On the way home, I stopped at the funeral home to sort out the service. Mr. Charon wasn't in. His wife received me. I'd never paid much attention to that tall, brusque, chilly woman with a pike's eyes and teeth. I'd never pictured her also running the parlor. There was no mystery to it, really: Mrs. Charon sold headstones and rented hearses the way the grocer's wife sliced off the mortadella and provolone in her husband's stead. It is a trait of mom-and-pop businesses to perfect their union by hitching couplehood to a single yoke from the morning after the wedding till death do them part.
Mrs. Charon had been eyeing me more closely than I had her these last few years. She'd noticed me, observed me, and given thought to my situation and my style. At least that was the feeling I got from our meeting. I left having signed off on all her suggestions concerning my casket and its padding, the order and luxury of my cortege, the site and character of my final resting place. As a reward for my obedience, she smiled, showing her teeth. I couldn't help thinking of the man who spent his days and nights with that mouth, and in my head, doffed my hat to Mr. Charon.
We confirmed one last time the date and hour of the burial, and I went home. You'll permit me to depict only in broad strokes the distress of those dear to me when I announced the event. Naturally, it resulted in cries, moans, sobs, and also accusations, despite the apologies I'd offered to soften the news with: I hadn't done it on purpose, I was the victim here, etc. It was a hideous moment but couldn't have gone otherwise. I was soon sick of it and decided-not without a certain cowardice, or so I thought at first-to go to bed. Later I realized this was, in fact, what my family expected of me. They'd loved me as much as a husband and father could hope to be loved; their pain and suffering were real; if I wanted to make this easier for them, allow them to better manage their grief and roll with the blow they'd gotten, I had to make an effort, too: for starters, staying out of the way of my widow and orphans.
I made it to the master bedroom. I took off my shoes, loosened my belt and tie, drew the curtains, and lay down on the bed. Whispers, sniffling, stifled sobs occasionally reached me from the dining room. I let myself be lulled by them and soon fell fast asleep. A brief, but restful sleep: when I woke a few hours later, I felt fresher and more alert than ever. It was really inappropriate, I guess. I was brimming with vigor, champing at the bit while my grief-stricken family's only thought was going to bed. While I'd slept, my wife had made a makeshift bed in the dining room. For herself. There was no way she was going to spend the night by my side. Try as I might to point out that I wasn't tired anymore, that she'd get a better night's rest upstairs, and that if need be I'd take happily to the impromptu bed, she refused to hear a word of it. I stopped insisting when I saw her rolling her eyes the way she does whenever she finds my behavior unbecoming. I can assure you this doesn't happen as much as in the early days of our marriage. In the end, this woman who I've every reason to believe loved me tenderly will always have considered me a half-tamed savage, barely presentable, with a few last-minute manners slapped on. Nor is it inconceivable an impartial observer should agree with her. I can't deny I suggested putting a dead body in the dining room or playing a board game with our children that night. As I said, the poor kids were about to keel over, but they would've given in if their mother hadn't flatly refused, citing the late hour and the fact that they had to get up early for school the next day. I knew her well enough to keep from making the case that some things are worth skipping school for. She saw no reason for children who'd already be missing their father to miss a day of school on top of that. So I let them go to bed. Then, just as she was about to do the same, I wished her a guilty little "Well… Good night, anyway"
"Try not to make any noise when you come in;" she said when she saw me slip on a jacket. "You know I can never get back to sleep once I wake up…"
The ceremony took place two days later. Mr. Charon was still nowhere to be seen. One wondered what he was up to. I have to say that Mrs. Charon filled the role perfectly. When it comes to conducting a funeral, courtesy is less important than authority. Mrs. Charon had authority in spades. Something implacable in her kept the cheekiest remarks in check. I can attest to the fact that no one laughed at my burial, and that everything went according to custom, in tasteful gloom.
I'd taken my place beside Mrs. Charon, who was driving the hearse in her absent husband's stead. The cemetery wasn't close by; you had to leave town and cross the river. The journey's length was not without its effects on those who chose unwisely to make it lying down in their caskets, Mrs. Charon explained. When they got there they were often sick to their stomach, about to throw up, and had to wait until they were feeling better to proceed in proper fashion. To avoid all that, Mrs. Charon employed a trick of the trade: the deceased traveled sitting up, like everyone else. In such conditions there was no reason for him not to arrive in good shape and ready to get down to business. So it was I got the best seat, shotgun in a spacious hearse, while my family and friends were squeezed each into their own cars.
