The Land of Mango Sunsets (Continued)
I hurried along to the funeral service, tiptoeing inside the church and finding my seat next to my dearest friend and other tenant, Kevin Dolan.
"I have always loved Saint Bartholomew's," I whispered to him. I removed my coat and gloves and, as inconspicuously as possible, settled in the pew. The service had already begun and I regretted the fact that I was late, even if it was only by a few minutes. In the steamer trunk of middle age, folded, packed and wrinkled with one physical and emotional insult after another, Perimenopause had delivered a measure of intolerance, even for myself.
"Me too." Kevin whispered back and sighed. "Poor Mr. O'Hara. Who ever thought he would just drop dead on the cross town bus? Just like that! Poof. Gone." He popped his wrist in front of him in a gesture that equated Mr. O'Hara's death with a magician's now you see him, now you don't!
"Hush," whispered someone in front of us.
We paused in silence in deference to the occasion and then couldn't resist continuing our recap on the fragile nature of life in the Big Apple. That was the effect Kevin always had on me. In his presence I became a young gossiping washwoman, emphasis on young.
"Pockets picked and ID stolen," I added in a carefully calibrated low volume of clear displeasure. "Disgusting!"
"Five days in the city morgue? Dreadful! If I hadn't called his family . . ."
"He's lucky he wasn't eaten by rats. Thank heavens for dental records . . ."
"Who could believe he went to a dentist with his snaggleteeth?" Kevin said.
"Please. He was my . . ." said the woman in front of us, her shoulders racking with sobs.
Chastised for a second time, we were immediately quieted but our eyes met over our lowered sunglasses with identical expressions of devilish curiosity. Did our Mr. O'Hara have a lover? Was this reprimanding woman in front of us Mr. O'Hara's tart? We shook our heads. Not possible, I thought, but knew we would discuss it later. Who had the strength and tolerance for relationships? Certainly neither of us did. Although I wouldn't mind if, on occasion, George Clooney found himself between my sheets.
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