Cranston when she moved around too much, that it disturbed his reading when she walked in and out of the room. He didn’t like to call for help, would never shout to the next room that he needed something. He liked someone to be right there, so that he could just turn his head and Martha could say, “Did you need to go to the restroom?” or “Are you thirsty?”
Jaz was agitated lately, on the phone with her family often, and she confided in Martha that she didn’t like the “no-good” man that her daughter was dating.
“If she marries him, so help me God, I will kidnap her and leave the country.”
“Is he abusive?” Martha asked. She was imagining Jaz and her daughter running for their lives.
“Is he what? No, child. He’s just a lazy shit.”
“Oh.”
“Mark my words, if they end up getting married, my Marly will work herself to the bone, while he lays around the house smoking dope in his skivvies and watching talk shows.”
“Did you tell her that you don’t like him?”
“Did I tell her? I tell her every day that he’s worthless. I tell him, too, when I see him. It doesn’t seem to help. He don’t scare easy, I’ll give him that.”
Martha tried to imagine what it would be like to have Jaz as a mother, or to be in a family where people just said exactly what they were thinking, shouting their opinion no matter what it was. She didn’t see how much good could come from that.
ONE AFTERNOON, MARTHA WAS IN Mr. Cranston’s office, looking for a new credit card to give to the bookstore. “The old one expired,” Jaz told Martha on her way out the door. “The new one is on his desk, I think. Just call them with the new number. He’s getting cranky and needs his books.”
The desk was covered with folders and file cards that had notes and lists written on them. Martha felt like she was snooping, even though Jaz had told her to go through the papers. She carefully lifted one set of folders and placed them to the side, then picked up a couple of loose pieces of paper and that was when she saw the manila folder, labeled FUNERAL.
She couldn’t believe it. She glanced at the door and then opened the folder before she could even stop herself. It was full of old funeral mass booklets, some of which were marked with Mr. Cranston’s handwriting. There were readings that were circled, and some that were crossed over with a big X, sometimes a NO written next to it for good measure.
Martha heard a noise in the hall and she shut the folder quickly. She spotted the new credit card, grabbed it, and ran out into the hall holding it in the air, like it was a badge proving that she wasn’t snooping. But no one was there.
All afternoon, Martha kept thinking about what it must be like for Mr. Cranston to plan his own funeral. How scary it must be to know that death was coming. Of course, she knew that death was coming for everyone, but it must be strange to know without a doubt that it was coming soon. He was so organized, so efficient. It looked like just another business file on his desk, just one more thing to cross off his list.
Sometimes, imagining her own funeral, Martha could make herself cry. She didn’t sob, but if she pictured her parents and siblings sitting in a pew, pictured Cathy bent over with grief, she could get a tear or two out. After all, it would be such a tragedy, such a shame if she were to die now.
There were times when Martha imagined that she’d died of a long and drawn-out disease, which would give her time to prepare, as Mr. Cranston was doing. She would write letters to all the people that were important to her, and leave instructions for them to be opened on the day of her funeral. And of course, she’d write an open letter to be read at the actual service. She’d probably have Claire read it—her parents would be too distraught, and Max wasn’t great at public speaking. She could have Cathy do it, but she was a little rough sometimes, and Martha would want the letter to be read with quiet emotion. Claire would be devastated too, of course, but Martha would explain that it was her last sisterly duty, and Claire would come