by Brian Keene
“Well, in the movie, the undertaker sticks a long needle in this one guy's body, and pumps this yellow stuff into his veins while his blood is pumped out. The whole machine looks like two blenders strapped together or something. Just wondered if that's how it happens in real life.”
“I can assure you, Mr. O'Brien, that kitchen utensils are not used during the embalming process.”
“Oh. Well, in any case, that movie was the bomb.”
“Perhaps we should get back to discussing your service.”
“Sure.” I could tell that I was getting under his pompous skin, and I liked it.
“Keep in mind that your service should represent an opportunity for your friends and family to reflect on your life and to honor your memory. There is, of course, no single style of funeral. No one template. That is why I must insist on input from you. I can offer suggestions, of course. There is a lot to think about, Mr. O'Brien. Without sounding morbid, my staff can help notify your loved ones, arrange everything, take care of securing the death certificate and the necessary permits—”
“Permits? You mean you need a permit to get buried in this state?”
“Indeed.”
I shook my head in disbelief.
“So what else can you guys do?”
“Well, we would also coordinate all the details of the service with the clergy involved. If I may ask, are you a religious person, and if so, what doctrine?”
“I don't know,” I answered truthfully, “but I intend to find that out before the day is over with. That's actually next on my list of things to do.”
“I see,” he said, even though he clearly did not. “Well, whatever you decide your religious denomination is, Mr. O'Brien, we can arrange that for you as well.”
“What about—my body and stuff? What happens with it after I'm dead?”
“We would, of course, take care of your body and arrange it for cremation or burial. Do you have a preference regarding these two choices?”
“I don't know. I guess it doesn't really matter once I'm gone, does it? It's not like it'll hurt or anything. What's cheaper?”
“That depends on a number of factors. For example, although you said you were paying with cash, do you have any veteran's burial allowances or social security benefits to draw upon?”
“No. I don't even have a job anymore. I got laid off on Friday.”
“Hmmm. Again, you have my condolences. Even though you have indicated cash payment up front, we do have a wide range of payment and financing options available for you.”
I had to give Mr. Myers some serious props. The guy was a true salesman. I'd walked onto the lot wanting to buy a Kia and he was trying to sell me a Porsche.
“Whether you decide to be buried or cremated, or perhaps even to be placed in an aboveground vault, I would suggest a funeral service, as well as a visitation ceremony. If you are on display in a casket, you'll want one that is, shall we say, aesthetically pleasing. Many other funeral homes in the county would attempt to convince you to purchase a more expensive casket than you require. I believe we have something that would fit your needs. For example, we have steel caskets starting at only eight hundred and ninety-five dollars.”
“Steel? Do I really need one made out of steel? I'm just as happy with a pine box. Seriously. It doesn't matter when I'm dead, right?”
I remembered the solid gold coffin from my nightmare, and shivered.
“Quite. But though it doesn't matter to you, it might be of some importance to your loved ones. I can assure you, Mr. O'Brien, that while we do have caskets to fit every budget, we do not offer a pine box.”
“Well, what about cremation then?”
“Were you to choose cremation, you would have two basic choices. Immediate cremation of the body would be the first, and least expensive. Or, if you prefer, you could have a complete viewing and funeral service, after which we could cremate the remains. That is what I would recommend.”
“But cremation is definitely the cheapest?”
“Yes, Mr. O'Brien, cremation costs less than burial or entombment. However, for a more accurate price, we will have to include the services you choose for the entire funeral. Whatever you decide, we here at Myers Funeral Home will guide you through each step of the process, even after death.”
Smiling, he stepped closer, flashing his perfectly capped teeth. This close, I could see the silver roots in his jet-black hair. I shivered again.
“Are you okay, Mr. O'Brien?” He stuck out a pale, liver-spotted hand and I backed away from it.
“Yeah, I'm fine. Just cold, is all. It's all part of what I have. The cancer.”
“It is indeed a shame. May I ask how long . . . ?”
