Ghost, page 2
Lately, he has begun to think a great deal about the path of his life, about his mortality, about the fragility of the world. It is all such a tenuous thread. Harry Milken, his best friend from school, has an attractive and clever wife, two children, a lucrative job as a law partner advising corporate transactions. Every year at Christmas he receives an inscribed photograph showing Harry and his family standing in front of their mansion with its winding graveled driveway and exquisite gardens. Many times Harry has invited him to visit, but he cannot bring himself to go. He doesn’t know what he would say.
He was always as capable as Harry. Even more capable, in some respects. In school, he tutored Harry in mathematics, patiently going over Harry’s uncomprehending mistakes. “Math is like broccoli,” Harry said. Harry always compared things to vegetables without explanation. After athletic events, the two of them lay sweating on their backs, under a tree, and stared at the clouds drifting slowly overhead. On weekends, they went to the same parties and met the same girls. They were both considered good-looking and bright. It was so humid and close that evening in the cloakroom of a club, well after midnight, the two of them drunk and sprawled on the parquet floor, Harry trying to explain to his pretty date why he couldn’t take her home, the girl’s lipstick smeared, Harry apologizing to her and to David, and then, for some reason, tears suddenly in his eyes. That moment another thread. And then. Twenty-odd years slipped away. How had it happened? Surely, a critical decision must have been made at some point, sending their lives hurtling in different directions, but what was it? Perhaps it was only a small decision, perhaps only a single word, or a glance. And now Harry has his mansion and his wonderful family. While he, David, has a rented apartment, a termination notice from a mid-level job, an ex-wife who doesn’t answer his letters, a string of half-hearted romances. Evidently, he made some unwitting miscalculation. And Harry has been oblivious. Intending no harm, Harry sends him the Christmas photograph each year, as happy in the photograph as if he’s just discovered another tax dodge. Some Christmas, David should send Harry a photograph in return, an inscribed photograph of himself in his pajamas sitting on the shabby gray carpet in his rented apartment. At the thought, a smile crosses his face.
He does not begrudge Harry. Harry deserves what he has got. In his bumbling way, Harry was always far more ambitious than David. Let Harry keep all he has got. Let the ambitious rule the earth.
And he will not feel sorry for himself, because others are less fortunate. He has a decent apartment. He has some money in the bank. His landlady owns a diner next door, where he can get his meals without having to cook. Every week, he takes a long walk around the lake near his house, takes out books from the library.
It is just that he is searching for something, while Harry is not. Perhaps that was the unwitting miscalculation. Or maybe it was not a miscalculation. He is searching for something, although he doesn’t know what it is. At moments, once every few years, he has a brief sensation of almost grasping it. A particular shape of the clouds, an unusual sound, a movement in the distance, will trigger the experience, and, for a moment, he feels something big, a flash of some totality, some grand sweeping thing like ripples moving out from a stone thrown in the lake. The whole heave and tramp of it. The sensation is not pleasant. A ringing in his ears. A weightlessness. And then, in an instant, he awakens and shudders.
Slowly, his eyes follow a crack in the ceiling. Then, in the midst of his thoughts, a voice leaks from the hallway. The director appears. “Please,” says the director, standing tentatively at the door. “I hope I didn’t startle you. It’s so quiet here. We like to keep it that way. You are Mr. David Kurzweil, inquiring about the…” The director doesn’t finish his sentence, as if it would be vulgar to mention the job opening.
“Yes.” He pinches his leg to rouse himself from his musings and quickly stands up from the sofa. “Yes, I am interested in the apprenticeship.” He reaches out and firmly grips the director’s hand.
The director is a short, overweight man with white hair and milky eyes and a kindly smile. His jacket, far too small for his lumpy body, strains at its single brass button, allowing the white shirt to billow out underneath. “You will have met Martha at the door,” says the director. “The receptionist.” He pauses. “Martha has a brusque manner, I’m afraid.” He gives a little laugh and scratches his face with his thick fingers. “I apologize for that. But she is good at what she does, and she’s been with us for fifteen years.” The director waits, as if expecting a reply. “I hope she didn’t put you off.”
