THE FUNERAL

I must allow that those who are planning my funeral happen to have done a banner job. The carved top mahogany casket is fit for a regent. The flower arrangements ordered-the assortment of carnations, lilies, orchids, chrysanthemums, casket sprays, and roses- absolutely dazzle the eye. Even the Right Reverend Alastair Cuthbert Sniggins, Jr., has agreed to perform the last rites. And my resting place, the plot on a hillock overlocking the Peabody Institute Library, happens to be in my beloved spot. All in all, an estimable job in these funeral arrangements by any respect.

The only drawback, of course, has to be to be that I am not even close to breathing my last. The fact remains that, at the moment, I could probably pass a physical with flying colors. My state of health hasn’t perturbed those fortunate enough to be on the list of invitees to the funeral ceremony a bit, though. In fact, I have heard hissing fits breaking out among the poor souls not getting invitations. Word has gotten back that a cousin all the way in Sausalito, for example, tore my framed photo off her library wall and smashed it on the floor when she discovered that she had not made the cut.

Now to provide a perspective, having what was diagnosed as stage 4 pancreatic cancer, I had been placed in a hospice in Danvers to live out my final days. After going through dozens of chemotherapy sessions, with a shaved head, losing my appetite and not eating for weeks, skeletal, I did look the part of someone about to meet his maker. Imagine my shock and surprise when a team of doctors came to my bedside bright and early in the morning and announced that a terrible mistake had been made: my chart had been confused with another person with the same name. Well, almost the same name. Instead of my middle name, Elliot, this person spelled his middle name Elliott, double t. So very sorry! came their cry. These MDs appeared, in fact, so crestfallen, so totally broken, that I actually felt for them.

My close ones would have been elated by this miraculous turnaround, that is, had any member of my immediate family actually bothered to stop by to pay their final respects to me at the hospice. But ,as matters turned out, I had been left to pass on my own. No wife of 43 years, son or daughter, five grandchildren, former business associates, friends, club members, golfing partners. For all intents and purposes, I had been abandoned. Forsaken would have been the better way to put it, already given up for dead. Granted I had been on a morphine drip which made me dopey, but please, make an effort to show a modicum of consideration for me all things considered. But no, I had apparently been dropped from the cast.

Anyway, when I was sure there weren’t any witnesses in the corridor, after dressing and packing a little suitcase, I ducked down to the bottom floor where they keep the caskets of those about to kick the bucket. Closing mine, I slipped out the side exit. With the high turnover in the hospice, I was banking on my disappearance being lost in the shuffle. When the nurses didn’t find a body with a pulse in my bed, in the bureaucratic confusion, they would likely assume that my remains had gone through the cogs and be downstairs awaiting pick up to the funeral home.

Naturally, when the hospice manager finally realized I had skipped out, the alarm bell went off. As for the doctors in charge, with the catastrophic error that had been made in my identity, their teeth must have been chattering, their bones shaking, about the mega malpractice suit for $ hundreds of millions in damages that likely awaited them. Their medical practices, would be ruined, their reputations in tatters. Still in the dark as far as anyone detecting what had happened, a deal was hurriedly made between the hospice and doctors, with a false death certificate signed and forwarded electronically through the channels to give the appearance the proceedings were legit, above board.

Still having access to the checking account as far as I knew, I grabbed an Uber to my local bank. Withdrawing a thousand dollars, I had enough for a hotel and expenses. Skipping the wake at the funeral home, I patronized the bar at the hotel-a local Marriott- and got so stinking drunk on double extra dry martinis I could barely stagger back to my room. Before drifting off to sleep, I set the timer on my cell phone for 8 sharp in the morning. Rest assured, nothing was going to keep me from getting the most out of witnessing my own funeral. Anyone who tried to prevent me would have to commit murder on my person.

In order to truly appreciate the solemnities of the event, I made sure to arrive at St. Paul’s Church on time. The doors opened promptly at 11:00. Before making my way past the stewards, I noticed a woman sobbing into a handkerchief on the entrance steps. Stopping by her, I recognized the woman as my sister-in-law, Amelia-or Amy, as I called her. “Now, now,” I tried to comfort her. “He wouldn’t want you to cry, would he?”