“Three weeks maybe. A month. Possibly more. Nobody seems to know for sure.”
“Then time is of the essence.”
“You're telling me.”
I hung around for a while longer. We talked about the additional cost of a gravesite versus cremation and he quoted me several prices, none of which we would be able to afford. I'd have to make arrangements with Sherm and John to give some of my cut from the bank to Michelle once I was dead, to help pay for the service. Like I said, the guy was a good salesman. Death was his business and business was extremely good. Didn't matter who was in office at the White House or what was going on in the world. People died every day. He was a professional about it. But I felt very unsettled by the time we were done. While we talked, the temperature in the building kept falling. Or maybe it was just me. I don't know. All I know is that when I left, I was freezing, and it took ten minutes in the sun to warm me up again.
I wondered if my body would be that cold after I was dead and lying on a table inside that place, in one of the rooms Mr. Myers hadn't shown me. They said that hell was a hot place, full of fire and brimstone, but now I wondered if maybe hell was cold, a frozen wasteland covered with ice and raining hailstones the size of softballs.
I checked my To Do list. I was hoping that with my next and final stop, I might be able to get some answers to those types of questions.
I was going to church. It was time God and I had a little talk.
Mass had been over for a few hours and the church was empty when I went inside. I peeked through the doorway in the vestibule, staring at the dimly lit interior. Candles flickered off the stained-glass windows, and I caught the faint hint of perfume and shoe polish and bubble gum, all left over from earlier services. I thought about the fact that my wife, son, and mother-in-law had been here only a few hours before me. What would Michelle have said if she saw me there that afternoon?
The doors swung shut behind me as I entered. I walked slowly down the aisle, touching the backs of the pews as I went. My wedding ring knocked against the wood of each one, reverberating loudly in the silence. Up ahead, above the altar, an eight-foot Jesus Christ looked down at me from His cross. It was pretty frightening. I've never understood how that image was supposed to bring peace and comfort. There was nothing comforting about a man nailed to wood.
I watched Him now. His eyes were unblinking, His face contorted in agony, the drops of blood from His crown of thorns frozen on His forehead for all time. I stared back at Him. He didn't look like a wooden statue. He looked very much alive, as if He could climb down off that cross at any second and speak to me.
Speak to me, I thought. Prove Yourself. If You're real, like they say You are, then say something to me, dammit!
“May I help you, my son?”
I screamed. Whirling in fear, I banged my hip against the pew, and cried out again, this time in pain.
The shocked priest held out his hands.
“I'm sorry, young man. I am so sorry. I didn't mean to frighten you.”
“That's okay, Reverend.” My heart hammered in my chest.
“Father.”
“Father. Sorry. That's okay, Father. It's cool . . .” I gasped for breath, forcing my racing pulse to slow down before I died of a heart attack, cancer or no cancer.
“Yeah.” I wiped my sweaty palms on my jeans. “Yeah, I'm fine, Father. Just a little jumpy is all. You scared me good.”
He started to apologize again and stopped, a look of recognition dawning in his eyes.
“Why—you're Susan Stambaugh's son-in-law, aren't you? Tommy. Tommy O'Brien?”
“Um . . . I . . .”
“Yes, of course. You married her daughter, Michelle. I met you at the Christmas Eve candlelight service last year. I'm sorry that I didn't recognize you at first. It's been quite a while. How wonderful to see you. Your wife and son were just here this morning in fact.”
I jumped again. The last thing I needed was this guy figuring out who I really was. If he told Michelle's mom that I'd been here, that I'd been in church, she would tell Michelle, and that would lead to all kinds of questions. Questions that would only cause trouble, questions for which I had no answers because I'd been lying all this time.
So I lied again.
“Sorry, Reverend—I mean Father, but you must have me confused with somebody else. I just moved here from Lancaster. My name is John. John . . . Sherman.”
I had to fight to keep from cracking up at the pseudonym, but the priest didn't seem to notice.
“Oh. I see. Well, I must be mistaken then. It is remarkable, though. You look a lot like him. Quite uncanny.”
