He’s far away, safe in Never Never Land, where lost boys live forever and never have to grow up. He doesn’t hear the angry little cell phone shrieking in the duffel bag downstairs. Somewhere out there, a driver is cruising the streets of Charlotte, searching for a boy in a nylon warm-up suit. I’m afraid Douglas ’s not as lucky as Peter Pan and that his story won’t have a happy ending. Tomorrow night, the warm body next to me may be lying in an emergency room, beyond repair, just a few heartbeats away from being rolled to the morgue on a gurney.
Do not resuscitate.
No mechanical respiration.
No tube feeding or invasive form of nutrition or hydration.
No blood or blood products.
No form of surgery nor any invasive diagnostic procedures.
No kidney dialysis.
No antibiotics.
No codes.
No extraordinary efforts to sustain life.
But that’s a day away. Tonight he will sleep like a baby, the inevitable postponed until the sun rises. I’ll lie awake, haunted by my mother, with his warm body spooned into mine in the bed she shared with my father. We’ve both earned another precious day, and that’s as much as any of us can expect.
Mary, Queen of Heaven
The forecast was on the mark. It’s still reasonably hot, it being summer in North Carolina, after all. But the temperature feels surprisingly comfortable after the Old Testament scourge of the past week. I’ve spoken to Regina and she’s agreed, begrudgingly, but without argument, to respect my wish to do this alone. I’m showered, shaved, gelled, deodorized, fortified with black coffee and a piece of rye toast before climbing the stairs to the bedroom. I lower myself on the mattress as Douglas, this perfect stranger, sleeps contentedly in my mother’s bed. Rise and shine, I say, sounding like her, gently waking him. I find a way to slip my name into my greeting, assuming he doesn’t remember it. He looks forlorn, like he was hoping to hide under the covers all day, when I tell him we need to be going. I’ve got to be somewhere, I apologize, I can’t drive him back to Charlotte. I insist he accept whatever’s in my wallet, a couple hundred, more than enough for the taxi to take him wherever he wants to go. He had a really great time, he says. He wants my number so he can call me when he gets a phone. The one he’s been using belongs to a friend. He gives me a friendly kiss and hops into the cab, his precious duffel bag held tight, talking excitedly on the cell, concocting some wild and improbable tale to explain going AWOL last night.
I’m wearing a blue suit and white shirt, dressed for the occasion this time, hoping to avoid the withering disapproval and arched eyebrows of M. Sweeney of M. Sweeney & Son. But it seems M. Sweeney is now resting comfortably in one of his top-of-the-line models. Sweeney the Son greets me in “business casual”: shirtsleeves, khakis, and boat shoes. The tables have turned, and Sweeney the Son, surprised by my gabardine and tie in these less formal times, is embarrassed and excuses himself, returning in a gold-buttoned navy blazer. Add epaulets and a visored cap and he’d pass for the majordomo of a yacht club.
The times, they are a-changing. Solemnity is outdated, even at a funeral parlor. The M. Sweeneys of tradition, dour and elegiac, church bells ringing out with every footstep, are asleep in the graveyard. Sweeney the Son has a difficult time repressing his cheerful good nature. Try as he might, gravity does not come easily to him. He bounces from casket to casket on the balls of his feet. He bubbles with enthusiasm as he describes the luxury extras of the better models, their plush interiors padded with creamy fabrics, with lifetime warranties against seepage and moisture.
Whose lifetime?
Mine?
Certainly not my mother’s.
Is there a money-back guarantee?
How would I collect? Do I pick up the phone in twenty years and schedule an exhumation to check on the state of preservation? Pay up, Sweeney! My mother doesn’t look as fresh as a daisy anymore!
Just a simple pine box. Nothing fancy. Nothing garish. Just plain and simple. That’s what I asked for back when I was a novice at this, touring the “showroom” in shorts and sneakers, not knowing if I was expected to rap the casket lids with my knuckles like I’d kick the tires of a new car. In the end, my father drove to heaven in the Lincoln Town Car of coffins. This time I have no delusions that a simple pine box will suffice.
I can’t tell M. Sweeney I want a container and nothing more. I don’t want to seem cheap and callow. I don’t want him thinking I’m mocking the dead. I won’t insist on the simple pine box. But I won’t be duped this time. I’m a savvy consumer now and won’t be bulldozed into squandering ten thousand dollars on the Mary, Queen of Heaven model. He’s wasting his time extolling its virtues, rhapsodizing over the craftsmanship, explaining the silkscreen technique used to imprint an image of the blue-veiled Virgin on the thick cushion inside the lid.
“No thank you,” I say politely. “I don’t think my mother envisioned spending eternity with the Mother of God’s nose planted in her belly button.”
Sweeney the Son can’t help laughing, but, afraid of appearing disrespectful, composes himself quickly. He relaxes when I laugh too.
“I have just what you’re looking for,” he says.
We settle on the Michelangelo, solid mahogany, with gold leaf trim and Pieta miniatures carved into the four corners of the lid. It’s dignified, beautiful even, a few steps above the middle of the line. A perfectly adequate container.
It’s barbaric, this ritual, dressing my mother in her Sunday best, tucking a rosary in her hands, slipping some precious object-a stuffed animal or a photo in a heart-shaped frame-under the blanket. I’d prefer cremation, but it isn’t an option. My mother suffered from a morbid fear of death by fire. My sister says she would come back to haunt me if I were to perpetrate the transgression of popping her into the toaster oven. I doubt it, but don’t see any reason to assume the risk. Anyway, it’s my own claustrophobia that makes me panic at the thought of the Michelangelo being slammed shut, sealed tight, and covered with earth.
Why can’t I just tie helium balloons to her ankles and wrists and let her float high in the blue skies? Why can’t she just drift until a strong wind comes along to sweep her into the stratosphere where a shroud of ice crystals will preserve her for all eternity in the deep freeze of space? Then I could spend my evenings studying the night skies, seeking my mother, Queen of Heaven, as she orbits the earth.
But no, it has to be into the ground where, the miracles of engineering and lifetime guarantees notwithstanding, she’s destined to rot. Fungus will cover her face and hungry microbes will strip her flesh to the white bone, leaving nothing but an anonymous, toothy grin, a memento mori, a prop for a cheesy horror movie.
The worms crawl in, the worms crawl out…
“Are you all right?” Sweeney the Son asks, drawing me out of my reverie. “Would you like water, an iced tea?”
“Water would be good,” I say.
“Maybe something a little stronger on the side?” he suggests.
The whiskey burns my throat, bringing tears to my eyes. Time to get back to business. The coffin is only the first item on the list. Her favorite dress, navy worsted with delicate red piping, waits in the garment bag. The pearls my father gave her on their thirtieth anniversary are in a small silk pouch in my pocket. Only for the viewing, I instruct. Certainly, he assures me. I’ve brought a recent photograph, taken just before the ravages of lymphoma became apparent. I tell him Forrest, my mother’s devoted Pekingese of a hairdresser, will be preparing her wig. We can’t bear the thought of my mother lying in state sporting a careless comb-over by some overweight matron with club hands. Of course, Sweeney the Son says, always willing to accommodate.