Despite the qualities she'd shown that day, Mrs. Charon proved to be no more pleasant than usual. Having seated me beside her, she proceeded not to speak a word to me before the river crossing. To be fair, the coin my wife had put in my mouth would've kept me from keeping up a conversation with the desired elocutionary clarity.
The cortege slowed as it approached the bridge. Mrs. Charon stopped at the toll booth and turned to me. I took the coin from my mouth. I wanted to dry it with my handkerchief before giving it to her, since it was gleaming with spit. She grabbed it from my hand, grumbling something about "morons making a fuss," and tossed it in the basket. The barrier went up. The cortege started over the bridge. It was the middle of the afternoon, but you'd have thought it was dusk. Without my noticing, the sky had darkened while we were driving. Beneath a sky full of somber, heavy clouds hemmed in gold, the river's roiling waters seemed like molten lead. I'd often gone down to the bank as a boy, but I'd never noticed the river's breadth. Was it really a river? It seemed more like an arm of the sea. And this bridge I'd known all my life-only now did I realize what a titanic piece of work it was! Even going at a good clip, it was taking us forever to cross it.
But cross it we did. Once over, the cortege headed down a broad avenue interrupted, at regular intervals, by smaller streets leading to other parts of the cemetery. I'd expected to see a wall, to go through a bronze gate, monumental at that why not, while we were at it? But no, nothing of the sort. From the looks of it, it seemed the entire bank was reserved for us, the dead, and for a fleeting moment I was worried about the kind of company I'd find here.
The living, it seemed, couldn't wait to get back across the river to their uncertain shore. In any case they dropped me off, I dare say, with a promptness I would've called offhanded if the sight of my loved ones' devastated faces hadn't inclined me to leniency. Back, back to your hopes and fears, poor things-you're not out of it yet! Take up once more the tunic of flames from which another's death delivers us ever so briefly. One by one, they kissed my forehead. I remembered giving my father the same kiss. I'd had the impression of brushing the stone front of a statue with my lips. I felt feverish. After these final kisses, Mrs. Charon signaled to me to get into the grave and lie down in the casket. I obeyed, not at all reassured. Luckily, it all went quite fast; everyone came in turn and cast a handful of earth down upon me. The living have no idea how irritating this is. When they were done-a bit too symbolic a gesture for my taste-I had dirt up my nose and down the collar of my shirt. Indifferent to my sneezing, the assembled were already turning to go, leaving me to my fate or, if you will, my lack of fate. A relative absence, since something was nonetheless happening: it was starting to rain. It wasn't a very deep grave. I pulled myself up the wall without difficulty and ran to catch up with the cortege. I didn't expect to be greeted with open arms, but if I'd cherished even the slightest hopes about it, I'd have been in for a shock. My wife, my children, and my dearest friends all ignored me. Some met me with stony faces. Faced with my impropriety, they pretended not to see me. But, I was sure they could, for in turning from me their gazes wavered a bit before fixing on the horizon, the way a motorcycle will slip when starting on a slick surface… Others' eyes widened on seeing me, as though at a mischievous child. Still others waved vaguely, embarrassed; some smiled surreptitiously, some shook their heads and sighed. Annoyance? Contempt? Pity? Did they themselves even know? Yet despite their contradictory attitudes, they drew together to keep me from joining their ranks and hurried toward the vehicles. I saw what they were doing and tried to counter by speeding up my own step. I reached the lot first and got into the hearse with a triumphant laugh. My move surprised the group, who hesitated before getting into their cars. Slightly off to one side, my wife and Mrs. Charon had a brief discussion. Its content escaped me, despite my attempts to read their lips. At last, with conniving grins, they split up. My wife rejoined our children in the most comfortable car. Mrs. Charon got in beside me in the hearse. She quickly threw me the fearsome glance of a pike on the hunt, then started the car. I cleared my throat and tried to cajole her.