A Story
She listened to him move around in the bathroom, wondering if he'd be okay.
The dead man had been his friend for many years. They'd spent Christmas Eves together. Super Bowl parties together. They'd worked on cars and spent idle hours on screened in back porches, discussing the relative merits of the Indians bullpen. Growing up hadn't meant growing apart for the two men.
And now, one was dead.
He came out of the bathroom, looking tired. He'd spent long hours at the hospital with the dead man's wife and their family, taking care of things she didn't have the strength or inclination to handle. The extended illness had sapped the life from his friend, even though he'd still been able to laugh at himself, even up to the last. The dead man had been known in the hospital for the bad jokes he'd been famous for even back in elementary school. But the jokes couldn't erase the black circles under the eyes, or the slumping shoulders of the man. His own wife, putting her earrings in, hoped they'd be able to make it through the day quickly so she could get him back her, back home, and get him to bed and sleep.
"Which should I wear?" he asked, showing her two ties. One was floral. His teenage daughter had given it to him for Father's Day. The other, a bit more sedate, he'd received for Christmas from his mother. It was striped and looked a bit like something a British schoolboy would have to wear a number of years before graduating. Stripes of deep purple and kelly green, with smaller but more numerous ones of orange. It wasn't a funeral tie. But it wasn't gardenias, either.
"Stripes," she said, definitively, as she put on her shoes.
* * *
They arrived at the funeral home, shook the hands of all of the family members, said hello to people they hadn't seen since high school. They circulated throughout the room, postponing the inevitable trip up to the open casket.
She worried he wouldn't be able to make it through the ceremony. She worried he'd break down. She knew she could take it if that happened but she didn't think he could.
He looked at her. Then to the front of the room. He walked to the casket and knelt.
She watched him. He seemed quiet, somber, in telling his friend goodbye.
Then his shoulders started to shake.
"Oh God," she thought to herself.
She walked up behind him slowly and gently put her hand on his shoulder. "Are you okay?" He shook under her hand. If anything, he shook harder.
"Honey," she said, kneeling down next to him. "Honey, it's okay."
She knelt. And she looked at the dead man.
"Do you see?" her husband said, and she turned to look at him. She could hear the catch in his voice before she turned. And she realized he wasn't crying.
"Do you see?" He pointed at the dead man.
He kept laughing, silently, snorting out of his nose in the way 12-year-old boys laugh in church, knowing they aren't supposed to. Tears leaked out of his eyes. Not the hot tears of sorrow. But little tears of mirth.
She looked back into the casket. She saw repeating stripes of deep purple and kelly green, with more numerous stipes of orange. And she, too, began to laugh.
They left in the middle of the service, after sitting in the back of the hall. People marveled that the friend who'd spent so much time at the hospital without so much as a tear shed was so prostrate with grief that he had to hold a handkerchief over his face the whole time, while his wife buried her face in his shoulder. They were so loud in their grief, according to the folks sitting next to them, they were actually snorting.
She thought the dead man, the eternal prankster, would approve.
A fictionalized version of a story I heard in school.
The dead man had been his friend for many years. They'd spent Christmas Eves together. Super Bowl parties together. They'd worked on cars and spent idle hours on screened in back porches, discussing the relative merits of the Indians bullpen. Growing up hadn't meant growing apart for the two men.
And now, one was dead.
He came out of the bathroom, looking tired. He'd spent long hours at the hospital with the dead man's wife and their family, taking care of things she didn't have the strength or inclination to handle. The extended illness had sapped the life from his friend, even though he'd still been able to laugh at himself, even up to the last. The dead man had been known in the hospital for the bad jokes he'd been famous for even back in elementary school. But the jokes couldn't erase the black circles under the eyes, or the slumping shoulders of the man. His own wife, putting her earrings in, hoped they'd be able to make it through the day quickly so she could get him back her, back home, and get him to bed and sleep.
"Which should I wear?" he asked, showing her two ties. One was floral. His teenage daughter had given it to him for Father's Day. The other, a bit more sedate, he'd received for Christmas from his mother. It was striped and looked a bit like something a British schoolboy would have to wear a number of years before graduating. Stripes of deep purple and kelly green, with smaller but more numerous ones of orange. It wasn't a funeral tie. But it wasn't gardenias, either.
"Stripes," she said, definitively, as she put on her shoes.
* * *
They arrived at the funeral home, shook the hands of all of the family members, said hello to people they hadn't seen since high school. They circulated throughout the room, postponing the inevitable trip up to the open casket.
She worried he wouldn't be able to make it through the ceremony. She worried he'd break down. She knew she could take it if that happened but she didn't think he could.
He looked at her. Then to the front of the room. He walked to the casket and knelt.
She watched him. He seemed quiet, somber, in telling his friend goodbye.
Then his shoulders started to shake.
"Oh God," she thought to herself.
She walked up behind him slowly and gently put her hand on his shoulder. "Are you okay?" He shook under her hand. If anything, he shook harder.
"Honey," she said, kneeling down next to him. "Honey, it's okay."
She knelt. And she looked at the dead man.
"Do you see?" her husband said, and she turned to look at him. She could hear the catch in his voice before she turned. And she realized he wasn't crying.
"Do you see?" He pointed at the dead man.
He kept laughing, silently, snorting out of his nose in the way 12-year-old boys laugh in church, knowing they aren't supposed to. Tears leaked out of his eyes. Not the hot tears of sorrow. But little tears of mirth.
She looked back into the casket. She saw repeating stripes of deep purple and kelly green, with more numerous stipes of orange. And she, too, began to laugh.
They left in the middle of the service, after sitting in the back of the hall. People marveled that the friend who'd spent so much time at the hospital without so much as a tear shed was so prostrate with grief that he had to hold a handkerchief over his face the whole time, while his wife buried her face in his shoulder. They were so loud in their grief, according to the folks sitting next to them, they were actually snorting.
She thought the dead man, the eternal prankster, would approve.
A fictionalized version of a story I heard in school.
posted by Miss Head at
3:32 AM
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