The Vikings didn’t bury their dead. They built wood funeral houses in which to lay their dead, and those funeral houses were set on boats, and those boats were set aflame by fiery arrows shot from the shore. The dead, reverently laid with their faces pressed to the sky, burned; the gold or silver coins on their eyes, a final appraisal until all was liquid and ash. For Stevie, that was glorious.
As a kid, she wanted to be a Viking. She thought she was brave; throw-yourself-before-a-gun-to-save-the-one-you-love kind of brave. She was restless and agitated, suffering night sweats and heart palpitations at the nothingness of her life. But when she closed her eyes, she saw what her life could be; she hunted like a specter in search of her own Elysium, a place where she might burn in death with the fire she lacked in life.
June. The back seat of the Lincoln is black as squid ink. And cold, the seat is cold. It reminds Stevie of cold, raw salmon. Even when the leather seat sizzles and steams at the sticky contact of her hot flesh, still, the backseat is cold. Even when Eddie pops the door open to the white daylight and dewy humidity, and slides in, folding his long body like a marionette, still, the backseat is cold and black. She casts her eyes quickly to Eddie as he settles and she murmurs a self-conscious “hello”.
His response is dry, his smile more so — “You’re always so happy to see me.” — as he adjusts his backpack between his legs. The second zipper is broken and its open mouth limps pathetically in on itself. His dress, in contrast, is meticulous and starched, his pants rolled once at the hem to reveal thin, bony white ankles. It’s a look that seems misplaced for his 37-year-old self. There is shuffling as the two atypical companions get settled into the seats before the driver asks if they’re ready and pulls out crossing 9th Avenue, then 8th, then 7th, 6th, and Broadway, before turning left onto the Avenue of Choices heading Uptown. He knows where to go.
Stevie wears a supple, white cotton Prada dress— a hand-me-down — that leaves her arms and legs mostly bare for the downy, lanugo hairs that stand erect on her skin to waver in the blow of the air conditioning. She presses her palms to her arms, then rubs them in consistent motion.
“So,” Eddie says.
“Sew buttons,” she attempts the joke, but it only reminds her of her Momma and turns her sad.
She turns to avoid his unamused stare and lets silence fill the space between them. Then quietly, hesitatingly, but punchily — even though she knows what his reaction will be — she expresses her doubts, “Am I doing the right thing?”
“You’re not very strong-willed, are you?.” He exhales. He straightens his collar mechanically as he’s done hundreds of times before, his fingers clasping onto the starched fabric. He adjusts his long, scholarly frame with contrasting ungainliness, retucking his legs in the space at his feet. “You made a decision; stick with it.” He turns his attention out the window. “Besides,” he says on the slight, “It’ll look ridiculous if you pull back now.”
When he turns to look at her, she feels it like a challenge.
“I should’ve written a note.” Her hands, like broken wings, lay to rest in her lap.
“It doesn’t matter,” he stresses. “This is your Choice, no one else’s.”
Stevie stares out the cab window at a mural painted on the southern side of a brick building as we pass. On it, a woman with pretty eyes and a youthful face looks solemnly at the camera. “I’ve made my Choice,” the caption reads, “Are you brave enough?” Another next to it displays a tragically slumped individual besides a toilet. Written in what looks like a pool of vomit, it reads, “Make sure you know where you’ll be found. Schedule your Ceremony today.” The paint looks oily and new, similar to the many billboards popping up around the city advertising these End-Of-Life Ceremonies.
If she glances over, she knows she will see Eddie shaking his head, back against the headrest, his eyes closed. She will see his chest rise and fall with an exaggerated, but silent, sigh, his Adam’s apple oscillating. It had become a familiar sight to her over the two years they’d been an acquaintance. At one time, Stevie thought his constant disapproval of her meant he loved her. She took his nit-picking of her behavior and thoughts as a kind of hand-up, a way to close the ten-year age gap that stood between them. She delighted in the way he pointed out her child-like peculiarities because, to her, it meant he was thinking of her, observing her. Even though it was mostly negative, with seldom a positive word of affirmation passing through his lips, when Eddie did – in fact – praise her, she felt lit up like a thousand fireflies. His wonderful little oddity, he called her. He liked to keep her close, a challenge for his rigid and academic brain to comprehend. They were not lovers.