“Not at all,” David says. A despicable woman.
“Good. Good. I try to talk to her about her manner, but there’s only so much I can say. She’s been with us for such a long time.” The director leans down and straightens the bird magazine on the table. “I see from your résumé…Can I call you David? Please call me Martin. I see from your résumé that you’ve lived in the area for some time. It’s a beautiful part of the country, isn’t it. My wife is a birder, and you would be amazed at the species she’s identified just in our little neck of the woods. She sends each sighting off to some organization and gets a certificate back. If I had a dollar for every certificate she’s got…Do you have family here, David?”
David shakes his head no. No one except his mother, two hours away, and a sister even farther. Then he recounts a few details of his life, his father’s death at a young age, his education, the places he’s lived. While he is talking, his eyes are drawn to the white orchid on the coffee table. How lovely it is, sitting all by itself.
The director gently glides to the subject of David’s previous employment and looks at him sympathetically as David describes the circumstances of his termination. “It was a shock,” says David.
The director nods. “I took the liberty of calling them earlier today,” he says. “The bank. They said you had been an exemplary employee.”
“Perfect,” David says bitterly. “Then why…” Not wanting to complain, he says nothing more.
“It must have been very upsetting,” says the director. “Out of the blue, for no cause. They’ll be sorry, I’m sure. Life isn’t fair, certainly not on the outside. And here you are, talking to us. Their loss, our gain.” The director smiles and sits down for the first time, taking the wingback chair next to the sofa. His jacket appears as if it will burst. There is something familiar about this man, David thinks to himself. What is it? The way that he smiles? The way that he sits in his chair? He can’t place it. Something.
“Do you know the poetry of William Blake?” asks the director.
“I know who he is. I’m afraid I can’t recall any particular poems. My mother read poems to me when I was a child, but she read only what she liked.”
“Ah. You’d remember. A poet of great delicacy. Great delicacy.” The director lightly closes his milky eyes and recites,
Little Fly,
Thy summer’s play
My thoughtless hand
Has brush’d away.
Am not I
A fly like thee?
Or art not thou
A man like me?
“Such delicacy and simplicity, don’t you think?” He pauses. “This room is where people should be soothed. People who come into this room are distraught, and they need soothing. That’s why I keep the little book of Blake poems here. For people to read. It was given to me by my father, and he was given it by his father.”
“Yes, it is a very soothing room.” Indeed, David is beginning to feel soothed, less anxious about his unemployment, less anxious about the unsatisfactory condition of his life. He leans back and allows the sofa to envelop him, and he gazes at the white orchid.
“I’m glad you feel that,” says the director. “We like to think that our funeral home is…” He hesitates, searching for the right word. “Comforting. We want people to be comforted here. There’s so much trouble in the world these days. East versus West. Fundamentalists versus moderates.” He stops and looks up, watching David’s reaction. “You understand what I am referring to?” David nods, puzzled by this interesting but strange turn of the conversation. The director is an odd duck. “Savage attacks against innocent people. By both sides.” Again, David can feel the director studying his face. “The outside is dangerous and uncivilized,” says the director. “Uncivilized. There is much unrest, outside. That’s why we feel fortunate to be here. Inside.”
These last words seem like distant echoes in vast canyons, for David is struggling to combat his drowsiness. The room is far too close and warm. And it has no windows. He is beginning to sweat in his suit. He can feel the unpleasant moisture in his armpits. What was that last thing the director said? “I agree with you,” says David, straining, then remembering the line of thought. “But I wouldn’t necessarily say that because the world is dangerous it is uncivilized. As I remember, ancient Rome was brutal and highly civilized at the same time. It depends, I think, on what you mean by civilized.”
