“A daughter,” said Joe. “I called her last night. She didn’t know if she was coming.”
Bender rolled his eyes to the ceiling. “Well, of course,” he said, “that’s certainly her privilege.”
Joe cleared his throat. “Uh, I think it would probably be a good idea, before everyone showed up and all, if we just checked… you know… the inside. I mean, worse mistakes have been made….”
“Of course, of course,” said Bender. “Don’t apologize, you’re entitled.” He looked over at Dominick. “Dom.”
The dark-suited man lifted the lid of the coffin. Inside, Joe saw that it was indeed Willie, his face a frozen off-white, his head making a slight depression in the wine-colored satin. Dominick and Bender backed away a discreet distance, as Joe and Al leaned over the coffin.
“Good-bye, Willie,” whispered Joe.
“ ‘Bye, Will,” said Al. He touched his lips to the dead man’s cheek, then drew back at the unexpected coldness.
Joe nodded to Dominick, who came forward and closed the lid.
“The priest’ll be here in a moment,” said Bender, on the way out of the chapel. “He’ll probably want to speak to you a while.”
“Fine,” said Joe.
Five minutes later, he and Al were in a small room, bare except for a table and chairs, facing a short, fat man with a loud voice. Father Scanlon took notes on a yellow pad, and scanned them frequently through wire-rimmed bifocals.
“Okay, let’s see. So… He has one daughter, Sandra, and two grandchildren, Edward and Tracy. He—”
“They may not be here,” said Joe.
“That’s okay,” said the priest, checking his notes. “He was a cabdriver for most of his life was a member of the Masons, mmm… lost two sons in the Second World War, sang in the choir at St. Mary’s church—“
“That was a long time ago, Father,” said Joe. “Very long. As I mentioned, truthfully, Willie… uh… hadn’t really kept up with the religion.”
“I understand,” said Father Scanlon. “But tell me, was he a charitable man?”
“Oh, he was,” said Al. “Most definitely. “You’d never see him pass by a nun without offerin’ some contribution.”
The priest made a note on his pad. “And did he love his neighbor?”
“He did,” said Joe solemnly.
“And was he an honest man?”
Al gave Joe a quick glance. “He was,” said Joe, his voice squeaking just a little.
The priest looked up brightly, “Well, then, this should be enough. Do you expect a lot of mourners?”
“Not a lot.” Joe rose from his chair. “Uh, Father, one last thing, which Willie had often discussed with me before he died.”
“Yes?”
“He hated long speeches, Father. He said, ‘At my funeral, I don’t want nobody sayin’ nothin’ that takes more than five minutes.’ ”
Father Scanlon nodded. In his line of work, flexibility was essential. “I’ll do my best,” he said courteously. “The wishes of the deceased, of course, come above all else.”
Afterward, in the corridor, Al asked Joe when Willie had discussed funeral orations. “Why… never,” said Joe easily.
“You mean, you made that up?” said Al.
“Sure,” said Joe. “I just used my noodle. Willie was a straight, no-nonsense guy. The last thing he’d’ve wanted was some priest who didn’t even know him standin’ up and tellin’ a lot of lies to people who did.” He shrugged. “Stands to reason.”
Just before midday, they stood in the chapel alone, the thin stream of visitors having temporarily halted. Joe looked at the casket, then back to Al. “Boy, what a day this is,” he sighed.
“Be over soon enough,” said Al. “And then Willie can rest for a billion years.”
“That’s a long time to sleep,” said Joe.
“Yes it is,” agreed Al. “Especially if you don’t do no dreamin’.”
An hour later, Joe was back in the reception area along with a few of the regulars from the neighborhood.
“I was so shocked when I heard the news,” said Mrs. Flaum. She had brought her sister, a thin, scattered woman who went for monthly shock treatments.
“Well, he did go kinda sudden,” said Joe.
Mrs. Flaum turned to her sister. “He was such a nice man,” she said. “So neat and clean.”
“Clean is important,” said the sister. “Maybe the most important thing there is.”
Joe nodded politely and turned away. Death and hypocrisy went hand in hand, he knew. It was an old story. He wandered back to the rear of the room where Mrs. Spelios was speaking to Karl Krenstmann, an elderly man who owned a house in the neighborhood.
