Together Always Betty Wilson Beamguard Daddy died on a Thursday, and the next day I had all the decisions to make—what kind of casket, whether to have him carried into the church, the funeral time, all that stuff. And when Mr. Hoffman totaled the bill, he nearly got another body. But what can you do? I took a deep breath and signed on the dotted line. I heard Frieda and looked around. There stood my skinny little sister in a black jumpsuit with mascara smeared all over her face. Why would she put on mascara knowing she was going to be crying? When I stood up, she hugged me and said, “I got here as soon as I could.” “Well, it wasn’t soon enough. I had to do everything by myself.” “Listen, I had to pack, book a flight, find somebody to come to the apartment to walk the dogs, and somebody to fill in for me at the gallery. I do have a life, you know.” I glanced at Mr. Hoffman who was shuffling papers, pretending to be deaf. I said, “I’m done here. Let’s go. How did you get here?” “Rented a car at the airport.” “Good. You drive.” I shoved open the heavy outer door. “Drive where?” “We’ve got to go by Daddy’s for Chichi and have him put down. Daddy wants him buried with him.” She stopped right there on the sidewalk. “Sandra, tell me you’re kidding.” “Nope, that’s the last thing Daddy said to me. He didn’t want him left to grieve like he did after Mama died. He wants Chichi in the casket with him. Now let’s go.” When we got to the car, she whirled around to face me. “That is so primitive. It’s like the Vikings sending their dead into the next world with horses and dogs.” I noticed a couple crossing the parking lot. “Can we settle this in the car or do you want to put on a show?” She unlocked the doors, we got in, and she turned up the air conditioner. I said, “He should have been put down a long time ago. He has cataracts, kidney problems, arthritis—you name it, he’s got it.” She pulled a tissue from her mini-purse and blew before she put the car into drive. “So he didn’t have the heart to put him to sleep, but now he wants us to do it?” “That’s Daddy.” When we got to the house, I used my key to unlock the side door and that cranky Chihuahua met us yipping and snarling. Frieda bent down and said, “Poor Chichi. Come here baby. Come to Aunt Frieda.” When she reached for him, he nailed her. “You ready to kill him now?” “He’s just scared.” “See what you can find for him in the frig. We’ve got to get him settled down. I’m going to look for a box.” I found a good-sized shoebox and dumped the shoes in the bottom of the closet. When I got back to the kitchen, Frieda said, “I didn’t find anything but ham. That would upset his tummy.” “Ham is fine. In thirty minutes, he won’t know he has a tummy.” She looked at me like I was the most heartless, disgusting person she’d ever run across. I snatched out the ham, chopped it up and offered it to him in my palm. Chichi eased over and finally took some. He lapped up every bite. Before he could get away, I grabbed him around his middle with both hands and held him away from my face while he kicked and twisted, trying to get his head into position to bite me. “Get the shoebox and open the door,” I yelled. She did and followed me into the carport. I stuffed him into his carrier and slammed it shut. Frieda opened the car door, and I set the carrier on the back seat. As we pulled away, she said, “Are we going to his vet?” “No, better go to Pineville. I’d rather not have the whole town talking about this.” “I guess you would. If it does get out, be sure everybody knows I was against it.” Chichi started vomiting. “Oh gross,” yelled Frieda. “I told you not to feed him ham. Did it get on the car?” I glanced back and saw chunks and slime all over the seat. “A little. But it’s a rental, so it’s somebody else’s problem. I’ll donate the carrier to the vet.” “I’ve got to drive this car until I fly back to Houston.” “It’s fresh. It doesn’t smell that bad.” “It won’t stay fresh!” When we got there, Frieda refused to go in, so I tucked the shoebox under one arm and snatched up the carrier. I told the receptionist my beloved Chichi had a lot of health problems and needed to be put to sleep. I said his regular vet loved him so much I couldn’t ask him to do it. She was very sympathetic and returned ten minutes later with Chichi in the shoebox. I fought back tears while I paid. By the time I got to the car, I was bawling. I was upset over Daddy, the dog and life in general, so I had myself a good cry. On the outskirts of town, Frieda said, “I know Daddy wanted him in the casket, but is that legal?” “Why wouldn’t it be? Besides, nobody will know. We’ll just stick him down in the part that’s covered.” “Now? The funeral’s not till Sunday afternoon. He’ll bloat and stink. You’ve got to keep him cold until the last viewing.” “But how will we sneak him in?” “You got a canvas tote?” “Yeah.” “We’ll get Daddy’s Bible and his Dallas Cowboys T-shirt and lay them in the tote on top of the box We’ll tell them we’re going to put those in there with him.” “All right,” I agreed. “That should work.” “How are we going to explain Chichi’s disappearance?” “Well, let’s say we went over to the house and found him really bad off, and he died at the vets. That’s all true, right?” Frieda shook her head and whipped the car into the funeral home parking lot. I climbed into my car, and she followed me home. The kids were there, so I carried the box in with Frieda’s luggage, knowing they’d think it was hers. Then I popped it into a trash bag and stuck it in the freezer. Frieda told the kids we’d taken Chichi to the vet. She paid them five dollars each to clean up the back seat. Saturday we went back over to the house, got the Bible and shirt, and put them in my Myrtle Beach tote, which was way too bright and cheery for the occasion, but it was the only one I had that was big enough. Come Sunday afternoon, we went over to the funeral home for the final viewing. The kids, Uncle Ted, Aunt Nelva, Aunt Coolie, Frieda—all of us crowded into that stuffy little room. After they went up one by one to tell him goodbye, I told them the two of us wanted to be alone with him. As soon as they closed the door, I handed Frieda the Bible and shirt, and pulled out the box, but even with a double dose of Valium, I could not bring myself to put it in there. So Frieda took over. She laid his shirt and Bible in beside him and pulled the box. She raised the little green curtain that hung over Daddy’s middle and tried to stuff it in beside his legs, but he was so big, it wouldn’t go in. “We’ve got to take him out of the box,” she whispered. Pressing her lips together like Mama used to do, she pulled the box out of the trash bag, handed me the bag, and said, “Hold it open.” My hands were shaking like an earthquake, but I held it while she dumped him. Then that wet-dog odor hit me, and I started gagging. She twisted the bag shut, stuck her wrist under my nose, and said, “Here, smell my Estée Lauder Pleasures and get hold of yourself.” That helped. I nodded that I was okay, and she stuffed Chichi into the casket. She was white as a sheet when she got done. I said, “We can’t carry that stinking box out of here.” Frieda never said a word. Just picked it up, ripped the corners till it was flat, slid it in on top of Daddy’s legs, and wiped her hands on the lining of the casket where it wouldn’t show. Then she opened the door and told Mr. Hoffman we were ready. He closed the lid and put the beautiful spray of red roses on top, the spray with a banner that said, “Together Always,” just like Daddy wanted.