But lately, Stevie had begun to taste traces of acid in one of his well-rehearsed lines that made her suspicious. She had heard it dozens of times; it was his favorite way to end a conversation without losing his enforced superiority over her. She knows what the next words out of his mouth will be as they sit in the cab. She silently forms the words just as he utters, “I don’t understand you.”
She drags her finger across the window with a streak and traces the outline of her face. It is a washed reflection of herself, murky and watered down, and she observes the frantic, soul-bleeding world through it.
At a stop light, the decorative street sign reads Avenue of Choices where 5th Avenue used to be. The traffic is thick as sludge in Ceremony Season, the long avenue clogged with cars. Storefronts boast their best and most avant-garde Choices, restaurants offer special Final Meal Deals, and windows, like the sly slits of a fashion eye, tantalize and challenge onlookers. A young woman in a lime green sundress that sashays around her leather-wrapped ankles stands on the sidewalk. The woman’s neck stretches to see the display in a storefront advertising a unique Ceremony: a quiet desertion on an island in the Aegean Sea.
Eddie had said that doing it this way was the only way to ensure the Ceremony’s significance; it was the only way to dignify such a choice, a private Ceremony. No frills. No audience. No objections.
“You’re right,” Stevie finally says, but the words feel caught behind her teeth. She glances at Eddie.
His tone is sardonic. “Of course I’m right.”
“But,” she shifts. Stevie pulls at the petals of her blue hydrangea bouquet, rubbing each one between her thumb and forefinger until it is bruised and useless. “I didn’t say goodbye…” She takes a breath, sprinkling the crushed remains of ochre-stained petals on her lap.
“Stevie.”
She looks up. Eddie’s eyes, like the petals, are ochre-stained blue.
He reaches across the leather seat to take her hand in his own. “This is good.” He intertwines their fingers and rubs her knuckles with a force he’s never used before.
Stevie melts. She shakes her head and presses my eyes shut while gripping Eddie’s hand. “Remind me.”
His voice is steady and logical. He untangles his fingers from hers just as he untangles her doubt. “You have to take your life into your own hands.”
“At least you’ll be by my side.”
He tucks his chin and pulls away. “Those don’t sound like the words of an independent and self-assured woman to me.”
Stevie shuts her mouth at the reproach and pulls back. He’s right, and she hangs her head, staring solemnly at her lap.
Eddie reaches out again. “I like this,” he says, grasping some of the dress fabric; it’s perfect on you.”
She brightens again, then notices his backpack is tucked beneath the front passenger seat. He follows her glance and presses it further under the seat.
“Did you teach a class this morning? I thought you don’t have classes on Monday morning.” Stevie asks.
He murmurs something she can’t hear, then turns his attention to the driver and clears his throat. “Excuse me?”
The driver, a thin man with sharp, high cheekbones and a beard that seems to have painted itself against his skin comes to life, his eyebrows raised.
“How much farther?” Eddie glances at Stevie and adds teasingly, “She’s getting nervous; might have a case of cold feet.”
“Ceremony, huh?” And then to Stevie, he says, “Another fifteen blocks to the Plaza. How did you manage a Ceremony at the Plaza in June? You must have been waiting a long time.”
“Not really,” I say. “They do last-minute Ceremonies.”
“For an exorbitant price, I’ll bet.”
Exorbitant. It was costing her everything. “It wasn’t cheap.”
“Here-” he shuffles some papers on the front seat and hands back a Vogue: New Generation magazine to me, “there’s an article in here on cold feet; might be worth a read.”
Stevie takes it. Eddie catches her gaze.
“This is good,” he says again. She feels her cheeks grow warm, a pink stain revealing the impact of his approval. “I’m proud of you,” he says.
“I really want to do this right,” she says when her breath returns to her. “I should say, if we’re going to do what’s wrong, I want to do it right.” Stevie releases a child-like giggle that makes her seem younger than her twenty-five years. Eddie immediately withdraws, his chin tucked again. He looks disturbed.
“You think this is wrong?”
“Well, I-”
“If you think it’s wrong, then why would you do it?” He stares at me with a look that twists my stomach and shrinks my insides.
