A Conversation with Death
Jan. 24th, 2006 13:56![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mapsedgeIt was the day of my mother's funeral, and it was snowing.
I wandered around the narthex of the church, following my toddler son and preventing him from doing any damage to himself or his environment. Piano music, old familiar hymns drifted from the sanctuary as Michelle practiced for the actual ceremony. Except for the church secretary, we were the only people there.
Death flicked his cigarette into an ashtray that hadn't been there a moment before. Come to that, neither had he. I hadn't expected him to look like Peter Stormare, but there was a resemblance. We regarded each other across the intervening space, a few tables, plastic circles surrounded by chairs that did nothing to challenge the tradition that such seating be ass-numbingly uncomfortable. Death shifted in his chair. Apparently his ability to create ashtrays at will didn't apply to seat cushions.
Turning my son away from a stack of hymnals, I said, "You're Clint's friend, aren't you?"
He waved his hand dismissively. "It might be more accurate to call us friendly acquaintances. Our professions often bring us together. He's a good guy, usually pays for the beer."
"So, what brings you by? Your work here is done, isn't it?"
He gestured toward the funeral home across the street. The gesture included my mother's body, at that moment being closed into the casket, the visitation over.
"What, for her? She didn't require my help at all." He took a drag on his cigarette. "She and I had the deal worked out not that long after your father died. It just took her this long to commit." He grinned. "No, " another pull, another puff of smoke, "I'm here for another client." The way he said "client" made me instantly rethink my use of the word in my own line of work.
My boy had bumped his forehead on the edge of the table and was standing there wondering if it hurt bad enough to cry. "I don't understand," I said, guiding him into the open space away from the tables.
Death lit another cigarette from the dying ember of the first, which he tossed over his shoulder. I never saw it hit the floor. The tobacco was cheap, the smoke acrid and stale smelling.
"No, you wouldn't," he mused. "No reason for you to." His grin widened. "I'm here to check on Joe's progress."
I muttered an imprecation sotto voce, something about "anytime you want him" and that ended with the phrase, "sorry mutherfucker." Out loud I said, "He's dying, finally?" I tried not to let the eagerness show.
Death chuckled. It was an unpleasant sound, a chuckle from deep in the chest of someone who's been smoking cheap cigarettes for a great many years. A chuckle with rocks rubbing around in it. "Now now now...that's not a very nice thing to say."
I bristled at the condescension. "When she had the stroke, he all but ordered us kids to come get her stuff. If he'd been strong enough, we'd've had to pick it all up out of the street. He threw her out because she couldn't cook and clean for him anymore."
"Mm-hmm."
"He started their marriage with jealousy and threats, then kept her a prisoner in her own house for close to ten years. You know all that, right?"
"Of course."
I was working up some steam. "Even before the ink was dry on the marrige certificate he took her car keys away, accused her of cheating on him, called her a whore."
"Yes, and she still married him."
I knelt down beside my boy, re-tied his shoe. "What do you mean?"
"Look, " Death said, shrugging. "I'm not in the judging business. I leave that to whatever god Joe believes in. All I'm saying is that your mother had a choice, and even against the advice of her children she chose to stay with...what was it you called him? That sorry mutherfucker, I think." He almost laughed aloud, and I was glad he didn't. "You even pronounce the word with a 'u'. That was a nice trick with the shoelace, by the way. Doesn't come untied that way, does it?"
I busied myself with untying my son's other shoe, and re-tied it "rabbit through the hole twice" to match the one I'd finished. "You're saying her life was her fault," I sulked, finally. I patted my son on the ass and he toddled off. James the Destroyer of Stacks.
Death watched him go. "I don't have to say it. You yourself once asked your mother if she'd ever been happy anywhere she'd ever lived. You listed each one." He counted off the names, holding up each finger in turn. "901 Elmwood. Hickman. Belton. Independence," he quoted me, a remarkably good imitation. "And you know what all those places had in common, mom?" A long pause.
"You, mom. They all had you." I stared at my son, and didn't reply.
Death shook his head, used his hand to push the combover back into place. "Joe's on his way here, now. He's ninety-eight years old. He's almost completely deaf. His grip on reality is shaky. Every other minute he's not sure where he is, even in his own living room. Alzheimers, maybe, though I don't think so. He couldn't have cared for her if she had come home, whether she cooked and cleaned for him or not. You could cut him some slack."
"Fuck him," I grated through my teeth. I couldn't muster much enthusiasm, though.
Another chuckle. I wished he'd quit doing that. "Kinda figured. I think I understand why you dislike him as much as you do. You learned the habit of being protective of Marty before you became a teenager, about the time David died and your dad vanished into his work. Fending off the creditors after your dad died probably cemented it for you." He leaned forward to emphasize his point. "Don't forget, though, your mom was an adult, responsible for herself."
He rose from his chair and stretched, his back popping like Chinese New Year. "You know it doesn't help you to have your blood pressure rise every time he enters the room."
When I didn't reply, he sighed and reached for his hat and overcoat. "Listen, I'll see you again in a few decades, and we'll talk again. You can tell me if your perspective changes."
Death went to the door and held it open as Keith, the funeral director, and his assistant pushed the gurney bearing my mother's casket into the church. He and Keith nodded to one another, old co-workers with no need to speak.
Joe was just working his way up the sidewalk. He walked slowly, careful of his footing on the wet pavement, the only surety in his world the wet concrete under the work boots on his feet. Death gave him a long look as he passed by, nodded, satisfied at whatever he saw there, and disappeared into the snow.
I went and got my son a cookie from a tin of Danish shortbreads in the church's kitchen, and made myself ready to bear the sympathy of people I never see except for weddings.
