The ushers leave their posts and collect near the back of the center aisle. The two tallest give their arms to two women who have appeared from nowhere. One woman is small and delicate, in her seventies at least. She leans heavily on the usher’s arm, for balance or emotional support or both, making her way down the aisle with tiny, tentative steps. Behind her follows a much younger and taller woman. She barely touches the arm of her escort. She looks left and right, acknowledging people along the way with a nod or a slight smile. I recognize her instantly as Lily Rudolph. I assume the other woman must be the mother, Beatrice.
As she passes my row, Lily turns and looks down the line of concerned faces. Her eyes are dark and calm. She does not appear to have been crying. Her black hair is pulled back, revealing a smooth forehead with arched eyebrows. When she spots the matching blazer boys, her expression softens for an instant. She continues up the aisle, taking her seat in the first pew next to the older woman. The organ stops and the resulting quiet is like the numbing silence of snow.
Way back then, our fire made headlines around the state. It was a gas explosion. The investigators told the reporters it was most likely the flexible copper line into our gas water heater that failed. The entire basement filled up with gas, then the electric motor on the big freezer sparked and the back of the house blew off. Everyone heard about it; everyone knew my name; everyone felt real sorry for me. Several people wanted to adopt me. But there was a lot of paperwork and, ultimately, I think the magnitude of the whole tragedy must have scared folks off. So I was sent to a foster home, and then another, and another. Eventually, everyone forgot I was the famous little fire tyke. I became the fifth wheel in a picture postcard family. I figured out how to adapt my personality to blend into whatever environment I found myself. The rules were simple: Learn to fit in; learn not to stand out.
Lily has just been seated when the priest stands and crosses to the ambo to address the congregation. We stand, there is the mumbling of a prayer, a more distinct amen and then we are sitting again. This is a priest from central casting, small and knobby with kind eyes, graying hair and a solemn yet sympathetic expression. He speaks about Michael Rudolph in past and future tense, about all the wonderful things he did and all the plans he’d made for even more wonderful things. People throughout the church are sniffling and dabbing at their eyes. The blazer boys have called a truce and are now trying to make each other laugh. Their mother occasionally whacks them on the knees to silence them, but stifling a laugh in church just makes snot come out your nose, which in turn makes your brothers laugh harder.
The organ starts up again and this time the assembled choir joins in. The rest of us rise and thumb nervously through our hymnals looking for the proper page. Finding it, we try in vain to follow the wildly gyrating notes. Hymns are not written for normal people to sing. Each one has a range of an octave or more with strange grace notes that leave ordinary singers in the vocal dust. On top of that, the lyrics break words into syllables that don’t exist so we sputter and spurt like boiling teakettles. I shoot for hitting about every fifth note, like singing along to a song on the radio when you don’t really know the words.
The hymn concludes and I know the eulogies are next. There’s a definite pattern to funerals, doesn’t matter the denomination: prayer, sermon, song, eulogies, benediction, exodus. Breaking this sequence would probably lead to complete social unrest, like sticking Christmas before Halloween.
The priest moves around to the very front of the altar, robes rustling against his wireless microphone.
"Ladies and gentlemen, Mrs. Augustus Rudolph and her daughter-in-law, Lily Rudolph have asked me to thank all of you for being here this morning. It means so much to them to have your support in their time of grief."
So all the amateur psychologists are nodding their heads and saying how obvious it is I ended up with such an unusual hobby. I must be obsessed with death. I must secretly crave the attention and fame I had so fleetingly as a child. I must love my chameleon existence as one of a cast of characters. Maybe. Maybe I’ll mow down all my co-workers one day then turn the gun on myself and neighbors will comment about what a quiet guy I was. Maybe. But I think I just like what I do. I’m good at funerals. If I’d been good at bobsledding maybe everything would have been different. Maybe.
"We must remember this is also a time to celebrate a life well lived," the priest continues. "Michael Rudolph was a man of great talent and tenacity, a man who touched us all in one way or another. I know there are many of you with us today who have directly benefited from his talent, his generosity and his optimism. I have a short list of those who have already asked to say a few words, and when they’re done, I welcome any and all to come up and share their tributes to this man who was so many things to so many people. To start us off, I’d like to invite Mayor Taylor to come forward."
Our honorable Mayor lumbers to the front of the church where the priest passes him a slim cordless microphone before retreating to a carved throne at the back of the altar. Linus Taylor is a beach ball of a man with a pencil thin mustache and a perpetually shiny forehead. I’ve always thought he would be a better fit as a circus barker or maybe a hotdog cart vendor. His tribute centers on Michael’s accomplishments as a groundbreaking surgeon and researcher.
What little notoriety Park Hills can claim comes from Michael Rudolph’s innovative exploration into the causes of and treatments for Alzheimer’s. Rudolph’s radical success against the insidious disease made him a sought-after speaker and a frequent guest on everything from Larry King to Oprah to David Letterman. It didn’t hurt that he was also as handsome as a movie star and an eloquent spokesman for elderly rights. I remember seeing him on TV one night doing an interview with Connie Chung. She was desperately trying to get him to take a stand on Oregon’s "Death with Dignity" law that had legalized assisted suicide for the terminally ill. Rudolph kept looping the interview back on itself, demanding to know why Ms. Chung assumed all Alzheimer’s patients were terminal. She finally gave up and let him talk.