The director smiles with satisfaction. “You’re a man I can talk to.” He takes a sip from a coffee cup that Martha has noiselessly delivered. “The outside can do what it wants,” he says. “Let them make trouble for themselves. Here we create our own…world. We are all one family here, David. We create a space where grieving families can be comforted. And where we can be part of the process. It is a natural process, death. Death is a part of life. Look around you. In time, everything you see will be gone. This sofa. This building. The trees. Everything. That is the nature of things. In some way, I think we prepare ourselves for our own deaths by helping our clients. Does that make any sense to you? I hope that I’m not being too…morbid. Our highest priority, of course, is helping the families who are saying the final good-bye to their loved ones, sending them off. In peace. In safety.” The director pauses, looking slightly embarrassed. “Sometimes I don’t say things in the best way. My wife tells me that the less said about these matters the better. She has a degree in management, you know.” He shifts in his chair. “If I can be straightforward with you, David…we usually hire people somewhat younger than you for our apprenticeships. I know that I shouldn’t be saying that, but it’s true.” He smiles, revealing yellow teeth. “But age does bring its advantages.”
“I’ve worked a long time,” says David, “and I take my employment seriously.”
“I sense that,” says the director. He takes a pen from his pocket and lets out a sigh. “Some people have qualms about working in a funeral home. They have ideas about what we do—some true, some not true. It’s a profession, like other professions. We are professionals here. But we are also part of the community. We personally know almost all of our clients, or their relatives. This funeral home has been in my family for four generations. I grew up in this house. The essential attitude is respect. That is what my father told me when I was learning the business. Respect. We treat the grieving families with respect. We treat the remains with respect. A human being has dignity and should be treated with dignity at every step of the way, including the last step.”
“I have to admit something, Martin,” David says. “I’ve never been in a mortuary before. I want to be honest.”
“Funeral home. That’s the term we prefer. Mortuary is too…you know.” The director smiles again. “Don’t worry. We recognize that our place here takes some getting used to. At first, you will be what we call a runner. You’ll retrieve death certificates and burial permits for us. We’re not allowed to take possession of the remains without a death certificate. Ophelia, our other runner, will show you what’s involved. Later, we’ll begin training you in other matters. Robert can help with that. Robert is another apprentice.”
It appears that the director has just offered David the job. With a touch of concern, David wonders how many applications the director has received. Martin stands, takes out a piece of paper, and writes something down. “I have an instinct about you, David. I’d like to show you the facilities.”
When he stands, David feels sluggish. The room is suffocating. He needs to go outside for fresh air, but the director is already walking ahead, leading him and talking over his shoulder. “The old part of the house,” he says, running his hand along one of the walls. “There was a fire forty years ago. You can still smell a burnt odor if you put your nose close to the wall. I remember how we all had to move out and live in a hotel for three months. The food was awful, but we were afraid to complain because they gave us a good rate. There were eleven of us, counting my older brother and his family. He’s gone now. After the fire, all the rooms were rearranged. Can you smell it?” David leans over and sniffs, detecting something ancient.
They go to the casket room. A dozen caskets are displayed in horizontal shelves like bunk beds in a dormitory, some as beautiful as fine pieces of furniture. Urns for cremations sit on another shelf. “Everyone has different tastes,” says the director. “Some clients just want a simple pine box, and we give that to them if that’s what they want. Others want a Rolls-Royce. We let the clients tell us what they want. And we sell all of our caskets only a little above our own costs. The corporate funeral homes overcharge on the caskets. They also cut corners. They use cheap, disgraceful materials for embalming. We don’t work like that here. You’ll see.”
Next door is the slumber room, a large space with heavy draperies, a tattered carpet on the floor, two dozen chairs, a smell of perfume. On the walls are paintings of the English countryside, complete with hunting dogs and merry riders and horses leaping over fences. It is here, the director explains, that the families and friends can view the remains.
“I’m taking too much of your time,” says David. In fact, he is ready for the interview to end. Although Martin is gracious, David doesn’t care to see more of the mortuary today. He’s perspiring and tired, and he’s thinking of getting some hot tea from Marie and sitting in his reading chair with his new book.
