California Fire And Life

33

The funeral's a riot.

It starts off well enough.

Jack's sitting in the back of the Surf Jesus Episcopal Church, which is not the real name, of course, but it's what the locals call it because the steeple is a curved sweep of white stone that resembles a topping wave – like, Jesus is hip, Jesus is cool, Jesus can tube a twelve-foot point break in his sleep.

Pray for surf.

And surf Jesus.

Jack's a little surprised they're holding the service at a Christian church, but then he finally figures out that while Nicky's Jewish, Pamela was a shiksa, which is probably another reason the mother-in-law was not exactly transported with joy when her son married Pam.

The turnout's decent. The church isn't packed – it's a big church – but there's enough people that the place doesn't look empty. The mourners are mostly South County money. They look healthy and prosperous in that way that shows that they work at looking healthy and prosperous. They have health club bodies and tennis tans, and they all know each other, Jack thinks as he watches them greet each other and catches bits of subdued conversations.

… a shame about Pamela…

… into spinning now…

… graphite handle…

… and I've lost twelve pounds…

… Nicky is devastated…

… reclining bicycle, which doesn't put so much stress on the knees, so…

… at least there won't be a custody fight now…

… save the kids that agony, anyway…

… cardio-kickboxing…

There's fair turnout from Save the Strands. Jack knows this because a number of the mourners sport "Save the Strands" buttons, which Jack thinks is very freaking weird at a funeral.

There are times when you just, you know, give it up.

The family comes in from a side door at the front of the sanctuary. Nicky, Mother Valeshin, and the kids. All dressed in black, the color, Jack thinks, of fire.

Nicky looks particularly – and there's no other word for it, Jack thinks – elegant. Wide-shouldered, narrow-lapeled silk jacket over silk trousers. White collarless shirt, black suede shoes. It's like Nicky has been flipping around in the special GQ Mourning Edition, "A New Look for Hip Young Widowers," and taken the pages into the Armani store at Fashion Island.

He has a benign, grief-stricken, but-I-have-to-be-brave-for-the-children expression on his face and he looks, Jack has to admit, just goddamn great.

The dozen or so divorcees in the crowd are doing everything but actually moaning, Jack thinks, and if Nicky doesn't get laid right after the coffee cake, Jack's missed his bet.

The kids look like something out of Masterpiece Theatre – perfectly costumed, exquisitely mannered, ineffably sad.

The minister lays a kindly hand on the kids and then takes the pulpit. Waits for the organ music to fade and then smiles at the congregation.

Jack thinks he recognizes him from television. He has the official television minister combed-back pompadour of silver hair, except this isn't one of your cracker-southern greased-back jobs, this is a seventy-five-dollar styling from Jose Ebert. He has the official minister sky-pilot eyeglasses, the black robe edged in purple, and the white collar that looks weirdly like Nicky's.

Anyway, he finishes smiling then says, "We're here to celebrate a life…"

Then gives the usual God is a great guy but your loved one died anyway and I have no explanation for the seeming contradiction so let's not talk about death, let's talk about life and didn't Pamela have a wonderful life and a loving husband and two beautiful children and wasn't she a wonderful wife and mother and life is beautiful and now Pamela is with my buddy God in a better place than even south Orange County and we're going to scatter her ashes over the ocean that she loved so much, by the Strands that she loved so much, and every time we look at the ocean and the Strands we'll think of Pamela, and Jesus loves her and God loves her and Jesus loves you and God loves you and we must all love each other every day because you never know when God is going to toss the banana peel under your foot and bang you out like that, and of course the minister doesn't actually say that last bit; it's what Jack is thinking.

No, the good doctor what's-his-name – I know I've seen him on the tube begging for bucks – goes on about how we must all form a community to help Nicky and the kids, it takes a village, and thank God they have a loving grandmother to help care for them and Jack's looking in the rack in the pew in front of him for a barf bag and he hears the woman across the aisle from him sort of snort, and then the minister looks up at the tongue-and-groove red cedar ceiling and says, "Lord Jesus, we pray…"

Followed by a long prayer for the soul of Pamela Vale, and that the healing process begin for Nicky and Natalie – and for the first time Jack realizes that's Mother Valeshin's first name – and the children, and then the organ plays some horror movie background piece and when Jack looks up Nicky is at the pulpit asking people to share memories of Pamela.

And they do. One by one, about ten or so mourners stand up and tell about a day they spent with Pam at the beach, how Pam loved the sunset, how Pam loved her kids… One woman gets up to tell about a shopping spree she and Pam went on, and another about a whale-watching trip they went on…

But nobody wants to tell about Pam drinking, about Pam throwing up at a party, about Pam driving the Lexus into the big pine tree by the driveway, about Pam so zonked on Valium they find her passed out in her car outside a garden party. Nobody wants to talk about the screaming fights she and Nicky had, about the flying goblets, about the time she threw her drink in his face at that party on the boat, about Nicky tapping every willing divorcee, bored wife, and ambitious cocktail waitress on the south coast…

All of that has faded into the sunset that Pam loved so much.

So everything is going just skippy, Jack thinks, when there's a lull and Nicky – misty-eyed but gently, bravely smiling – asks if there is anyone else who would like to say anything.

Which is when a woman's voice from behind Jack yells, "YOU KILLED