"If it weren’t for Michael Rudolph," Mayor Taylor continues, "Alzheimer’s patients all across this great country of ours would be lost in worlds they no longer recognize. Dr. Rudolph’s work brought hope and health to thousands. And his generosity brought prestige and prosperity to our city."
Mayor Taylor looks genuinely sad. Several of his chins twitch as he struggles for control.
"We will miss his vision and his spirit."
He holds the microphone aloft as an indication that the next person should rescue him before he begins to weep.
A tall man in an elegant suit hurries down the aisle, collects the microphone from the deteriorating mayor and strides quickly up the steps. His address is followed by that of an equally aristocratic gentleman with no hair and a pronounced lisp. Streams of people flow up to take their turn. Several of the previously unidentified good-looking denizens reveal themselves to indeed be important individuals with amazing stories to tell of Michael’s earthly endeavors. Each one builds upon the testimonial of the last until it seems we will have to canonize Michael Rudolph should but one more person attest to the miracles his life had wrought.
During the waves of eulogies, I dutifully study my memorial folder and take notes. The blond blazer boy watches me. He probably thinks I’m doodling, something for which his mother has recently whacked him.
I’m chewing on the end of my pencil. I’ve never gotten up in front of such a large crowd. What if there’s someone here from another funeral? None have ever been for anyone this famous or successful. There couldn’t possibly be any crossover. Alzheimer’s? I don’t think I’ve been to a funeral for anyone who died of Alzheimer’s.
I work out my speech in my head as the other eulogists go on. The coughing and rustling makes it hard to hear some of the more reticent orators but I can tell things are winding down. I stand and the blazer boys gawk as I sneak out of the pew to take my place at the end of the line of speakers. I’m edgy and not quite
convinced of my material. The woman in front of me turns and smiles, a sad knowing smile.
I can see Lily and Beatrice Rudolph now, their faces upturned, letting the good words wash over them. The sadly smiling woman is speaking now about her father and his recovery and how Michael Rudolph made it all possible. As she finishes, the priest walks to the front to take the microphone from her. He better not cut me off.
"We have time for one more before we leave for the graveside service. On behalf of the family, our thanks go out to all of you again for sharing this day with us."
"Sir?"
He’s holding the microphone out to me. Everyone turns and stares. Lily Rudolph stares. I put out my hand and walk forward. Designated hitter, closing act, anchor leg. I grab the microphone from the priest’s hand as we pass, spin on my heels and face the congregation. There it is again. The silence of snow.
"Thank you for letting me say a few final words. My name is Albert Mackey and I’m an old college friend of Michael’s from Columbia. We spent more than a few nights up to our elbows in what we used to call ‘the three B’s’ – books, bones and brew."
A small ripple of laughter undulates through the room.
"I’m afraid I’m not nearly as illustrious as my fellow alumnus, and I have to admit Michael and I hadn’t even spoken, let alone seen each other, for years. But in the last weeks before his death, we’d been working together quite closely."
Lily Rudolph’s eyebrows jump up and she stares at me more intently.
"I earn my living as a writer. Of course unless you’re a big fan of medical research journals and pharmaceutical annual reports, you’re probably not familiar with my work. But Michael was, and he hunted me down several months ago with a very special project. He wanted me to help him write a book that would explain his theories about aging. Something that would get people thinking about potential instead of assuming getting old was a mental dead end."
I hear whispers ricochet from pew to pew as the mourners begin to grasp the importance of my words.
"To hear him tell it, I think a lot of other people wanted him to write this book, and he’d been doing a pretty good job of dragging his feet. But he’d finally gotten it into his head that a book about his research might actually do some good promoting his philosophies about aging. Michael never stopped thinking about ways to get his message out."
"As excited as he was about the general idea, he didn’t know how to pull it altogether. That’s when he contacted me. He wanted me to look through the material he’d collected, and believe me, he had collected a lot of material. He needed me to help him outline the project. He was concerned it would be too complicated to get across. That’s why he kept the whole thing a secret. From everyone. His business associates, his friends, his family, even his beautiful wife. He didn’t want anyone to know about it until he was sure there was really a book."
I look directly at Lily Rudolph and smile. She looks back. Her eyebrows have settled back down but her gaze remains cool.
"Unfortunately, we didn’t finish before the accident. But, as I was going through my notes this morning before the service, I was pleasantly surprised at the progress we did make. There is a story here. What Michael did and what he wanted to do is both significant and inspiring. He accomplished more in his thirty-five years than most of us ever dream of in a lifetime, and he was completely dedicated to his cause. He told me once, he would willingly trade five years of mindless youth for just one extra month with the wisdom and perspective of age. It made him so angry to see society give up on the very people who had the most to offer. He believed all senior citizens deserved the clarity of mind to tell their life stories, and we needed the good sense to listen. It’s a crime Michael didn’t get the chance to experience his own golden years. Which is why I’m up here today. To reveal this secret to Michael’s wife, his mother and all of you. To let you know Michael’s story will be told and we’ll all be better because of it."