“I know. Eddie, I didn’t-”
“I’m not making you do this. This is your decision. If you think it’s wrong, then why would you do it?” He sneers.
Stevie lets silence fill the car and waits for the atmosphere to reset. “Eddie, I’m sorry. You’re right. This is my choice, and you’ve done so much to help me get here. I know you don’t have to, but you choose to and I’m really grateful.”
“I…care about you,” he says, “and I want to support you if this is what you want, but your indecisiveness makes it difficult.”
“I’m sorry,” I say again, even more gently. “I need to screw my courage to the sticking place, you’re right. Why don’t you read this article to me? It might help. Only don’t go; I can’t do it without you.”
He takes up the magazine and bristles through the pages.
“5 Ways to Overcome Cold Feet Before Your Ceremony,” he reads the title, but everything about him has grown quiet. He moves down the list, one by one.
- Distance yourself from your family; they will only hold you back and make you reconsider; they threaten your autonomy).
- Rid yourself of all worldly possessions; they will only hold you bound and make you reconsider.
As Stevie listens, she clicks her tongue in nervous habit along with the soft music playing in the cab.
She notices he stops reading. She turns to him. “What?”
“Could you stop?”
“Stop what?”
“That noise. It’s so annoying.”
Stevie stops. He resumes.
3. Do it with a loved one who supports your Choice; they will keep you company and might even be willing to join you.
Eddie draws out the last few words. Stevie smiles at him.
4. Choose an exciting venue, one that encapsulates who you are but will also keep people talking for weeks after (how you will be honored is one of the greatest motivators to keep you going through with the Ceremony!)
5. Pick a unique time, a specific time. Remember, you want to have the greatest impact, to stand out!
“Thanks,” she says when he finishes. “That was really helpful of you. Hand me those pamphlets?”
“You haven’t decided yet?” He asks.
“No.” The word comes out with a sharp defense. “I’ll pick one now. I have some ideas. Do you have any preference?”
“You don’t want to do this.” His response hammers with disappointment.
“Of course I do.”
“Then pick one.”
He pulls out a brochure from the front-seat back pocket advertising New York City’s most illustrious venues and options. His forehead creases in concentration. “This one is fun: mauled by a bear.”
“In the middle of New York?”
“What do you think?” he quips and reads the description. “Put yourself to good use: feed the wildlife!”
Stevie leans over to look. “Does it say that?”
“Wait, listen to this,” he says, laughing and fighting off her hand. “‘A walk in the woods; peaceful, quiet moments.’ Look, there’s an Arranger for this one. They organize everything…helicopter, camp…a Ceremony is guaranteed. Well,” he chuffs, “everyone would be talking about you for days; I bet you’d make the news cycle.”
“You mean—.”
“Ooh,” he says.
He flips the page while Stevie stares leerily on, imaging bone and sinew strewn across a forest floor. “That’s beautiful, he says. “What a spot for a Ceremony. I wonder how they guarantee it…do you think the bears are starved ahead of time?”
Stevie’s face twists with a look of horror and disgust and he quickly reforms with a flip of his hands. “It’s your choice.”
“If that’s umm, what you want. You’re in this, too, I suppose…” her voice wavers.
“Let’s see what else they have.”
He scans the list. “This…hmmm…exquisite hotel room,” he murmurs, “You’ve always wanted to stay at the Plaza; look at that bathtub there.”
Stevie draws back instantly, shaking her head and pushing the idea away with her hands. “I hate those kinds of Ceremonies. Private, but so overdone and tragic. I don’t want to be tragic. I don’t want to be pitied or melodramatic.” She thinks for a moment. “I’m not sure I want to be found.”
“We’re heading there now; it might be the most expedient option.” I want him to see the effect of his words, but he’s immersed in the brochure. “Or choose the bear option, if you don’t want to be found.”
She bristles. “I’m not looking for expediency. And I’m not sure if I want to be found; maybe I do.” I fall quiet.
Eddie sighs. “Make up your mind.”
“Here.” The driver brings the car to a full stop in front of the chateau-styled entrance of the Plaza Hotel.
Stevie hesitates when the driver opens the door for her to step out. Eddie is already waiting on the red carpet stairs beneath the French Renaissance awning but disappears past the revolving doors before my foot hits the pavement.