Turning her face to me, her cheeks turned crimson, her eyes scorching. “What the fuck are you talking about? If your reservation at Cote d Azur fell through because you had to attend this side show, you’d be bawling just as loud, you infernal asshole!”

“I’m sorry, so sorry!” I tried to comfort her before continuing up the steps to the entrance.

Once inside the sanctuary, I had to marvel at how, in all the years I had attended church, for the first time I felt at ease, relaxed, liberated, instead of feeling crimped, caged in, a prisoner. The pews no longer gave me the impression as cell blocks. Even the crucifix beyond the altar affixed with a writhing Jesus, somehow did not strike me as an instrument of torture and utter agony. As odd as it may sound, I found that, at my own funeral, I was overcome with lightness and levity.

When the steward asked me which side of the family I came from. I murmured, “Just a dear friend.” He directed me to the Baxter, my wife’s side. I took a seat in the next to last row to give me a full view of the viewing audience. Wearing thick dark sunglasses, my clothes way too big having lost so much weight, I assumed no one would recognize me. What unnerved me a bit was that it wasn’t until 11:20 that a trinkle of attendees passed in. My cousin, Aubree, proceeded down the aisle. As she was going by, I said, “Glad to see you.”

Stopping, she peered at me. “Do I know you, sir?”

So nearsighted she wouldn’t catch sight of a bull charging in her direction until about to get gored, she believed wearing glasses or contacts would be unbecoming to a society lady of her social standing. “Yes, we’ve met before.”

“You don’t look familiar,” she nodded her head before being helped on.

My son, Barrett, unaccompanied by his wife entered the church. The eldest, he was dressed in a tailor made pinstripe black suit. The Patek Philippe Skeleton watch glittered on his wrist. He didn’t even glance at me as he jaunted by, heedless.

Next came my wife, Everly. Wearing sunglasses, no doubt to conceal her rummy bloodshot eyes, she looked dashing in a coal black double breasted cap sleeve ruffle dress. The sparkling, three stone 11 carat sparkling diamonds on her wedding band did not leave any doubt as to where she was on the social ladder. Wearing her draggy, dyed golden blonde hair in a bouffant, every line of make-up had been assiduously applied.

Behind her came Paisley and Lillian Baxter. Paisley, who was in the middle of a torrid affair with my wife, looked totally a mess. In a rumpled suit, a blue dress shirt that did not match, and hair uncombed, the terribly troubled expression on his face made it appear that he had just barely survived a car wreck. He was the only one who did a double take coming upon me before proceeding on. The Baxters went on to sit directly behind Everly.

When the last mourner had filed in, the ceremony began. What struck me had to be the low attendance. With just a few rows occupied, the church appeared almost empty. With the wide number in my social circle, club members, chums, the prep and college crews, associates in the business community, only a thimbleful had, in fact, showed up. Even my younger daughter, Tabitha, had not arrived. Nor had Meredith, the lady who I had been seeing off and on.

Plumping herself by my side as the Right Reverend Alastair Cuthbert Sniggins, Jr. started out was my younger sister, Georgina. In a shrunken form that appeared you could blow her over with a puff of a straw, her gas tank had read empty when she had reached my pew. “She won’t get the insurance,” she snarled over the cracking voice of the reverend. “Did you know the measly bitch just upped the life insurance policy, or should I say, policies. Not satisfied with being the beneficiary of the estate, the homes, the trusts, the whole kit and kaboodle. No, not our Miss Fancy Pants!”

I don’t think Georgina realized who she was addressing. In all fairness, for all intents and purposes, we were, for all intents and purposes, complete strangers. Sent to boarding schools as wee ones, and then on to college, our paths almost never crossed. “And carrying on all these dalliances,” she was muttering under her breath. “I tell you that her hi-drive libido would make a slut blush!”

As the pallbearers and acolytes were carrying the empty coffin to its place by the altar, we stood. I could not help but admire the stately sight of my casket going past. Fit for a sovereign! “The poor bastard!” I heard her groan. “The poor duped ninny is all I can say!” With what passed for my family already seated, the usual entry rite of the liturgy, with family members following the casket, apparently had been suspended.

I’ll skip the liturgical part of the service, quite heartening I have to say, and go to the choir numbers. The cantor led the choir in two of my true favorites, Out of the Depths I Call and A Mighty Fortress Is Our God. Quite stirring pieces to be sure!

