The Secret Life of Sunflowers by Marta Molnar

Author:Marta Molnar [Molnar, Marta]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781940627489
Publisher: Marta Molnar

Chapter Seventeen

Emsley

* * *

“I can’t tell if it’s a circus or a funeral.” My mother shifted on her chair, the kind of shocked horror in her voice she normally reserved for people who quit perfectly good jobs or marriages to “find themselves.” Or for when one of her friends’ children chose to study liberal arts. “What kind of funeral home would even allow a carnival band? An accordion player, for heaven’s sake.” She tugged on my father’s elbow. “Philip, stop that man.”

“They have bagpipes at Scottish funerals,” Dad said in a philosophical tone.

Mom sat up straighter, not a small accomplishment since she’d already been stiff enough to give ramrods inspiration. She’d been holding her solemn-Nancy-Reagan expression for so long, I feared her features might freeze that way permanently. I’d mistakenly called it a discreetly-grieving-Jackie-Kennedy look when she’d arrived. She’d corrected me with “Don’t be crass, Emsley. I would never look like a Democrat.”

She wore one of her black Nordstrom suits. I wore Violet’s blue-red-yellow Mondrian dress that I’d found the day before in the wardrobe in the basement, along with her white go-go boots and navy-blue pillbox hat, all in attendance. My new sunflower earrings sparkled in my ears.

“I can’t believe you squeezed yourself into that old rag,” Mom said.

Despite Bram’s bagel deliveries, I’d lost a few pounds. I kept forgetting to eat. Also, as it turned out, cleaning counted as exercise.

The May afternoon was nice enough to have windows open in the back, and the faint notes of a different kind of music filtered in. A merry-go-round revolved endlessly in the funeral home’s parking lot, similar to the one in Violet’s basement.

Mom nudged Dad again. “Why can’t they close the windows, at least? You should talk to someone about that.”

My father simply patted her hand.

Violet had a detailed plan for her Celebration of Life service, from beer on tap to a carnival band and a fortune-teller. A hot dog cart provided food, and a cotton-candy maker offered dessert.

She’d left her old friend and attorney in charge, and Bram Dekker Sr. had followed Violet’s instructions to the letter. Including a sign in the entry hall, a quote by Stan Laurel: “IF ANY OF YOU CRY AT MY FUNERAL, I’LL NEVER SPEAK TO YOU AGAIN.”

Black-clad people filed by us in an endless line, then by the cherry-red-and-chrome coffin reminiscent of Violet’s old Mustang. Violet looked peaceful, fabulous, and mysterious—a diva to the end.

I tried not to look at her so I wouldn’t cry. She’d been clear that she wanted the day to be festive. A joyful celebration, her instructions specifically said.

Her funeral notice requested that people donate to her scholarship fund in lieu of flowers, so I filled the dozens of easels that surrounded her with her own paintings instead of wreaths. The paintings came from private collections, on loan for the day. The overall effect was stunning: color and light and life, movement, joy, adventure.

After reading about Vincent van Gogh’s death in the little green book, I grabbed a volume of his works from Violet’s bookshelf.

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