“Soon,” Krenstmann was saying, “it’s time to move away. “My friends are all leaving, and soon I follow.”
Mrs. Spelios seemed puzzled, unsure if the statement was metaphysical—whether “moving away” and “leaving” meant dying—or whether Krenst-mann actually intended to sell the house and live somewhere else. She decided on a literal interpretation. “I hear Miami Beach is nice,” she said. “Why don’t you look into a condominium?”
Krenstmann stared at her through thick glasses. “I’m talking about dying, and you bring up condominiums,” he said disdainfully.
Mrs. Spelios shrugged. “So sue me.”
Krenstmann looked around. “I’m hungry. My stomach is growling.”
“It’s a funeral here,” she said. “What’d you expect, lobster and filet mignon?”
“Why not?” said Krenstmann. “At the Irish ones you can get something to eat and drink. Those are the affairs I like.”
Joe, who’d been listening, cleared his throat. “Hey, Karl,” he said, “did you happen to see where Al went?” Al had been missing for over half an hour.
“I think he’s next door at Moon’s, freshening up a little,” said Krenstmann.
“See?” said Joe. “There’s a man who takes matters into his own hands.”
Joe stepped outside the funeral home and walked the few steps to the bar-and-grill next door. He found Al drinking a beer and absently reading a Daily News. Joe sat down on the stool next to him. He and Al were the only customers.
“Nothin’ so empty as a bar on a sunny afternoon, huh?” said Joe. He made his voice purposely loud, so that Moon, washing glasses twenty feet away, would hear.
“Only people you get now are the lushes and the deadbeats,” said Moon, without glancing up.
“And be grateful for them,” said Al. He folded the paper.
“How do you like that?” said Joe, now lowering his voice to a near whisper. “Willie’s daughter didn’t even show up.”
Al drained his glass of beer. “No accountin’ for human nature,” he said. “One minute it’s chasin’ starlight, the next it’s wallowin’ in a cesspool.” He held up his glass. “Moon,” he called. “Can you fix me up with another?”
Moon waved, okay.
“You better take it easy with those,” said Joe.
Al pushed the newspaper over and pointed to an article. “Look at this.”
Joe began to scan the print, but found himself unable to concentrate. “What’s it say?”
“You can’t read anymore?”
“Come on, tell me.”
Al began to read, picking out certain paragraphs. “Police were besieged by phone calls urging them to abandon investigation of the recent Union Marine Bank robbery in Manhattan. The callers, mostly elderly, argued that the theft, believed committed by three men in their seventies, focussed attention on the problems of the aged, and must’ve been undertaken only out of desperation. ‘To apprehend these men and forcefully bow their heads before the criminal justice system would serve neither society nor humanity,’ argued Victor Turpan, leader of Elder Power, an organization of senior citizens.”
“The cops’ll never listen,” said Joe.
Al located another paragraph. “Elsie Soans, a customer in the bank at the time of the robbery, has refused to coop
erate with the police, despite the fact that she claims to have gotten a good look at the robbers as they fled the premises. ‘Ah seen their faces good when they took off them masks outside,’ said the eighty-year-old Ms. Soans, ‘but Ah be damned if Ah’m gonna tell no cops about it. An’ if they do find those three beauties, they better not bother me, ‘cause Ah ain’t gonna identify ‘em neither. Wha’ fo’ should I go an’ tell on one of mah own?’ “ Al looked up. “They’re making heroes out of us.”
Joe nodded. “Funny, it feels like that was fifty years ago.”
“It feels like it wasn’t us,” said Al. “It’s like I’m readin’ fiction about three strangers.”
Moon arrived with the beer. “How ‘bout you?” he asked Joe. “Can I get you anything?”
“I don’t think so,” said Joe. “Somehow, I ain’t in a drinkin’ mood today.”
“Suit youself,” said Moon, walking away.
When he was out of earshot, Al said, “Think we’ll get caught?”
Joe thought a moment. “Who cares?” he said finally.
When Al and Joe returned to the funeral home, they saw Pete and Kathy signing the visitors’ book in the reception area. The kids were with them. Colleen screamed gleefully as she ran to Al, nearly knocking him over when she leaped into his arms.
