May We Be Forgiven

orphans?” Ashley asks.
    “Kind of.”
    “Yit-gadal v’yit-kadash sh’mey raba, b’alma di v’ra hirutey, vyam-lih malhutey b’ha-yey-hon uv’yomey-hon uv’ha-yey d’hol beyt yisrael ba-agala u-vizman kariv, v’imru amen.” the rabbi intones.
    “Were we always Jewish?” Ashley asks.
    “Yes.”
    The ceremony concludes, and one of the guests turns to me and says, “Given the circumstances, I think the rabbi did a very good job. What did you think?”
    “It’s my policy not to review funerals.”
    “If the guests would stay in their places until the family has had a chance to exit it would be appreciated,” the rabbi says.
    Jane’s casket is rolled past us; the anchorman from Thanksgiving is one of the pallbearers.
    Jane’s parents exit with Susan between them. I notice that when she cries her expression doesn’t change—tears of a clown.
    Nate, Ashley, and I follow after the coffin, climbing into the limo as Jane is lifted into the hearse.
    “I hope I never have to do this again,” Nate says.
    “Can we go home now?” Ashley asks.
    “No,” Nate says. “There’s like an after-party thing?”
    “From here we go to the cemetery. At the graveside, a few words are said and the coffin is lowered into the ground.” I wonder if I should tell them the part about shoveling some dirt on your mother, or if some things are better left unsaid. “And after the cemetery we sit shiva at Susan’s house. People who knew your mom will come and visit, and there will be food for lunch.”
    “I want to be alone,” Nate says.
    “It’s not an option.”
    “Who sends these cars? And do they work other jobs?” Nate asks.
    “Like what?”
    “Like driving rock stars, or do they just do funerals?”
    I lean forward and ask the driver, “Do you just do funerals, or funerals and rock stars?”
    The driver glances at us in his rearview mirror. “Me, I do funerals and airports. I don’t like rock and roll. They’ll sign you up for a two-hour job, and four days later you’re still parked outside of some hotel, waiting for the guy to decide if he wants to go out for a burger. I like regularity and a schedule.” He pauses. “You got lucky with the weather. Hope you don’t mind me saying but there’s nothing worse than working a funeral when the weather is crap. Puts everyone in a bad mood.”

    I n the limo en route to the cemetery, the children are on their electronic devices. On the one hand, it’s not appropriate to play computer games while driving to bury your mother; on the other, who can blame them? They want to be anywhere but here.
    Jane’s plot is between her aunt and her grandmother, between ovarian cancer and stroke. She is with her people. They have died of illness and old age, but never has there been the victim of domestic violence. It’s different—it’s worse.
    The children sit on folding chairs behind their grandparents. Despite its being a nice day, it’s chilly, so everyone keeps their coats on, hands in pockets. As the casket is being lowered, a hushed set of whispers, a current of surprise, sweeps through the group.
    “Daddy’s here,” Ashley says.
    We all turn to look, and, sure enough, he’s getting out of the back of a car, with two burly black men in scrubs on either side of him.
    “That takes a lot of nerve,” Jane’s mother says.
    All around us people are whispering, rustling, turning.
    “She was his wife.”
    “Until death did them part.”
    “He should at least have waited until we left,” Susan says.
    “He still has rights,” someone says.
    “Until he is found guilty.”
    The timing is off. George should have stayed in the car, hidden until everyone was gone. He stays in the distance, until the graveside service is done.
    “Should we go talk to him?” Nate asks.
    “Not right now,” I say. “We’ll see him soon.”
    As the funeral procession is pulling out of the cemetery, we pass George on his knees at the grave, sunglasses on, his handcuffed hands in front of him. I see him pushing dirt barehanded into the grave, both hands at once, joined at the wrist.
    There is someone with a long lens taking photos.
    “Grandma and Grandpa hate us,” Nate says.
    “They’re upset.”
    “They’re acting like it’s our fault.”

    T he shiva is at Susan’s house. It’s far, an hour from the cemetery. After we’ve been driving for about forty-five minutes, the kids start to complain. I ask the driver if we can make a pit stop. The long limo drops out of