Tidal Basin Review, Summer 2011

―I worked my way up, look at me! I do so much good! Legos, kids choke on ‗em!

Legos kill! At the funeral home we don‘t kill ‗em, they‘re already dead,‖ Ed explains.

He‘s proud, his face red. Verna‘s fascinated. She cuts up pizza like Ed does, knife and fork in hand.

Dad returns past a booth where a little girl and her mother share pizza. He leans over at the girl as the mother smiles uncertainly. Verna jumps up, grabs Dad by his suspenders; they stretch way back but he‘s a rock. She dives between his legs and pops up on the child‘s side of the booth where Dad‘s hand creeps towards the child‘s small thigh. Verna stabs him between his thumb and first finger with the fork that‘s in her hand thanks to Ed. Dad‘s lips draw back from his teeth as he backs up to the table where Ed chews. ―Families are happy their loved ones look so good when I‘m done with ‗em. I mean, they come in really awful and they smell bad‖ Ed continues, oblivious of Dad slumping in his seat, napkin finally red like Verna‘s.

She doesn‘t tell Ed about when Haggerty shaved her father-in-law down to a pencil-thin mustache touched-up with black dye so no one recognized the grizzled woodsman. ―Uncle Bud‘s dead for sure‖ her ex-husband said, ―dead‘s the only way he‘d be caught looking like that.‖ ―They‘re dead‖ she reminds Ed. ―Yes‖ he beams. ―We take care of that. It‘s amazing!‖ Ed‘s an artist like Dad. On the ride back Dad reminisces about our cousins: remember when Mona taped family stories for school? Remember when Natalie lived in Hoboken and we got lost and the lasagna was burnt? Remember when Marian broke her ankle?

Do you remember when you raped them, Dad? Behind closed eyes Verna sees our mother shake her head. She keeps her mouth shut - she‘s done her bit today.

Dad talks about a blanket he and Mom bought on a sheep farm where it was made from start to finish on German weaving machines like the ones his father operated from 1913 to 1965 every day of his American working life at the mill where they wove everything from mesh bags to stockings. Grandpa was the first worker to figure out how to adjust for different weaves. Until then they‘d imported Germans with the looms. It was World War II; he was a Russian Jewish immigrant; everyone was proud of him. ―I wrote a poem about that visit,‖ Dad finishes. ―I still have the blanket, I sleep warm and safe. Good feelings.‖ CASE ∫ 15