by A. Rosaria
I raise my hand in goodbye, and I get a grunt in return. The trip must have squished the good nature of the driver completely. I turn away from him and into the stare of the young woman. I now notice how thin she is, with a slight curve at her hips and small breasts. It is not a bad body if you are into stick girls. Out in the open I get a better look at her stunning face: big black eyes, full lips, oval face with rounded cheeks, and black hair matching the color of her dress so perfectly that her wild, hanging hair seamlessly blends with her dress. Very pale skin on that one. She watches me descend the bus steps and doesn‘t move out of my way. I have to squeeze past her.
Having somewhere else to go and running late, I don‘t care to give her too much attention. I walk away feeling her eyes burn into my back. Can it be that she‘s going in the same direction? I dare not look back and get into the awkwardness of confronting her. The church is only a five-minute walk from the bus stop. I‘ll manage it, and there is no reason to fear anything, as if such a frail looking woman could do something against a well-built man like me. Though stranger stuff has happened in the past, I just don‘t care.
I can see the church tower sticking out above the many roofs surrounding it, a light tower admits a sea of red. The townhouses run in rows, like the spokes of a bicycle‘s wheel, around the church with all the streets converging on the large building. I don‘t think it was a great idea having all roads lead to one spot, creating a bottleneck. It sure isn‘t the best way to encourage driving. The streets and roads are narrow and made of cobblestone, which only adds to the adherence for driving to church. That‘s why most living in the center don‘t even bother owning cars and why the car owners living at the edge of town know better than to venture into the town center.
The street runs in one stretch to the church. At each side, rows of oak trees stand tall with their branches interlocking above, giving the sense of walking in a natural tunnel. The biggest and tallest oak tree at the end of the street, and closest to the church, has a little area cordoned off around it with a plague stating it‘s the oldest oak tree in the neighborhood. The tree was already centuries old when the first stone was set to build the church.
In front of me, the autumn leaves swirl between the trees, picking up and easing down as if moving at the whim of an invisible hand. As I walk forward, the leaves seem to evade me, moving always ahead of me, while directly around me the leaves fall down on the cobblestones. Isolated from everything beyond, I move as if I am in a vacuum up to the church‘s steps. Behind me I hear the clack of high heels coming up. It‘s her. She brushes past me, opens the church door and holds it open while looking at me, waiting. I nod a thank you while I enter.
“Like I‘ve not waited long enough,” she says and moves away before I can say something back or ask who she is. She sits down at the corner of the pew closest to the door.
The progression is in full swing. Men and women stand in a long line to pay their respects to the deceased and offer their condolences to the next of kin. The deceased, Mr. Charles Branding Sr., died suddenly. One moment he was taking out the trash and the next he collapsed to the ground. No known sign of disease or anything else was found. He just died on the spot and was found clutching a bag of trash with a smile on his face. At least that‘s what I heard. I obviously believe the dying part is true, about the rest I‘m not so sure. Nobody just dies.
Charles Branding Sr. is the father of Charles Jr. my childhood friend. We were best friends once, but now we are merely acquaintances. Still, I couldn‘t stay away from his father‘s funeral. Is it for the friendship we once had that I came? Or some sense of solidarity to his father that I never really knew?
I join the line behind an elderly woman I didn‘t recognize but am sure I‘ve seen before. I look down the line and over the pews. Everyone here I knew closely or by face, and none of those faces looking back recognizes me. No spark there. Why would there be for someone like me that could just as well be dead as he is alive, useless as the dead, a burden to be carried away, leaving those behind in sorrow. Only in my case there would be no sorrow in life or in death. Fatherless, motherless, no sibling or near family, and no girlfriend to boot, I am alone in this world. I‘m last in line, and maybe that is for the best. Or am I lying that I‘m alone without friends? No, these people were once close friends, but now there is not one spark of recognition in their eyes. What am I doing here?
