kids say? This sucks.”

  “I fought her over Johnny. But she wouldn’t listen.”

  “They’re hauling the trailer away tomorrow. Finally. Thank God.”

  “I used my egg money to buy Amber’s First Communion veil.”

  And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.

  “I’m going to get that guy. I’m gonna get him.”

  “Damn, the Catholics have a big church.”

  “I don’t want people looking at me when I’m dead.”

  “Do they have to burn incense? I hate that smell.”

  “I’m glad Johnny is still in a coma. He couldn’t live through this.”

  “Oh, God, why? Why did you take my husband and my daughter?”

  “That could be my girl. You try to protect them, but you can’t, really.”

  Amen.

  ***

  What words best describe a cemetery?

  Neat. Orderly. Eerie. Dreary. Places you go only when you have to—and even sometimes when you should, you don’t.

  Never portrayed as welcoming. Or pretty. Not unless you’ve been to the one the Catholics have outside Northville. Nothing dreary about this place, or scary, either.

  They still tell the story about the little girl who lived on the farm across the road years ago who liked to play here. One of her games was to decorate every grave with the lilacs that separate the cemetery from the wheat field. She’d always put the first flowers on her grandfather’s grave—a man killed by drunk drivers as he walked to work years before this child was born. It would take her four days of picking and hauling to put a flower on every single grave. The groundskeeper had a fit the first time it happened. But when he figured out what was going on, he thought it was so dear he let it go, even though it meant extra work every time he had to pick up all the dead blooms.

  St. Vincent’s Calvary Cemetery is that kind of resting place.

  It covers a small hill—a geographic feature pretty unusual in this tabletop-flat part of the Red River Valley. For some reason, there’s a little hill out here and that’s where the first Catholics decided to put their cemetery. The Protestant version lies on a flat piece of real estate on the way and it suffers as much from comparison as from its plainness.

  The Catholics put a low rock wall all the way around their cemetery and fancy iron gates at the entrance. Nobody remembers the gates ever being closed and they’re rusted in place by now. The cemetery rises in front of you as you drive up the long entrance, the road splitting around a giant marble altar flanked by two towering alabaster angels. Christ on the cross dominates the altar. You could say Mass out here, but nobody remembers anyone doing that. Mostly, people just wander around it, admiring the beautiful angels that were imported from Germany decades ago. It’s such a charming spot that young girls in town have been known to fantasize about getting married under the alabaster angels. Adults just laugh, never admitting those aren’t new thoughts.

  A straight line of evergreens marches down the right border of the cemetery, giving a crisp demarcation. Someone decades ago thought a place like this should have a stately look. Whoever he was won only half the battle. You can bet it was a good woman who demanded the left border be soft and fluffy, where purple and white lilacs bloom their heads off every spring.

  Scattered here and there all over the hill are large ash and black walnut trees. The best spots are at the top of the hill. The oldest families have them. As you enter, you can’t tell that the hill slopes down the back, with just one narrow road giving you access to the separate part where the suicides are buried. That isn’t hallowed ground.

  Amber Schlener was laid to rest beside her father near the top of the hill. Even without a tree, it was a lovely spot anyway. Her great-grandparents were two plots down, under the large family stone. There was space for grandma and
grandpa someday. Her mother’s people were across the way. Nettie didn’t notice, but her sisters did, that the Schlener plots were now filled up, Amber taking the spot that was supposed to be Nettie’s someday. Her sisters wondered where she’d find a final resting place.

  Peter Wavers dug the grave the day before, and set up a white tent over the open hole. It was surrounded by a metal frame with a hydraulic lift, waiting to hold the casket. Green indoor-outdoor carpeting camouflaged the mound of dirt on the other side of the hole—now covered with bouquets from the church, which had been rushed out here in the back of K.C.’s station wagon by his younger sons. White plastic chairs had been set up on one side of the grave for the immediate family.

  A lot of the men stayed back, some having a smoke, all keeping their voices down, as Father said the final prayers that mercifully ended this ritual.

  “I want that son of a bitch to pay.” Nobody would remember who spoke the words first, but it didn’t matter because they were thick on every man’s lips.

  “He ran. I don’t even know where he is.”

  “We could find him.”

  “Maybe he’ll never come back.”

  “But then he’s just some other town’s problem? That doesn’t seem right.”

  “If Crabapple ever comes back to this town…”

  But everyone suspected he would—back to the town where he was reared and where his constant thievery of Mrs. Stein’s apples earned him a nickname that would forever stick.

  “That family never did count for much. And he’s been a bad apple since he was a kid.” Nobody caught the irony of that statement.

  “We’ve got to nail him this time. Last time, Sheriff Potter turned a blind eye because he said there wasn’t any evidence. We’ve got to get the evidence.”

  “What kind of evidence does that shithead need?” This was Earl Krump, whose temper was never far below his skin. “The son of a bitch has been dealing drugs for two years and everybody knows it. Why can’t they do a stakeout or something and catch him pushing shit to our kids? He’s too damn lazy, that’s why. He’d rather arrest the kids for speeding than get the bastard who’s selling them speed.”