Little Black No-No

Deirdre arrived exactly 45 minutes late to the memorial service. The clock on her mobile phone told her so as she entered the small pentagonal building, nervous, head slightly bent, a knockout in the black jersey wrap dress that clung to the contours of her body—in all the right places.

A coat could have tamed her “va-va-va-voom look,” one more suited to a night on the town than for a 90-degree summer afternoon at her lover’s father’s wake. A breezy heat intensified the perfume of a striking wisteria that cascaded down the walls and from an overhang under which Deirdre parked her Lexus. Bees by the hundreds feasted on the nectar of the vine’s divine show of panicled, pale lavender blooms. Their collective buzzing seemed to echo Deirdre’s urgency to get herself inside the building—now!

Her stiletto heels clop-clopped on the entryway’s parquet flooring, like a horse’s hooves on a cobblestone street, as she attempted to tiptoe quietly to a vacant tweed-covered seat in the back row. The clang of the double metal-framed doors upon entry made less noise than her shoes, even when she mistakenly pushed the handles a few times before realizing she needed to pull them. Ugh.

Funeral perfect, no?

Undistracted by Deirdre’s arrival, a man she didn’t recognize stood before a gathering of about 50 family and friends. He would be the last to come forth and publicly share his condolences. “I will miss our Sunday morning chats,” he lamented before stepping out from behind a walnut podium.

From the first row, Seth was the first to peer toward the door upon Deirdre’s arrival. His eyes briefly met hers, which were heavily mascaraed (“Another no-no,” he could already his mother saying). Sitting to her right, he glanced over at his mother, half expecting her to budge in response to the latecomer’s commotion if not to meet his own gaze. But it was as if grief sharpened her focus, compelled her to look in only one direction. Forward.

Her inaction reminded him of how he and his younger brother, Nathan, who sat to his mother’s right, used to marvel at her ability to monitor their every move when they were children. Without even having to look at them, she knew right well when her boys were being ornery. As a youngster, Nathan made a proclamation that would be revived at several family gatherings through the years. “She has eyes on the back AND the sides of her head!” Seth could sense Mom’s “super vision” had been kick-started the moment Deirdre set foot in the room.

Still gazing undetected at his mother, he noticed that the sunglasses she wore sat slightly crooked on her nose. The long, printed skirt she chose (his father’s favorite, by the way) slightly overwhelmed her tiny frame, but a matching blazer of crisp navy-blue linen balanced the proportion. In her left hand she clutched a handkerchief with tattered crochet trim and an embroidered daffodil bloom and bumble bee in one corner. Seth had given it to her as a Mother’s Day gift several years ago. Daffodils were her favorite. She loved that the bulbs multiplied and magically sent up new shoots every March along the stretch of path leading to the front door of their Craftsman home. As a toddler, Seth’s parents let him drop bulbs by the handful into the holes they’d first dug in the rich, loamy soil of their garden some 50 years ago.

To his mother, Deirdre was no daffodil. He could already hear the words he knew would be uttered later from the lips of the first love of his life—words that worked only to dim the thoughts of a future with this disrespectful bombshell. “She has some nerve dressing like that! It’s your father’s funeral for heaven’s sake!” Seth thought she may as well have called Deirdre a whore.

Before he could ponder his mother’s stinging words and merciless power over him any further, the din of the room suddenly changed, shaking him from his quasi nightmare of a daydream. Folks exchanged pleasantries, gave hugs, shook their heads, and bee-lined to a banquet table topped with an enormous punchbowl and several platters piled high with finger foods.

Deirdre approached him quietly from behind. “Seth, I’m so sorry that I’m late. I can explain…” He slowly spun around, his mind spent from sorrowful thoughts of his late father suddenly replaced with imaginings of him fucking her.

She had straightened her naturally wavy jet-black hair. It fell to her shoulders, slightly brushing her open neckline. Deirdre had a habit of flipping her hair to one side and simultaneously pursing her lips, which today were coated with a pale pink gloss that smelled like a cosmopolitan. (He loved it when she did that!) Other than a light scattering of freckles on her nose, her complexion was smooth and flawless. Her cheeks were kissed with blush, the kind that gives you “a bee-stung look!” according to the Allure magazine she’d left at his apartment one weekend.

And that dress! Damn, she’s hot, he thought. And damn me for being such a mama’s boy! He knew it was seriously bad timing for such a fashion statement, one he wanted to quickly (or slowly) ease her out of.

“It’s OK. I’m glad you’re here,” Seth told her.

“You two should go have something to eat,” said his mother, who suddenly appeared, executing her polite way of interrupting a conversation. She held a small plate with a single spring roll, a small cucumber sandwich, and a dollop of spinach dip. He knew she wouldn’t eat any of it. All the grief had diminished any trace of an appetite.

Deirdre hugged her, expressing sorrow for our family’s loss, and profusely apologized for her lapse in etiquette (for being late not for wearing an inappropriate dress).

Seth and Deirdre sauntered slowly toward the line for the food. Had they quickly turned around they would have spied his mother walking off in the opposite direction, quite visibly shaking her head, and sighing loudly in disbelief.