The line creeps on slowly, and deep in thought, I soon find myself next to pay my respects. I look back at the exit. The doors are closed, and there she is, the young woman in black sits in the back staring at me. Is that a smile I see? If it‘s one, it‘s one that doesn‘t give the pleasure a smile normally would bring upon those it is cast. I sure didn‘t feel anything good. Instead I felt a choking feeling as if it was drawing me to something inevitable. Who is she, and what is she to Charles Branding Sr. to be at his funeral?
The hum from the priest and the stern look he gives me brings me back to the reality that it‘s my turn to pay my respects. And it is now that I see that the ebony coffin is open. Charles Branding Sr. lies peacefully in his coffin with his eyes closed, mouth etched in a smile, and his hands folded on his chest, wearing a fine, black three-piece suit. Must be Italian. The little I know about him is that he loved his hand-tailored suits, preferably Italian made. A white flower sticks out the jacket‘s front pocket. I think it is a lily, but I don‘t know for sure. What I do know is that it‘s beautiful. The whole is so meticulous, just like the now-deceased man used to be. Mr. Branding looks the same as when I last saw him ten years ago, only grayer, paler, and deader.
Here we are, eye to closed eye, man to corpse, and I have nothing to say. I had nothing to say to him alive and now in death I want to, but I am empty of words. The most we ever exchanged were greetings and goodbyes, and the occasional how are you without a follow up. It is sad really and makes you wonder the necessity of it all.
I move my right hand to my forehead, down to my chest, to my left shoulder, to my right shoulder, and to my lips. Lowering my head I gently touch the coffin and stand still for a few seconds as if in prayer. Turning back I look away from the coffin to the row of people in mourning black, waiting for me to offer my condolences. Some sit staring straight ahead, while others sit with lowered heads and a few teary eyes, and no one gives me any notice. Everybody‘s attention is on everything but me, well except for the young woman in back who still watches my every move.
The first hand I shake is from an older woman, a great-aunt of the deceased who is frail, old, and has white straws of hair. I say how sorry I am for the departed and family, and go down the row from one family member to another until I reach my old friend. He is bald like a cue ball while he‘s only a few years short of thirty.
“Ben?” he says.
I grab his sweaty hand. “My condolences.”
“Thank you for coming. It has been so long since we last saw you.”
I smile, pat his shoulder, and move to his mother who is silently crying, tears rolling freely. She offers me a limp hand while not bothering to look at me. Who could blame her? I certainly couldn‘t blame her for not giving any notice to a stranger she hasn‘t seen in ages.
Chatty as she used to be, I never got to know her. I dare say I knew her husband better despite him not talking. I go by the last few remaining mourners, offering my soft words and hand in support. Is this how life will be for us all, will we end loosing all? Death is among us, takes away those we love, leaves us lonely with each taking, and leaves the ones left alive to deal with the sorrow. Death seems welcome to this perpetual sorrowful life.
I need a place to sit and take this all in, to endure this grief not mine, and wallow about my own eventual death—however soon that may be. Maybe today, maybe I‘ll do it today.
I walk by the pews, looking left and right, but every seat is taken. Old friends are sitting huddled close together and no one looks at their old buddy they used to play soccer with as kid. No hand rises in greeting and there is
no nod of acknowledgment. There is no smile to be found here for an old friend, a forgotten friend, a stranger.
At the last row in the back of the church I find the only seat available, the one next to the lady in black whose narrow eyes followed me all this time. She pats the place next to her, smiling her best despair-inducing smile. Has she gone paler or is it the church light playing tricks with my eyes? I look at the church doors, the coffin, and the empty seat. Leaving now as my heart tells me to do would raise a commotion, and angry words would be thrown at me. Seeking another seat would be a waste of time and an annoyance. Why this reluctance to sit next to her? In her own slender, sticky way she is a beautiful woman, and I‘m single. No harm could come from sitting next to her, and who knows, maybe love will find a way in the halls of death.
The chilly air surrounding her banishes all the warm thoughts I manage to scrape together. I steal a glance. There still is no warmth coming from those coal black eyes, which stare back at me. I dare say, they are soulless eyes. Can it be she craves mine? She smiles.