And funerals, of course.
I wandered around the narthex of the church, following my toddler son and preventing him from doing any damage to himself or his environment. Piano music, old familiar hymns drifted from the sanctuary as Michelle practiced for the actual ceremony. Except for the church secretary, we were the only people there.
Death flicked his cigarette into an ashtray that hadn't been there a moment before. Come to that, neither had he. I hadn't expected him to look like Peter Stormare, but there was a resemblance. We regarded each other across the intervening space, a few tables, plastic circles surrounded by chairs that did nothing to challenge the tradition that such seating be ass-numbingly uncomfortable. Death shifted in his chair. Apparently his ability to create ashtrays at will didn't apply to seat cushions.
Turning my son away from a stack of hymnals, I said, "You're Clint's friend, aren't you?"
He waved his hand dismissively. "It might be more accurate to call us friendly acquaintances. Our professions often bring us together. He's a good guy, usually pays for the beer."
"So, what brings you by? Your work here is done, isn't it?"
He gestured toward the funeral home across the street. The gesture included my mother's body, at that moment being closed into the casket, the visitation over.
"What, for her? She didn't require my help at all." He took a drag on his cigarette. "She and I had the deal worked out not that long after your father died. It just took her this long to commit." He grinned. "No, " another pull, another puff of smoke, "I'm here for another client." The way he said "client" made me instantly rethink my use of the word in my own line of work.
My boy had bumped his forehead on the edge of the table and was standing there wondering if it hurt bad enough to cry. "I don't understand," I said, guiding him into the open space away from the tables.
Death lit another cigarette from the dying ember of the first, which he tossed over his shoulder. I never saw it hit the floor. The tobacco was cheap, the smoke acrid and stale smelling.
"No, you wouldn't," he mused. "No reason for you to." His grin widened. "I'm here to check on Joe's progress."
I muttered an imprecation sotto voce, something about "anytime you want him" and that ended with the phrase, "sorry mutherfucker." Out loud I said, "He's dying, finally?" I tried not to let the eagerness show.
Death chuckled. It was an unpleasant sound, a chuckle from deep in the chest of someone who's been smoking cheap cigarettes for a great many years. A chuckle with rocks rubbing around in it. "Now now now...that's not a very nice thing to say."
I bristled at the condescension. "When she had the stroke, he all but ordered us kids to come get her stuff. If he'd been strong enough, we'd've had to pick it all up out of the street. He threw her out because she couldn't cook and clean for him anymore."
"Mm-hmm."
"He started their marriage with jealousy and threats, then kept her a prisoner in her own house for close to ten years. You know all that, right?"
"Of course."
I was working up some steam. "Even before the ink was dry on the marrige certificate he took her car keys away, accused her of cheating on him, called her a whore."
"Yes, and she still married him."
I knelt down beside my boy, re-tied his shoe. "What do you mean?"
"Look, " Death said, shrugging. "I'm not in the judging business. I leave that to whatever god Joe believes in. All I'm saying is that your mother had a choice, and even against the advice of her children she chose to stay with...what was it you called him? That sorry mutherfucker, I think." He almost laughed aloud, and I was glad he didn't. "You even pronounce the word with a 'u'. That was a nice trick with the shoelace, by the way. Doesn't come untied that way, does it?"
I busied myself with untying my son's other shoe, and re-tied it "rabbit through the hole twice" to match the one I'd finished. "You're saying her life was her fault," I sulked, finally. I patted my son on the ass and he toddled off. James the Destroyer of Stacks.
Death watched him go. "I don't have to say it. You yourself once asked your mother if she'd ever been happy anywhere she'd ever lived. You listed each one." He counted off the names, holding up each finger in turn. "901 Elmwood. Hickman. Belton. Independence," he quoted me, a remarkably good imitation. "And you know what all those places had in common, mom?" A long pause.
"You, mom. They all had you." I stared at my son, and didn't reply.
Death shook his head, used his hand to push the combover back into place. "Joe's on his way here, now. He's ninety-eight years old. He's almost completely deaf. His grip on reality is shaky. Every other minute he's not sure where he is, even in his own living room. Alzheimers, maybe, though I don't think so. He couldn't have cared for her if she had come home, whether she cooked and cleaned for him or not. You could cut him some slack."
"Fuck him," I grated through my teeth. I couldn't muster much enthusiasm, though.
Another chuckle. I wished he'd quit doing that. "Kinda figured. I think I understand why you dislike him as much as you do. You learned the habit of being protective of Marty before you became a teenager, about the time David died and your dad vanished into his work. Fending off the creditors after your dad died probably cemented it for you." He leaned forward to emphasize his point. "Don't forget, though, your mom was an adult, responsible for herself."
He rose from his chair and stretched, his back popping like Chinese New Year. "You know it doesn't help you to have your blood pressure rise every time he enters the room."
When I didn't reply, he sighed and reached for his hat and overcoat. "Listen, I'll see you again in a few decades, and we'll talk again. You can tell me if your perspective changes."
Death went to the door and held it open as Keith, the funeral director, and his assistant pushed the gurney bearing my mother's casket into the church. He and Keith nodded to one another, old co-workers with no need to speak.
Joe was just working his way up the sidewalk. He walked slowly, careful of his footing on the wet pavement, the only surety in his world the wet concrete under the work boots on his feet. Death gave him a long look as he passed by, nodded, satisfied at whatever he saw there, and disappeared into the snow.
I went and got my son a cookie from a tin of Danish shortbreads in the church's kitchen, and made myself ready to bear the sympathy of people I never see except for weddings.
And funerals, of course.