Finally, the cold and dark of night gave way to the dull and drab of day. Mr. Gatteau made the trip to the Pittsburgh morgue alone, just before the city rumbled to life.
The morgue’s lobby was bleak and clinical, the last stop for the unfortunate few like Alex Gatteau. A clerk sat behind a glass window, working on her computer.
“Who are you here for?”
“Excuse me?”
“Who are you here to identify?”
“Alex Gatteau – G-A-T-T-E-A-U.”
“May I see your driver’s license or State ID Card?”
Mr. Gatteau rifled through his wallet and presented his card.
“And your relation to the deceased?”
“I’m his father.”
“Okay, Gatteau, B14B. Follow me.”
She got out of her seat and opened the door to the back room of the morgue. Rows and columns of metal boxes lined the wall like a little boy’s collection of large, rectangular matchstick boxes, each one filled with a toy soldier, waiting to be plucked out of place and put to play. The coroner pulled the slab out of the index and showed the body to Mr. Gatteau. He simply nodded and she returned Alex to cold storage.
“We just need to fill out a small bit of paperwork.”
She shuffled several legal documents and passed them across the desk one at a time. Mr. Gatteau signed and initialed them at the appropriate places before passing them back across the desk. She collated each document into three piles and stapled them together. She handed one of the bundles to Mr. Gatteau and filed the other two bundles away.
“There are some personal affects, too.”
She went to the file of safety deposit boxes on the back wall and opened one. She presented a small deposit box to Mr. Gatteau. He positively identified the items in the safety deposit box, too.
“Here, hold this.”
She gave him a large plastic bag and then dumped the contents into the bag before peeling the sticky tape from the edge and sealing it.
Mr. Gatteau waited in rush hour traffic, full of thoughts, none specific or general. His mind drifted aimlessly, thinking about home and his kids and wife. When he returned home, Portia was curled on the couch and Phoebe was in the rocking chair. Phoebe remained motionless, opening an eye to peek at her father. He glanced at her as he headed upstairs.
“How was it?” asked Mrs. Gatteau.
“It was strange, like I was in a dream. The clerk acted like it was just another day at the office. That was weird.”
He dropped the plastic bag on the end table and kicked off his work boots before reclining in bed next to Mrs. Gatteau. She leaned over, gave him a kiss, and curled around him.
“Oh, shit, Ryan. It's not supposed to happen this way.”
“I know, Vic.”
Mr. Gatteau laid in the stillness, listening to far-off sounds of garbage trucks and ghetto blasting car stereos. Maybe it was a good thing it happened in the earliest hours of Monday. It was a ‘sign’ that life does, indeed go on, no matter what windfall or tragedy strikes you the day before. He was still in a surreal place in his mind. He knew, however, that some things had to change.
“I think Portia and Darren should move in.”
“She’s got a place.”
“That’s Alex’s place, plus, she’s too young to be out on her own.”
“She’s an adult. She’s also got a child. I don’t want to raise a child again.”
“Victoria, you’ll love little Alex just as much as you love Penny or any of our own kids. You only get one chance to be a grandparent.”
“I think you should find out how Portia feels about this first.”
“Alright.”
Mr. Gatteau rose from bed, went downstairs, and rustled the girls from sleep.
“Girls, what do you want for breakfast?”
“I’m hungry for pancakes,” said Phoebe.
“How about you, Portia?”
“What? I’m not really hungry.”
“Get up anyway. I want to talk to the two of you.”
“I’m tired,” grumbled Portia.
“Get up. Let’s eat.”
Phoebe showered while Portia stayed under her blanket. They were both still in the clothes from the night before when they arrived at the kitchen table.
“What’s up?” asked Phoebe.
“Since you’re unusually bright-eyed, I’ll address you first.”
Phoebe nodded.
“What are you doing with your life?”
“What do you mean?”
“You think I don’t know you’re back at the strip club? Are you still hooking?”