“It wasn’t always this way.”
“What?” Stevie pulls her gaze from the entrance and looks up at the driver who is staring strangely at her.
“It started as awareness, I guess,” he continues.
“Awareness?” She hands the magazine back to him. What on earth was he talking about?
“When you participate in a ceremony, you are both the victim and the perpetrator, united by one factor: choice. We’ve gotten good at emphasizing the victimization but for some reason like to diminish their perp status. Don’t want to step on any toes, I guess – I don’t see how dead toes matter all that much to the living though.”
The driver shuts the door of the cab and resumes his position in the driver’s seat, pulling out into the city traffic.
Stevie watches after him for a moment before starting up the red-carpeted stairs.
When she enters the vaulted lobby, she sees Eddie to the right at a decorative reception desk. On its walnut polished front, a brass plaque. The Arranger. Eddie looks casual, leaning towards the man behind the desk, chatting amicably.
“Ah, Ms. Violet, I presume,” the bubbly blonde man with eyes pulled too tight stretches out his hand as I reach the desk. “Mr. Walsh tells me you’ve decided to have a ceremony, but aren’t sure what kind you’d like.”
She blinks. Once. Twice. Eddie is grinning and unperturbed, and the Arranger — Stevie looks at the small name plate — Jacob Barlowe – has a goon-ish smile plastered across his face.
“The bears,” Stevie says, trying to keep her chin straight.
Both men raise their eyebrows in a flicker. Then Jacob Barlowe rests his hand on his chest as if to gather himself and takes a small breath, but his goon-ish smile has returned in electrifying wattage.
“Well, Ms. Violet, let me be the first to congratulate you on your choice, sincerely.” He rings the bell on his desk.
“Please, join me in congratulating Ms. Violet on her upcoming ceremony!”
A chorus of applause swells as strangers nod and shake Stevie’s hand in solemn congratulations, while others look upon her with green envy. But she’s looking at Eddie, whose face has hardened to stone, an odd sneering look of jealously twisting what is trying to be a smile.
“Come, come here. Have a seat, Ms. Violet. We’re so happy you’ve chosen the Plaza for your special day, and anything you need in the next twelve hours is our pleasure. We pride ourselves on respecting the privacy of your decision, and only have one question.”
The Arranger sits down beside her on the pink French Louis XVI settee and looks her dead in the eye. “Is this what you want?”
There’s something sincere in the gentle concentration of his gaze, something she’s seen before. She recognizes it as an unfettered concern. She’s seen it on the faces of people she passes on the street.
But there’s something else in his gaze. There’s… an agitation. A twitch of the lip now and again like a robotic shell encases him. Sad and soulful, his eyes are like gaping wounds. Empathy unchecked by reason.
“Yes, I’m sure this is what I want.”
“Wonderful. Then you will have what you want.” He says simply.
He snaps his fingers and suddenly, Stevie is surrounded by half a dozen people each quickly rattling off their role in helping her prepare for her ceremony. One is asking her where she’d like her things to be sent post-ceremony. Another pulls at her arm, asking her to stand so she can be measured for her Ceremony dress, then pauses after looking at her notebook.
“Oh no, the bears. A dress, are you sure?” When Stevie doesn’t respond, the seamstress shrugs her shoulders. “Fine, a dress,” she says.
Another is waiting to take her order for the Ceremony meal. Stevie is speechless, trying surreptitiously to watch Eddie. For a moment, his eyes are on her, studying her, analyzing her, and boring into her soul, it feels. His eyebrows crease and press together, and his gaze focuses. He is so still and so steady, and her heart wants to fling from its hiding place and grab onto that steadiness and never let go. With all her might, she wants to be like him. She wants to be loved by him.
When the crowd dissipates, she walks over to where he stands and cautiously turns her face toward him. He doesn’t say anything, but she knows right then and there that deep down, he loves her. She knows it.
The Arranger calls her forward; he’s waiting at the elevator to take her up to her suite.
Eddie brushes his hands brusquely against her cheeks and says softly, “I’ll be right behind you.”
But when Stevie turns in the elevator to look once more at Eddie’s tall figure, he doesn’t smile. He simply stares, a surprised look pained across his face as the elevator slices the space between them.
***
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