“Oh no, no. You must come with me to the back and see our horse-driven hearse. My great-grandfather drove Mayor Thaddeus Slatfield to his burial in that hearse.”
Outside, behind the garage, surrounded by weeds, is a rusting black carriage lying on its side. Its great spoked iron wheels and harness rods stick out like the legs of a downed elephant. “It still smells of horses,” says Martin. “We have photos of it in use.”
David stares at the carriage and nods. “I’m really taking too much of your time,” he repeats as they walk back into the building.
“Not at all,” says Martin. The director looks at his watch. “Just now I need to meet a family in the arrangement room. Did I take you to the arrangement room? It’s just next door, adjoining the sitting parlor. But Ophelia will show you the rest of the facility. You’ll like her.” The director holds out his hand. “We’re a family here, David.”
A few moments later, Ophelia appears, a chunky young woman with round cheeks and fire-engine-red lipstick. She wobbles a bit in her high-heeled shoes, which look like pure torture to David. He smiles at her, wondering whether she likes her job at the mortuary, whether she always wears such bright lipstick. “So, I’m to show you around,” she says after the director has left. “I didn’t get shown around until a week into the job. Martin thought I wasn’t serious.” Ophelia grins at him. “Did you notice that he always kept his left side to you? He’s deaf in his right ear. Everyone knows.” She takes David boldly by the arm and leads him to the hallway.
“If it would be all right with you,” he says, “I’d like to go home for the day. I’m not feeling…I could come back tomorrow.”
Ophelia makes a clownish face. “No way. Martin said to show you around, and that’s what I’m going to do. Let’s go downstairs. That’s the interesting stuff.” She looks over her shoulder. “I hope Martin hires you,” she whispers. “He usually hires stupid boys who come here just to see dead bodies. Then they leave after a few months. Rick was better, but he left to get married. Everybody gets married except me.” She sighs. “But it’s a good thing Rick left, because then we got Robert.”
“Martin says that I am going to be a runner at first.”
“Boring,” says Ophelia. “You have to chase down the death certificates from this place and that. Sometimes, with the unattended deaths, you can’t get the death certificate right away, and everybody freaks out. The family freaks out. The M.E. freaks out and yells at you. People are so rude. I prefer not going out if I don’t have to. It’s nice here. Martin takes good care of us, and he’s sweet, although he doesn’t pay us hardly anything. Jenny—that’s Martin’s wife—does the money. She handles all the business stuff. Maybe you’ll get more. You’re going to be an apprentice. I want to be an apprentice, but Martin won’t let me.”
They walk down a narrow staircase, Ophelia’s heels clacking on the wood steps. The walls are plastered with photographs of birds. “You’re looking worried,” says Ophelia. “Don’t worry. Not everyone is weird who works in a funeral home.” When they have descended to the basement, they enter the holding room, a small area with two metallic racks and a drain in the floor. “This is where the remains come first,” says Ophelia. A sloping concrete ramp angles upward from the floor, goes across the hall and up through a long sloping corridor to the car garage at the street level. “Sometimes they ask me to cream the face when the remains first arrive. It keeps the skin soft.”
Cream the face? What a horrible expression. Suddenly, David has an image of his mother lying here on one of the metallic racks, having her face creamed. He takes a step back, steadying himself against the door frame. “Doesn’t that bother you?”
“I didn’t like it at first,” says Ophelia. “It depends on how you think about it. Somebody’s got to do it. It’s only bad when the eyes are open. Usually someone closes the eyes, but they don’t always close.”
Leaving the holding room, they continue through the damp concrete hall in the basement. They pass a locked door with a sign: NO ONE SHALL BE ALLOWED IN THE PREPARATION ROOM WHILE A DEAD HUMAN BODY IS BEING PREPARED EXCEPT APPRENTICES, EMBALMERS, AND FUNERAL DIRECTORS.