“Daddy…”
“Don’t play that song with me, Phoebe. Are you still hooking?”
“No.”
“I still want you to quit working at that club. Just because we live in the ghetto doesn’t mean we all have to act like it.”
Portia held the fork in her mouth as she let the bite soak on her tongue. She stared at her father as she gulped it down.
“Oh Dad, we’re not ‘acting’ ghetto.”
“You two go around and cause trouble not only for yourselves. but for everyone around you. That’s ghetto.”
“I didn’t invite Marcus to the house.”
“Yes, you did.”
“I did not.”
“The day you began sneaking around with Darren, you made this whole mess for the rest of us to clean up.”
“That’s really unfair.”
Mr. Gatteau shook his head.
“No, that’s completely fair. You two girls got to straighten up. Portia, I want you and Darren to move into the basement right now.”
“What if I don’t want to?”
“You’re a little girl making big woman choices. I don’t want you making mistakes like your mother and I made when we were your age.”
“Can we not talk about this right now?”
"This is important stuff."
"I'll think about it, but I can't make a decision right now.”
Mr. Gatteau turned his attention back to his oldest daughter.
“Phoebe, you have to look for a more stable job. Even the waitress jobs you’ve been talking about would be a ton better than this.”
“You have to let me go my own way.”
“You’re barely out of the nest, Phoebe.”
“Daddy…”
“Alright, alright.”
He shooed the conversation away with the wave of a hand. After breakfast, they returned to their respective corners of the living room. Mrs. Gatteau’s sister was the first to arrive that morning, food in hand.
“Hey, Aunt Florence, how are you?” asked Phoebe.
“Oh, I’m fine, honey. How are you holding up?”
“Okay, I guess.”
‘How about you, Portia?”
“Fine.”
Phoebe took the casserole to the kitchen and Aunt Florence sat at the end of the couch next to Portia's feet.
“You don’t look fine.”
Portia shrugged.
“Whatever you guys need, I’m here for you.”
Portia nodded again, but little more was said. Aunt Florence stayed until the Coakleys from next door showed up with sliced ham and a bag of Halloween treats. As soon as they were introduced, Aunt Florence headed home.
As the day dragged on, Portia realized that was the order of the day. When one person arrived with food and condolences, another group made it into an opportunity to escape.
Portia didn't think it was rude, but it did feel half-hearted. Maybe it was just the way of the world – people unable to give comfort in an uncomfortable situation. It was only mildly better when they went to the funeral home. The director led them through a general interview.
Mr. Gatteau had to cash in some of his pension to pay for the funeral, which was to be a small affair with viewings on Tuesday afternoon and night, followed by the service and burial on Wednesday.
As soon as Tuesday came about, the funeral home was packed with visitors – family and friends from work and school and those who Portia and Phoebe did not even know. Phoebe accepted the heap of condolences in stride. Portia, however, withdrew further and further into herself. She escaped however she could, whether it was hiding out in a bathroom stall or suffering through the bitter November air.
Wednesday at noon, the Gatteaus packed into Phoebe’s car and went to the funeral home one last time. Before she left, Portia grabbed her leather-bound book from Alex. She traced the corners and edges with her fingertips until warm, wet tears streamed down her cheeks. Phoebe parked her car in the far end of the lot; everyone would ride the hearse to the cemetery.
Portia sat with her mom in the front row, waiting for people to arrive, while Mr. Gatteau and Phoebe greeted people at the door. Portia cracked open her book and began to read.
“What on earth are you doing?” scolded her mother.
“Just reading.”
“This is no place for that.”
Portia heaved a sigh as she folded the book closed and held it snugly in her lap. Portia spent the entire time drifting through daydreams, thinking about anything but what was actually happening She thought about springtime, when she spent her time gardening, late night talks with Alex, and the car ride with Darren.
“Where was Darren?” she thought to herself.