I watch the sermon while ignoring her. The priest standing in front of the coffin looks over the pews and raises his eyes in a silent prayer. Lowering his gaze back to us, his temporary congregation, he asks us to stand. As one we do, except she stays seated and stares up at me. She‘s a difficult one to ignore that one. The congregation rises in a hymn, reading from a pamphlet I don‘t have. I feel a tug at my sleeve, and a pale hand holds a pamphlet in offering to me. I shake my head. As good as the song is, I don‘t like to sing anyway, and something deep in me tells me not to take anything from her.
With the hymn finished, the priest asks for us to sit and announces that he now will say a few words about the departed. With the loud monotone, almost singing voice only Catholic priest have, he starts.
“Charles Branding left us to go face what each of us will one day have to face ourselves. I‘ve known him well for decades as a loyal member of this congregation.”
I wonder if the priest really knows Charles Branding Sr. that well.
“He was a faithful believer in life and now in death he will join Jesus Christ, the Holy Spirit, and God.”
The pale woman sitting next to me snickers out loud. People turn around to look, but instead of giving her a disdainful look, they pay me with their not-amused stares, while she smiles shyly up at me.
“He was a man much turned into himself, reserved, and drawn back.”
There is much truth in those words; Charles Sr. says as much in death as when he was alive. He was a standoffish man, even to junior, his only son. How lonely it must have been.
“However do not grieve this man thinking he was lonely in life, with only his personal demons to keep him company.”
Well he was awfully lonely, a little like I‘m living now with only my personal demons to keep me occupied. One in particular is in my thoughts all day long. I look around. By the rigid backs and tensed shoulders, it must ring true to more people than just myself. Could it be that I‘m not alone in my loneliness? Are there those I could share it with? Another option? Charles Sr. shared something in common with me, but he now lies dead in a coffin. Was every hand he offered in greeting and the few words he spoke a sign of solidarity to one the same as him?
Some family members of the deceased, sitting in the front row, start crying silently, awkwardly sounding in their attempts to hide it.
“No,” the priest says. “He had Jesus Christ in his heart, the Holy Spirit in his body, and God watching over him.”
She snorted this time. I am lucky that all the attention is on the family members that joined the first group in crying.
“Don‘t despair, because he is with God now, up there, together with those that left before him.”
You‘re alone in death; there is no God waiting to receive anyone. There was no Jesus Christ in his heart, the Holy Spirit in his body, or God watching over him. It was loneliness that was his only companion, just like I‘m lonely. Not having anyone caring for him, he must have welcomed death. I felt moisture building around my eyes. I don‘t want to cry, but seeing the man for who he was, his feeble attempts at contact, him trying to break his loneliness to escape death and a life not lived, I can‘t help myself. We, the people around him, didn‘t understand him. We only stretched out a hand to shake his as a mere formality, to then forget him the second the skin stopped touching. One small answer in return and we shied away, leaving him to rot in his lonely cage called life. And now that he has turned into a recluse in death, people finally care for him.
Down my cheeks tears flow, forming a small stream of sorrow that I have never shed before, not even when my parents passed. I cry like the rest of them. Only two eyes don‘t cry. She looks around smiling and finally rests her soulless eyes on me.
The crying goes on for minutes. A visually shaken priest looks on his congregation, doing what he never expected them to do for this man. He was the one man he thought was with God and shunned by earth-bound humans. The priest couldn‘t understand. His life is filled with Jesus Christ, the Holy Spirit, and God, where there is no place for loneliness. His life is one of happy, ignorant bliss. Death is just a passing to a better world, a world for which we all must suffer, and preferably dearly, to get into. In him, the thought would never occur that his flock and the deceased could have a life devoid of God, that Mass and church are just one more spoke in the wheel called tradition. I am obviously not alone in my thoughts about death as salvation instead of God. I want to think that there is a life worth living in this world. Or should I stretch my hand out toward death and accept the invitation to leave this miserable life I lead? I‘m not sure I want the sorrow of strangers, but at the moment I don‘t know how to cast off this shade of loneliness.
