I was impressed by the rows of neat houses, many of them with senior citizens in bright straw hats bent over colorful front-yard gardens. On one corner, a small park was busy with the stroller crowd. Tinny, excited voices came in through the open windows of Elaine’s car.
But once we entered Hutton’s, dark and quiet prevailed, overlaid with the flowery smell that signaled a potentially sickening odor just below the cold surface.
It was strange to be in a funeral home that wasn’t, one, the Galigani Mortuary in Revere and, two, downstairs from my living quarters. When I first returned to Massachusetts, Rose and Frank offered me the apartment on the top floor of their building while I decided whether the move would be permanent. The conveniences were many: a lovely living space, without house hunting, less than a mile from the Atlantic Ocean, plus the world’s best “landlords.” I quickly got used to the distinctive smells and sounds of the business of death, but not to the daily reminder of mortality.
We fell silent as we signed in at Hutton’s guest-book stand, then entered the parlor, crowded with nearly equal numbers of African American and Caucasian mourners. Some sat on straight-backed chairs; others gathered in small circles along the sides of the room.
I couldn’t help comparing Hutton’s decor with that of the Galigani Mortuary. Not as different as I might have expected. With its dark mahogany paneling, Hutton’s felt solemn enough to be transported to an old East Coast community like Revere. No bright lighting or pastel carpets, as I’d seen in other West Coast mortuaries. Not the cheerful look that marked the more modern funeral parlors, but heavy and serious.
I thought Rose would have placed the gladioli closer to the ends of the cherrywood casket and would have chosen a smaller, more discreet cross for the curtain behind the tableau. Hutton’s cross—or maybe it belonged to the Hall family—was enormous, an elaborate gold affair with sparkles and flourishes on each arm.
Both Rose and Frank would have approved of the music, fitting the deceased. The Galiganis had been known to accommodate everything from grand opera for the late president of the Sons of Italy to band music for a teenage member of the Revere High marching band who died in a drowning accident.
For Tanisha Hall and her family, soft gospel music filled the room at Hutton’s. Here and there a row of guests swayed to the soothing rhythm, one or two mouthing the words.
I need Thee every hour, in joy or pain;
come quickly and abide, or life is vain.
I heard a tired sigh from Dana as she preceded us into the parlor, as if she’d just single-handedly lifted someone as heavy as me onto a gurney. She walked down the long aisle toward Tanisha’s open casket and took a place on the maroon velvet kneeler.
Tanisha’s face appeared natural in death, and I heard Frank Galigani’s approving voice in my mind. A jeweled, multicolored striped hat covered the top of her head; her braids were draped over her shoulders, falling on a bright orange, black, and green tunic top. Tanisha looked colorful and at peace, but mostly, she looked very young.
I guessed Tanisha Hall was Catholic, though I couldn’t have said for sure that other Christian denominations didn’t use kneelers. I pictured Protestants more like Martin Luther, standing strong, taking on the kneeling Roman Catholic hierarchy.
Matt, Elaine, and I followed Dana from the kneeler to the front row of visitors, where a thin, dark-skinned woman with straight black hair sat in an overstuffed armchair, the kind of chair the Galiganis reserved for the principal mourners. In her lap was a small girl, perhaps three or four, in a loose navy blue dress and tights. Tanisha’s mother and daughter, Marne and Rachel Hall. The ends of Rachel’s neat braids were folded into dark blue beads.
As Dana approached Marne, the woman stood, reaching eye level with Dana. Dana had said Tanisha’s mother was only forty, having given birth to Tanisha as a teenager, but tonight Marne looked every bit someone’s grandmother. She bit her lip; her fist tightened around a white handkerchief.
I waited for the tender embrace, the soft words, comforting pats on the back. Instead, Marne put her hands on her hips and thrust her face close to Dana’s.
“You have a nerve coming in here,” she said. Marne’s voice was low but sharp, her attitude unmistakably irate. Rachel had slipped off her lap and now leaned against a bent, elderly woman in the next seat.
Dana stepped back. We followed suit, nearly tripping over each other in the awkwardly narrow space between Tanisha’s casket and the front row of chairs. In the dim light I couldn’t see the expression on Dana’s face, but I imagined she was surprised at the angry reception. The soft music continued—Thou art the potter; I am the clay—and it appeared that only a few people were aware of Marne’s hostility to Dana.