“How’s my little bunny rabbit?” laughed Al, kissing her cheeks.
“Goooood!” squealed Colleen.
“You brought Mommy and Daddy, huh?”
“Yes, and also Kevin.”
“Terrific. Aren’t you going to say hello to my friend?”
Colleen stared at Joe. “No.”
“Why?”
“ ‘Cause I don’t want to.”
“Because you forgot his name?”
Colleen frowned. “I know his name.”
“You do?” asked Al.
“Uh, huh.”
“Well, what is it, sugar plum,”
Colleen moved her eyes back and forth, pausing for dramatic effect. “Joe’”
“Hey!” said Al, applauding. “Right you are. Now, since he knows that you know his name, you don’t want to make him feel bad by not saying hello, do you?”
Colleen wrinkled her tiny forehead. “Hello, Joe,” she said at last.
Joe smiled. “Hello, sweetheart.”
Pete, Kathy, and Kevin gathered around and exchanged greetings with Joe and Al. “Feeling a little better this morning?” Kathy asked Al. “Your friend was quite low last night,” she explained to Joe. “I’ve never seen him so depressed.
“Little better now,” said Al. “Takes time.”
“How you doing, Joe?” asked Pete.
“Ah, pretty good under the circumstances,” said Joe.
“Remember,” Pete said, “our offer is still good. Anytime you want to come over for a few days, just say the word.”
Joe was somewhat surprised. He’d assumed the courtesy of the previous night was simply good form, and he’d been grateful enough for that. But today’s repetition meant they were genuinely inviting him. How extraordinarily kind, he thought. How unusual.
“Thank you,” Joe said. “Thank you very much. Right now, I’m fine as is, but I really appreciate your askin’, I really do.”
“Sure?”
“Yes. Thanks.” Joe turned to Al. “Let’s escort these good folks to the chapel so they can pay their last respects.”
“We’ll be with you in a minute,” said Kathy. “I’m going to take Colleen to the bathroom first. I see she’s crossing her legs already.”
“I’ll take Kevin,” said Pete. “Joe, Al, we’ll meet you inside, okay?”
“Fine,” said Joe.
At the chapel door, Al paused to say something to the funeral director, while Joe walked inside. He stared at the casket for several seconds before retrieving a bouquet of flowers that had fallen at the foot of the platform. He placed the flowers atop the coffin. “It feels funny to say,” he said softly, “but I get the feeling that I’m gonna be joining you real soon, Willie.” He looked around quickly then, concerned lest anyone had overheard, but the room was empty. He’d felt compelled to speak as he had, to let Willie know that he would not long be alone. The feeling, only a vague foreboding before his sudden verbalization, had taken shape now. It was as if the cells of his body had somehow banded together to send a chemical message, a telegram delivered by hormones and enzymes: Soon, we give up. There was neither fear nor threat implied, only a sense of great fatigue, a desire to end the battle, to rest.
Slowly, Joe walked to the chapel door and leaned out. “Al,” he called.
“Yeah,” said Al.
“Can I talk to you for a minute?”
Al came inside. “Just goin’ over the procedures,” he said. “The priest’ll be back at seven tonight for the wake service, an’ then tomorrow mornin’, we’ll have the procession to the church startin’ at ten-thirty.” He noticed Joe seemed in a trance. “What’s up?”
Joe looked at him squarely. “Whaddaya say we give twenty-five thousand to Pete?”
“What?”
“You heard me. I’d like to give your nephew twenty-five thousand dollars.”
Al was stunned. “You… But why?”
Joe shrugged. “That’ll still leave us ten thousand, and what the hell were we gonna do with all that money anyway?”
Al puffed out his cheeks and walked around in a small circle. “That… well… that would be great,” he said finally. “But you sure that’s okay with you?”
“You know, you must be goin’ senile. It was my idea, wasn’t it?”
Before Al could respond, Kathy, Pete and the children entered the chapel. They filed past the casket, with the adults pausing to kneel and offer a brief, murmured prayer.
Outside, back in the reception room, Al managed to corner Pete, while Joe occupied Kathy.