She looked around the room. All these people, she wasn’t even focused on why they were there, either. She only looked for Darren. He was nowhere to be found. She returned to the comfort of the book, although it was damp from her sweaty hands. She blew on her fingers gently as she fanned her open palms in front of her mouth.
“May I have the pall bearers come to the front of the room?” asked the preacher. Alex’s friends were there. It was a scattered lot. Some worked at the warehouse, some were classmates, while some worked at the 27th Street Body Shop. Darren appeared just then. He carried the coffin through the aisle to the hearse, waiting in front. The Gatteaus followed closely behind.
“Darren,” whispered Mr. Gatteau, “you come with us.”
Darren nodded. He gave Portia a tiny shoulder hug and then opened the door for the Gatteaus. He entered last, sitting next to Portia. He held out a hand and she tangled her fingers between his. She used her free hand to flip the book open. She pantomimed reading it, but she was just staring through the page until Mrs. Gatteau reached over and flipped it shut.
Portia remained silent as she stared out the window at the purple and white flag flickering on the hood.
It was just as cold as she imagined when she got out of the hearse. Bitter wind licked at her face. She twisted her scarf around her neck and cinched the hood on her jacket.
They hiked through the wet snow to the burial tent. The pallbearers clambered as they slid on the muddy ground surrounding the tent. A few volunteers came up behind and eased the coffin onto its carrier.
The preacher hurried through the benediction and the funeral director moved his attendants into position as they lowered the coffin into the grave. The preacher concluded the ceremony and everyone filtered back to their cars. The funeral director was last to leave, taking the Gatteaus back to the funeral home and Phoebe’s car.
Afterwards, a small group gathered at the Gatteau house. Darren sat next to Portia, who sat alone at the kitchen table with the food while everone else gathered in the tiny living room with the rest of the Gatteaus.
“Can you take me somewhere?” asked Portia.
“Where do you want to go?”
“Anywhere.”
“Alright, let’s go.”
Darren drove around Pittsburgh, riding from freeway-to-freeway into and out of the city.
“I absolutely love this city. All these bridges connecting one part of town to the other. Pittsburgh is the American Paris.”
Portia laughed whole-heartedly.
“What?”
"Why do people always compare American cities to Paris? I can't imagine they're anything like Paris."
“Instead of the Seine, you’ve got the Monongahela, Allegheny, and the Ohio.”
“Oh, Darren…” Portia continued to laugh.
“What? I’m serious.”
“Pittsburgh is the American Pittsburgh and that’s about it.”
“It’s an absolutely beautiful city.”
“You do realize we live East of Liberty, right?”
“Take a look around you.”
Portia pulled her head off Darren’s shoulder and sat up straight as a bolt. She pivoted her head around, surveying the skyline.
“Yes, the American Paris…” she laughed.
“Forget it.”
After her laughter faded, she reclined her seat and gazed up through the moon roof. Lights blazed by as they headed through the downtown streets. Portia tried to figure out where they were as Darren turned from one side street to the next. She finally recognized the surroundings when they returned to Homewood South. The dirty old buildings still had class, unlike the new, upper class buildings.
“Where do you want to stay tonight?”
“I’ll stay with you,” said Portia
“Yeah, but I mean where?”
“Let’s stay at our place.”
“That sounds good to me.”
They went into Alex and Ramona’s place, which was now theirs for the time being. Darren went to the restroom as soon as they got home. As soon as he was ready, he headed to his bed.
“Where are you going?”
“To bed.”
“Can you can stay with me tonight?”
Darren sighed.
“Please? I’ve had a horrible couple of days. I’ve not only lost my brother, but my best friend, too. I can’t be alone right now.”
Darren went to her. She held out a hand and he grabbed it, leading her to her room. She stripped out of her clothes right there in front of Darren. Then, she hopped into pajamas and slipped into bed and curled up beside him.
When she laid her head on his chest, he inhaled and exhaled deeply. He really wasn’t sure what was going on between them. He wasn’t even sure he wanted to know.
For Portia, it was good enough just to not be alone.
.
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