My nose clogs up and my eyes burn red from crying. The sorrow rising, her sitting next to me staring at me, the pressure of the moment, it all gets to me and I reach the threshold of what I can take. I have a choice to make and this day is the day I intent to do so. The crying grows louder, while tears stream a river. I stand up, brush her away, and stagger out of the pew toward the door. Pushing the door, it doesn‘t budge. I put my shoulder against it. Wind whistles through the gap I open, while I force my way out. The door slams closed behind me, leaving me outside the church in the raging storm.
The wind pushes me against the wall next to the door. A storm, figures, what else could I expect with my luck? By escaping the church, I throw away my opportunity to chum up with old friends for a ride home. And what is with me crying in there? Yes, I know Charles Sr. and I share one thing, and that is death.
The church door opens with ease, and without breaking a sweat, as if there was no storm causing mayhem, she walks out. Not one breeze flutters her dress or sweeps her hair to and fro. She stands in front of me and the blasting wind falls still around me.
“Who are you?” I ask.
“You know me well enough,” she says, smiling.
I take a closer look at her pale face, charcoal eyes, and round cheeks, certainly pretty, but I don‘t know her. I shake my head.
“You are here to make a choice.”
“Choice?”
Her smile vanishes. A sense of foreboding passes over me.
“I have endured your indecisiveness long enough. Are you or are you not going to kill yourself?”
My eyes grow bigger to the ridiculousness of the situation. How dare she be so upfront and how could she know about my many thoughts on suicide?
“Is it so weird to grow tired of it? You think of me daily, every hour of the day, every minute of every hour, and every second that passes by.”
“Death?”
She smiles again, her eyes almost glowing. I push my back against the wall. “You got it now. Pleased to meet you.” She stretches her small hand forward.
I inch away. Every fiber in my body says not to touch that hand, while somewhere deep in my heart I long for it. I shake my head. These feelings confuse me. It can‘t be real, what she claims t
o be. She can‘t be the embodiment of death.
“So why don‘t you touch me,” she says. “Is little Ben scared of little girls?”
“You are no little girl.”
She twirls around, pulls her dress up just above her ankles, and curtsies. Looking up with charcoal-burning eyes she slashes a wicked smile. “Dance with me, or I‘ll dance with you.”
Dance with death? Die now, at a funeral? I‘m lonely, but I‘m not sure I want to end like Charles Sr., my sole company in death. I‘m still young and I can still do so much in my life. Yes I‘m alone, but to die, to finally be set free?
“Why do I‘ve to choose now?”
“Because death got tired of being courted by you.”
She offers her hand palm up, head bowed, and knee bent, like a gentleman offers a lady to dance. I don‘t like being forced into deciding. Why really? The lure of death has so long been with me, and now it is so close, why do I struggle?
“You don‘t have to do it yourself, just touch my hand, dance with me, and it will be done.”
It is a tempting offer, no pain, one touch and it ends.
“Just like Charles, quick and easy,” she says.
Like Charles, alone only not in death. I look her in her eyes and say, “No thanks.”
Life may be a burden, but I don‘t have to carry it alone. Right now in the church, many carry the same burden and they manage, so can I. It‘s time I face reality and say bye to death and hello to life.
I slide along the wall away from her and walk toward the street, not daring to give her any more notice. Leaving the bubble of tranquility surrounding her, I step in the onslaught of a full-blown storm. I stagger to keep my balance and push forward on the road. I look back over my shoulder. She stands where I left her, smiling while watching me struggle against the storm. Anywhere but there, I would face a hurricane to get away.
I walk past the centuries-old oak tree. There is a flash of intense sizzling light, and a loud crack followed by a boom that leaves me blind and my ears ringing. My eyes recover to the sight of a split oak tree crashing down on me. I should have taken the hand races through my head. I feel a sharp pain followed by nothingness.