“Pete, can we talk to you for a minute?”
“Sure,” said Pete pleasantly. “Shoot.”
“No, no, I mean alone.”
“Right here’s no good?” said Pete.
“Well… why don’t we go next door?” said Al. “Atmosphere’s a little better for what we want to discuss, and in addition there’s more privacy.”
Pete looked concerned. “Is everything all right? I mean—”
“No, no… no problem. Everything’s fine.”
Back at Moon’s, the three of them sat at a table. Kathy had taken the children to a luncheonette for ice cream sodas, and Pete had arranged to meet her there later.
“Want a beer?” Al asked.
“Okay,” said Pete.
“Joe?” said Al.
“None for me,” said Joe.
“Moon!” called Al. “Could we get two beers here?”
Pete looked at him expectantly. “There was something you wanted to discuss?”
Al nodded. “You know, it was a wonderful thing you done, asking me to stay over. Did me a world of good. The thing is… I’m feeling a little better now, and I think I’m gonna go back and stay at my place tonight.”
Pete looked both amused and confused. “Okay. Is that what you called me in here for? I mean, you didn’t have to be that formal—”
“No, no, there’s more to it,” said Al. He paused uncertainly. “Look, Pete… you can’t tell anybody about this, okay?”
Pete grinned.
“Just say okay.”
“Okay, okay. Now what’s the big secret?”
Al glanced at Joe. “Willie left us a twenty-five-thousand-dollar life insurance policy.”
Pete whistled. “That’s a lotta dough.”
“He always said that his daughter had plenty of money already; she’s married to some dentist who makes sixty or eighty grand a year. And that’s work-in’ four days a week. Anyway, Willie told us that if he was to go before either of us did, he wanted us to get the twenty-five thousand.”
“That was very nice of him,” said Pete.
“Now we can’t tell nobody about this,” continued Al
, “because Willie said if his daughter found out she probably would try and sue to get the money.”
Pete leaned back in his chair. “Is there a will?”
“Nothing formal,” said Al. “Just a sheet of paper, handwritten. But the policy designates us as beneficiaries.”
Pete shrugged. “Seems to me she don’t have a case.”
“Maybe,” said Al. He cracked his knuckles. “But regardless, here’s the point. I talked it over with Joe, and we decided to give you the twenty-five grand to use as a down payment for your own gas station.”
Pete tensed suddenly. “What? What are you—” He stopped as Moon brought over the beers.
“That be all, gents?” asked Moon.
“That’s fine for now,” said Al.
“I don’t understand,” said Pete, when Moon had gone.
“Look,” said Joe. “We ain’t got too much use for twenty-five thousand dollars. I mean, what the hell we gonna do with it, buy a Mercedes? Get us a speedboat? Shack up with some call girls?”
“Wait a minute,” said Al, teasing. “Maybe we shouldn’t give him the twenty-five—”
“The thing me and Al could use though, is an extra fifteen bucks a week. Just somethin’ to tide us over, you know? Let us take in a movie once in a while, or buy a paper on Sunday. Kinda like an annuity, you might say. Anyway, we figure we give you the twenty-five grand, and in exchange you give us fifteen dollars a week till we die.”
“My grandfather lived to a hundred thirty-seven,” lied Al.
Joe reached out and took Pete’s hand. “What do you say?”
Pete, still stunned, said, “I don’t know, I—”
“Just say ‘okay’.”
Pete nodded. “Okay.”
“All right then. It’s settled.”
“And you better start looking for a station right away,” added Al, “because I have a feeling the money’ll be coming through pretty soon.”
There was a light rain on the day of the funeral. Father Scanlon met the tiny procession at the door of Christ the Savior Church, and escorted the casket down the center aisle. There were perhaps twenty people in attendance. After the opening prayers and Bible readings, Father Scanlon delivered a short homily that somehow related Willie’s death to salvation and the rebirth of Christ. To Joe, the words and rituals were meaningless. Like Willie, he hadn’t been inside a church in twenty years, escept for deaths and marriages. He sat through the eucharist prayer, did not participate in communion, and would probably not even have been aware the Mass was over had he not been called on to help carry the casket back outside to the hearse.
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