“Sorry. Wrong guy.” I shrugged, feeling sheepish.
There was an uncomfortable pause, and I began to worry that he didn't believe me. Then he spoke again.
“Do you require confession, Mr. Sherman?”
“Uh, no. Not at the moment. Look, to be honest, Father, I was hoping that I could have a couple minutes alone with God. I haven't spoken to Him in a while and I think I need to.”
“Certainly. It happens to us all, I'm afraid. Nothing to be embarrassed about, believe me. But are you sure that I can't assist you? Would you like to speak with me? Perhaps I can offer guidance, a friendly ear or a bit of understanding. I am the Lord's representative after all.”
“No, no—I think I'd better take it up directly with Him, if that's okay with you?”
“Of course. This is God's house, after all. I am just His servant. I'll leave you alone now. However, if you need me, I'll be in the rectory right next door. Think it over, okay? I may be able to help you, son. I'd like to try. It's my job. Think about it.”
“Thanks, Father. I appreciate that. Maybe I'll take you up on it later. But right now, I just need to pray.”
“I understand.” He smiled, gave a short half nod, half bow, and then left.
I was alone again with Jesus. He hadn't moved, still just hanging out, glaring at me from above.
Slowly, I shuffled to the front, my baggy jeans brushing against the carpet with a SWOOSH. I knelt, gripped the rail, stared up at Jesus, and prayed aloud.
“Dear God . . .” I began, then stopped, struggling for the words. After a moment of silence, I found them.
“What the fuck is Your problem, You son of a bitch? I mean, what—just because I haven't talked to You since I was a little kid, You decide to give me cancer? Is that it? Where were You, huh? If You wanted me to talk to You so bad, You could have let me know. You never wrote or called or sent me a burning fucking bush. What was I supposed to think? I grew up in a fucking hellhole, man. Do You have any idea what that was like for me? Do You? You're supposed to be omnipotent, so maybe You do. I used to lie in bed at night and pray for You to help me, but You never did. You never lifted a finger. Where were You? Can You imagine what it was like to live with my father? I was glad when he died. Glad. Is that a sin? Is that why You did this? Is it because I hated You when Mom died? I hated her too, but still—why'd she have to go out like that? It's fucking bullshit, man. Did You do it to punish me for something?
“You're a total bastard. I quit believing in Your ass a long time ago, and do You know why? Because You didn't give me a reason to believe. That's all I needed. Just a reason. But You couldn't give me one. I thought about it sometimes, sure. When Michelle and I got married and we said our vows, I thought about it then. And when T. J. came along—man, I thought about it long and hard. They're the best things that ever happened to me. The only good things in this fucked-up life. I thought that maybe You gave them to me—that maybe You really did exist. I believed, if only for a little while. So where do You get off, huh? Who the fuck are You? It's not enough that we're poor and that I'm raising my family in a trailer, just like I was raised? It isn't enough that the little rich yuppie kids at T. J's day care are already calling him white trash? On top of all that bullshit, now You've got to give me fucking cancer too? How dare You. Even if You're pissed off at me, what did they ever do to You? Why do they deserve this? Is this Your idea of divine justice? ‘Tommy doesn't believe in Me so I'll leave his wife a widow and his son an orphan and they'll be poorer than ever before.'
“Why me? Huh? Tell me that—why did it have to be me? Why not one of these asshole billionaires that drain their companies and their stockholders dry, then do two months in some minimum security, golf resort prison? Why not them? Or why not some pimp or crack dealer in York or Baltimore? Am I no better than they are? Why not give it to some terrorist or something?
“Look, I'm too young to die, God. I want to be with my family. I want to watch my son grow up. I want to see him play football and go to college and get a chance to have all the things I never did. I want to grow old with my wife. I love them so much and I don't want to be separated from them. I just want one more time around. That's all I'm asking for. Just a little more time to spend with them. A little more time to live. Please! I don't want to die. I'm so fucking scared of dying. Please . . .”