I glance again at Lily Rudolph. She is still looking at me, but curiously now, like a little bird. I hear it start near the back and roll up to the front. Applause. People are standing. Deafening applause. Suddenly the priest is next to me, raising his hand in blessing, trying to settle things down.
"May God bless you and keep you. May God make his light shine down upon you and keep you from harm. Thank you all for coming. Amen."
Everyone rises and begins gathering their things to leave. I’m trapped on the altar. The priest takes the microphone out of my hand and clicks it off.
"That was a beautiful speech, son," he says. "I’m so glad someone is going to write a book about Michael. He deserves every word."
He shakes my hand then disappears through a hidden door directly under the feet of crucified Jesus.
I walk down the steps into the crowd and try to make my way up the aisle. The beautiful people stop to shake my hand and whisper their appreciation. I can’t go more than a few feet without interruption. Even Mayor Taylor thrusts his chubby hand in my direction.
"Mr. Mackey, Linus Taylor. Very pleased to make your acquaintance. I’m sure you can tell how proud all of us here in Park Hills are of Michael Rudolph. I know you’ll do your best to make sure this book of yours does him justice."
He squeezes down hard. My knuckles pop.
"Of course, sir," I say. "Nothing would please me more."
He relaxes his grip and the blood rushes back into my fingertips.
"You call me if you need any details about the town."
He presses a business card into my throbbing palm then excuses himself to crush the hands of more important people in my wake.
A small, round man with an expensive haircut catches my elbow just as the Mayor exits from view. Next to him stands another man, thin and serious.
"Incredible speech," the thin man says. "I’m Howard Stanich and this is my partner, Gavin VanMorten. Nesler Pharmaceuticals. As you know, Michael was working with us to launch the clinical testing phase of our new Alzheimer’s drug therapy."
I nod hesitantly.
"We had no idea Michael was working on a book," the round man named Gavin says.
"No one did."
"It’s very exciting," Howard continues. "If you’d like to include information about the Nesler research, I’d be more than happy to speak with you."
Someone taps me on the shoulder. I turn. It’s Lily Rudolph. She stands slightly apart from a group of beautiful people.
"Mr. Mackey," she begins. "I can’t tell you how much it means to me to find out about your work with Michael. We must talk about it soon. May I call you?"
"I’m, uh, I’m traveling quite a bit over the next few weeks. Could I call you?"
"Certainly."
She reaches into her purse and pulls out a slim, gold pen. She holds out her hand to me. What does she want to do? Write her phone number on my hand like we used to do in junior high? I realize I’m still holding the memorial program. I fumble with it for a moment trying to fold it back into its original shape before handing it to her. She takes it and writes a phone number across the top.
"Please call me as soon as possible. This is my private cell number."
"Thank you."
That’s all I can think to say. Thank you. As if she had just complimented me on my shoes. Thank you.
"Good. Then we’ll talk soon."
She hands back the memorial folder, nods to the Nesler Pharmaceuticals men at my side, and leaves with her stunning entourage.
"She’s such a brave woman," says Howard. "Lovely and gracious, even under such unfortunate circumstances."
"Excuse me?"
I turn back around. Howard is holding out a business card.
"Please put us on your calling list as well," Howard says. "Michael’s work was so important. We’re doing our best to keep things moving with the testing, but it will be a challenge without him. He is missed by so many people. You must promise to let us know if we can help in any way."
"Thank you, gentlemen,"
I say, stuffing the card into my jacket pocket. "I’ll be contacting you soon, I’m sure."
I hurry the rest of the way up the aisle. People continue to stop and talk to me as I try to make a break for the doors. This is usually my favorite part, but today I just want to get away. I think I’m in a little too deep. I have to disappear immediately. That’s all there is to it. No friends, no fling, no follow-up. Medical writer. What was I thinking? The sum total of my medical experience is trying to catch people with fake neck and back injuries. There’s no way can I hold my own against real doctors and scientists.
Outside, the sun has broken through the clouds. I slide on my sunglasses, wishing it was that easy to disappear. I glance behind me before turning down the alley to retrieve the Miata. People still pour out of the church.
I’m not a doctor, but I play one on TV.
THREE
It’s been two weeks since the Rudolph funeral and I’ve been at work every day. Fourteen days. Three-hundred and thirty-six hours. But who’s counting.
I haven’t been to any new funerals. I haven’t called anyone. I haven’t done much work either. I did catch that lying little accountant, Ted LeMoine. But it wasn’t any of my doing. It turns out Teddy was screwing his secretary at the same time he was carrying on with one of his clients. How he captivates two women is beyond me. The guy wears floral polyester shirts, the kind that pill around the collar after one washing. What's left of his hair is combed straight back over his little head with so much gel he resembles a sea otter. And he's tan, everywhere, at least according to the secretary. She caught him and the client pouring over, or should I say poured over, the books one night in the office, and decided to squeal to me about all his fake injuries as revenge. All’s fair in credits and debits I guess.
The Eulogist Page 3