Dearly Departed

“What’s his name, the departed?”
“You mean deceased,” Tommy stated, rather than asked.
“Fine, deceased,” Frank sighed, “his name?”
“Wilkins. Jason Wilkins.”
Frank lowered the sheet, exposing the face and chest of the late Mr. Wilkins. He appeared to be somewhere between the ages of 60 and 70. Wrought with wrinkles and a head peppered with silver hair, age had certainly made herself present. Most people would have missed some of the smaller details of Mr. Wilkins’ appearance, but Frank, who had been an undertaker for the majority of his life, caught nearly all of them. Though his skin was a pasty white-grey post-mortem, in life it seemed he spent a great deal of his time outside: he was covered in sunspots. And even with the stiffness of rigor mortis, you could see calloused hands, no doubt an indication of laborious toiling in the ground; there was dirt beneath his fingernails and a rich smell earth that not even death could mask. Frank bent over him, studying his face, then smiled. Hello Mr. Wilkins.

Tommy was walking towards the door, but turned and paused for a moment. “I don’t know why you always say hello to them. Like they’re here or something. It’s f*****g creepy, man. And weird. Makes me wonder what you do with the bodies when I leave.” He started laughing.
“It’s out of respect, you punk,” Frank retorted, annoyed but not angry. “It’s not something you or your generation knows much about. Now go on, you jackass. You’ve done your job, head home.”
“Hey pops, you ain’t gotta tell me! See you tomorrow afternoon!”
“Just go! And don’t call me pops! You know it irritates me,” Frank shouted, but Tommy was already out of earshot.

Frank shook his head, smirking. He looked towards the hallway, now empty in Tommy’s absence. “Delinquent, no respect for anybody or anything. When we were kids, our parents made sure we knew better than to act like fools. Isn’t that right, Mr. Wilkins?”
Mr. Wilkins, still on the gurney, did not move to either accept nor deny the proposition. The figure standing in the doorway of the morgue, however, nodded his head in agreement.
“Can you see me? Hear me?” the man asked, waving his hand.
“Yes, Mr. Wilkins, I can,” Frank replied softly. “The truth of the matter is, you’re dead. And being such, it would be impossible for me to shake your hand. But I still would like to introduce myself. My name is Frank Thorogood. I’m the funeral director here.”
The man stepped into the room.
“Well, seeing as that’s my naked body lying on the gurney right there, we’re past formalities. You can call me Jason.” Both men smiled somberly, acknowledging one another.

Frank took a few steps away from the body, allowing Jason to have a moment to himself. He circled his own corpse, curious but tranquil. Though he longed to touch the flesh he spent his life in, when he reached down, his hand passed through swiftly, not making a sound. He backed away.

The next couple of hours were routine for Frank. He went about his job, embalming the deceased body of Mr. Wilkins, making sure the tissue would be properly preserved, tweaking the levels of formaldehyde and ethanol as needed. Once the embalming was finished, all that was left was to prepare the corpse for presentation. A blue suit, provided by a family member, was the attire of choice. And with a little make-up and hairspray, you would think just by looking at him that a pale Mr. Wilkins was merely taking an afternoon nap. All of this was effortless for Frank, he was good at what he did. Most of his energy, surprisingly, was focused on the conversation. In their time together, Frank learned a great deal about Jason. He was sixty-seven years old, a widower with three grown children and four grandchildren. He had been a counselor at a high school until he retired, and since spent a great amount of time in his garden. His wife, named Evelyn, has passed away four years prior from breast cancer. And though he was sad to lose her, he was ready for her suffering to end.

For Frank, this kind of open relaxed conversation was a treat. The first night he worked in this funeral home, still an apprentice, he encountered the spirit of the woman he and his mentor were preparing. Needless to say, he was the only one who could see her, and he nearly had a heart attack. It took everything he had not to check himself into the psychiatric ward of the local hospital that night! Yet, unknown to him or his ‘visitors’ every night he worked since then has been the same. Once alone with them, he would try to communicate with the departed, but most would not respond. They were either terrified or too grief-stricken to acknowledge the fact that they were dead, more-less Frank himself. But every so often he would procure a word or two out of someone. He hated seeing children die, all that potential wasted. But they were usually the only ones who would speak with him. Sometimes he would even tell them stories while they waited. He had a fondness for little girls and loved singing to them, hoping to soothe their transition. So to Frank, his and Jason’s conversation was quite special, and really touched him. Jason even asked to know more about him, which was a first. Needless to say, he jumped at the chance. And so it went.

“Well, Jason,” Frank said, setting the last of his tools on the table, “you’re almost finished.”
Jason’s smile sagged slightly, “this is when I leave, isn’t it? I can feel it changing.”
“I’m afraid so my new friend.” Jason started walking towards the door. Something was pulling him and he knew time was dwindling fast.

“Wait!” Frank called out. The words escaped his mouth before he could stop them. He looked woolgathered and began to pull at his sleeves. Pausing for a moment, he then spoke up. “How does it feel? Dying? Being dead? I’m so scared. And I am tired, so very very tired.” It burst from his lips in one long rushed breath. Frank dropped his head into his palms and began to whimper gently. “You would think I would have asked someone else I’ve seen here. I’ve certainly had my share of chances. But age has crept up so quickly, my infirmities more apparent every day, and only now do I realize how much I fear death. I have been surrounded by it almost every day for forty years…” He wanted to say more, but the words would not come.

“I can’t tell you how it feels to die, for I imagine it’s different for everyone. But since I only died once, I cannot tell you for sure,” he said, trying to smile. “I have to go Frank, I’m sorry. But whatever is pulling me feels warm. And bright. And lovely. So don’t be afraid, my friend. I hope to see you soon.”
“Please don’t go just yet!” But it was too late. All that was left of Jason Wilkins was the cold body permanently asleep on the table. Frank was completely alone. The clanking of his tools rang in his ears as he cleaned up and prepared to leave. It had been a long night, and far too short a visit. To Frank, the roughest night in a long time.

The next day was the wake and the funeral.
I’m always here, at their funerals, he thought to himself during the ceremony. Looking for them. Hoping they’ll be here to hold my hand. Now more than ever. But they never are. Clouds rolled in as they lowered the shell of Jason Wilkins into the cold earth. Various family members said nice words. People cried and laughed. And then they left to resume their lives. Life is for the living, after all. Sometimes, it just is what it is.

~~~

Time passed, as it so often does. Things resumed their normal routines. Two weeks later, on a Tuesday of no remarkable significance, while riding the bus into town, at 4:07 in the afternoon, for no particular reason, Frank’s heart just stopped beating. He slumped over, a small thud as his head hit the window, and that was that. No fuss. No one hardly noticed. He almost looked like he was asleep. But somewhere, I like to think, he was waking up without fear, greeting Death as a friend. Wherever he was, I imagine it was restful. And warm. And lovely, oh so lovely.

Reviews

[Marie]

To greet death as a friend. Very nice story.