On Thursday mornings Herman made a pot of coffee and sat down at the dining table to scan the obituaries for which funeral he was going to attend that weekend. His selection was usually based upon which cause of death most intrigued him, but today it was a name that caught his attention: Marigold Malgahyde.
Marigold, or “Goldie” as she was referred to by close friends and family, died of liver cancer at the age of 43. No doubt a raging alcoholic, thought Herman, which could result in some very interesting guests attending the service. Drinking companions swapping stories about how she danced on tables and closed down the bar, taking home and bedding whichever lucky gentleman was strong enough to carry her the few blocks to her apartment. Lovers she fucked passionately, and then threw things at when they slipped on their shoes to head home to their wives. Friends who praised her to her face but gossiped about her “little problem” incessantly behind her back. Her favorite bartender at Moe’s who’d just recently named a drink after her—the “Golden Negligee,"- a mix of apricot and apple brandies with gin, orange juice, and grenadine served in a martini glass, the rim dipped in sugar. Her parents who’d more or less disowned her after her fourth stint in rehab, and after she’d stolen their car and two days later returned it by crashing through the living room wall.
Of course these were just assumptions on Herman’s part. Marigold Malgahyde could have been a saint. But he doubted it.
On Saturday, the day of the service, he took out his navy blue polyester suit, shinned his shoes, slicked his hair to one side, shaved, and headed over to Allen Brothers Funeral Home. He’d thought about picking up some flowers, not something he was really in the habit of doing when he came to these things, but the idea of walking in with a basket of daisies mixed with goldenrods amused him. It seemed clever, somehow. But he was running late so didn’t stop, and found when he got there that there were others who were feeling just as clever that day. There were baskets and vases of goldenrods everywhere. It was like a can of yellow paint had sat in the sun too long and exploded. He almost went back to the car for his sunglasses.
Herman took a seat in a center pew on the left hand side of the chapel. He wouldn’t make his way up to the front to view the body until after the service. He wanted to get a sense of who the woman was before he took a long look at her and made any rash judgments based solely on her appearance. It only seemed fair that way.
He closed his eyes and listened to the murmurings going on around him. The first of what he heard was usual funeral talk. Such a tragedy, it was just so sudden, those poor kids, he seems to be holding up well… that sort of thing. But it wasn’t long before some juicy gossip started to surface. “It ran in the family. It’s what killed her mother, you know. After she died, Frank was never really all there. Kept Goldie fed, a roof over her head, clothes on her back, but never really had a relationship with her. Took her first drink at 13. I know because I was there. Thanksgiving, found her out behind the shed with a bottle of, oh what was it now? Brandy? Scotch? Whatever it was, she developed a taste for it. Looked for all the answers at the bottom of her glass. When there weren’t any, she’d fill it up and try again. Didn’t get her very far.”
Herman opened his eyes and looked in the direction of the voice laying the path of Goldie’s demise brick by brick for whatever unfortunate soul had mistakenly chosen to sit next to her. It was an old woman, late sixties, early seventies, wearing a royal purple hat with a blazer to match. On the lapel was a gold broach—a lady bug with red rubies spotting the wings. She was turned around, her hands clenching the back of the pew. The young man she was speaking to was Herman’s age. The man was wearing the same blue polyester suit as Herman, which he thought was an odd coincidence. The old woman glanced over at Herman, and then croaked out at him, “How did you know Goldie?”
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