Finally, the time I had been waiting for had arrived, the time for remembrances. When the Right Reverend Alastair Cuthbert Sniggins, Jr. announced that, due to the wishes of the loved ones, none would be offered, I was horrified, stunned, shattered. Something welled up in me. I could not let this pass. Standing up, I brushed by Georgina, , who grunted, to the aisle.

Hobbling my way up to the altar, all eyes were upon me, that is, those that had not closed for a little snooze.

Taking my place, I adjusted the microphone to be heard. Looking over the attendees, as no one seemed to recognize me, clearing my voice, I began: “Seeing as there are no other speakers, I would just like to say a few words on behalf of the deceased. Hunter Lester Thornton was known to all of you, who cared for him deeply. There isn’t anyone present who doubts his selfless generosity, beneficence of spirit, good will, dedication to the church, a bulwark to the community, and, all told, a bounty of love. Hunter Lester Thornton-we-we will truly miss you!”

Tears had begun to wet my eyes as I stepped down from the pulpit, giving the casket a nice, firm pat as I passed. I was still sobbing when I reached my seat. When I had sat down, Georgina stuck her lean elbow in my side forcefully. “Who the fuck was that jerk? What a load of donkey shit, huh?”

Returning to the altar, the Right Reverend Alastair Cuthbert Sniggins, Jr., clutched the lectern to steady himself. “Anyone else?” he asked sarcastically. With a worn, tired look that suggested that he had seen and heard it all, he surveyed the sparse number of those in the pews. “Okay then,” his voice crackled, “according to the wishes of the family, there will be no Eucharist. Also, as the family changed from a burial to a cremation there will be no graveside service.” A look at the altar boy sent the adolescent over to spray the casket with incense.

When the altar boy returned to place, the Right Reverend Alastair Cuthbert Sniggins, Jr. breathed a sigh of relief, having reached the close of the ceremony. “Into your hands, O merciful Savior,” he crossed himself, “we commend your servant, Hunter Lester Thornton. Acknowledge, we humbly beseech you, a sheep of your own field, a lamb of your own flock, a sinner of your own redeeming. Receive Hunter Lester Thornton into the arms of your mercy, into the blessed rest of everlasting peace, and into the glorious company of the saints in light. Amen.”

Although I believe that I was the only churchgoer I heard utter an amen in response, I couldn’t think of more fitting words to close. After the choir did a rendition of the hymn, Jesus Christ Is Risen Today, the Right Reverend Alastair Cuthbert Sniggins, Jr. raised his voice to startle those in the audience who might have drifted off: “Let us go forth in the name of Christ. All those who are able to stand, let the family members exit first.”

Everyone instead rose in unison to make their way out. I had to nudge the old prune at my side to bustle her. “What the fuck!” she uttered, her eyes snapping open.

“Time to go.”

Needing no more encouragement, she didn’t waste a moment gathering her bones up and into the aisle.

In minutes, when the sanctuary had cleared, I was left to myself. Just me and the empty casket. I must also add a horsefly I noticed creeping at my feet. He must have been an old-timer judging by his weary walk. Within striking distance of me, he couldn’t seem to gather the strength to fly away. Seemingly resigned to his fate, each forward movement of a tentacle appeared to be his last.

After observing him for some moments, I took out a tissue and plucked the drained stoical old bug up. Placing the critter in the center, I neatly folded the tissue up. It had come time for me to depart. Taking a last look at the splendid casket, I had to admire that my remains were being sent off in such becoming style. There was no question in my mind, not any reservation whatsoever, that the bereaved who had planned my funeral were going to get my highest recommendation.

Once outside, I reached into my pocket for the tissue. Going over to a shrub beside the entrance, I deposited the forlorn insect on a top stem. The fresh air must have suddenly resuscitated him because he took to immediately to wing and buzzed away in a flash. As I watched the bug disappear from sight, I felt a curious sense of elation. No longer condemned, a captive of circumstances, this common horsefly had been given the freedom to enjoy life anew. Blessed that I had had the opportunity to be an onlooker at my own funeral ceremony, my mortal remains on their way to be cremated, was there any reason anymore that I couldn’t do the same thing, take to wing? Perhaps become a barker at a peep show. Or get a job as a longshoreman. The sky now seemed to be the limit.