I wasn't aware that I was crying until the first hot tears hit the railing.
“Please! Please tell me. I don't understand. What's it all about? You give us this nice planet and people go around fucking it up, and You let them get away with it. You let them slide. You give us war and famine and poverty and disease and racism and serial killers. Your followers fly airplanes into buildings and send their own children into shopping centers to blow up Your other followers, and You don't do anything about it. You could stop it. You could stop it so easily, but You don't. Why? Why don't you step in?
“Why? Why do You put us through this shit? Why did You give me cancer? Did I break the rules? Do You sit up there on Your cloud with a pair of measuring scales, balancing out the good and bad deeds we've done in our lives? Is that what it's about? Or is it simpler than that? Maybe I was right before. Maybe You're just pissed off that I don't believe in You. Maybe that's where You get your power—from belief. And if enough of us don't believe in You, then You'll just fade away, the same way the old gods did. Is that what happened to Zeus and Odin and all the others? You cease to exist if we don't believe? And since I don't believe, You've got to put a stop to that shit?
“If You wanted me to believe in You, then You should have been there for me. You should have given me a reason to believe! Showed me that You really do exist.”
My tears fell like rain, and the lump in my throat strangled my words. With the tears came blood, trickling from my nose. I smeared them across the polished banister and raised my head, looking Jesus in the eye.
“Help me. Show me that You exist. Save me and I promise that I'll never doubt You again. I'll go to church. I'll start living right. I'll quit drinking down at Murphy's Place and smoking weed and watching porn. I'm willing to do whatever it takes. Whatever it takes. Just take it all away. Take away this pain You gave to me. All You have to do is show me. I don't understand what it is You want from me. How am I supposed to know unless You tell me?”
The figure on the cross didn't answer. Instead, He was silent, looming over me.
“Give me some proof. That's all I'm asking for. Give me a sign—one single, simple sign.”
Silence.
“Cure me,” I whispered. “Make this cancer go away and let me live.”
>
I still felt sick. I was still dying. I'd become what I hated in other people by giving in to the culture of blame. It was time to move on. I stood up and wiped my bloody nose on the back of my hand.
“Then fuck You. I knew You wouldn't help. You can't help me because You don't exist. You're not real. You're just another fairy tale, like the Easter bunny and Santa Claus. You can't help me. I'll do this my way.”
There was no lightning bolt or angel with a flaming sword. God didn't show up and smite me down for my sacrilege. Jesus didn't climb down from the wall and bash my head in with His cross. The priest would have probably said that was because He was a loving God, a forgiving God, but I knew it was really because He didn't exist. I'd given Him a chance to prove me wrong, to show me that He was there for me, for all of us.
I'd gotten nothing. Nothing from God. Nothing from the government. Nothing from my doctor or the medical establishment or my employer.
The only person I could rely on to take care of my family was me.
And pretty soon, I'd be gone.
It was time to get on with it.
It was raining when I walked outside. While I'd been inside the church, the beautiful, warm weather had vanished, replaced with dark, ominous clouds. I welcomed them. The downpour washed over me and it felt like a baptism. Dying, I was reborn.
I got back in the truck, and drove home—feeling more alone and depressed than ever before. But I was also beginning to feel something else. Something new. Determination. A feeling of peace settled over me, and I liked the way it felt.
Then the fear set in once again, washing it all away.
The next three days were pretty busy. We went over the plan, cased the bank and the strip mall where it was located, stole license plates for John's car, mapped escape routes, and planned for everything we could think of that might possibly go wrong. I was still lying to Michelle—getting up for “work” each morning, then spending the day at John's grungy bachelor pad crib instead, playing video games and watching porno and getting high when we weren't planning the robbery. (My marijuana use was way up—it's true what they say. It really does help curb the nausea.) For an extra touch of realism, Sherm even dropped by the foundry and got some dirt to rub on our clothes, hands, and faces, so that it looked like we'd been working. The only thing I didn't have to fake was the fatigue. The cancer took care of that for me.