No blood came
Daniel wondered if he could even get the coffin open.
He stood at the back of the room, sweating in a heavy herringbone suit, straight legs of cheap wool bunching against the backs of his knees, sweat trickling down his calf, his white shirt stuck to his back.
The parlour was cooler after the spring sun, but it smelled. Not like death, unless death smells like perfume, carpet cleaner and flowers. Six wooden folding chairs, one foolish row, and at the front a large dark coffin, rich brown wood with dark twisting veins, the top rising rounded like a old car hood. It looked too small for his brother.
“Could I be alone with him, for a few minutes.”
The funeral director, Mr. Holmes, was at Daniel’s elbow, and he leaned close until they almost touched shoulders.
“Are you sure I couldn’t be helpful?”
Daniel was early. It was just after 11 and the service wasn’t until 1. Mr. Holmes held his hands in front of him, one finger marked with a series of small scars, half-smiling like he knew a secret he couldn’t share, a short man in a black suit that cost as much as the coffin.
“I’d really like some time alone with my brother, just a few minutes. Everything has happened so fast, and I’m afraid he’ll be gone and I won’t have . . . “
Half-sentences and silences were their language.
Holmes could spot the problem bereaved, the family members who would sprawl across the coffin sobbing, the brothers who would stumble into recriminations and blows before the service ended. But this young man looked all right, pale and sweaty, too thin, but not a problem.
“Yes, of course. I’ll just be in my office. Please let me know if you need anything.”
Daniel walked to the front of the room, the carpet soaking up his steps, heard the noise of the cars and trucks heading into the city as the door closed, mingled with the sound of blood rushing in his head.
His fingertips touched the wood, cooler than the rest of the room, and he leaned his forehead against it. The lid was one long piece, not the two halves he’d seen in films. His fingers slid under the rim and he pulled.
His brother, in an old suit too small for him, his hair arranged in a spray around his head even though no one was supposed to see it. He’d been afraid, but he wasn’t sure what of - some stranger, a wax dummy, some final cheat.
No tears. He reached in his jacket pocket, pulled out a jagged shape, a long nail his brother had twisted with pliers, making a loop that always sat on the pavement or ground so the point would pierce a car tire or foot, a toy from the Anarchist’s Cookbook.
He rolled it in his palm, felt the smoothly looped bottom, the metal stretched, the tight turn and half-twist, the jagged point. Made a fist, felt the point bite into his palm.
He reached with his right hand, felt his brother’s cheek, dry and cold and dusty with make-up and powder, the scratch of stubble the only real thing.
Daniel leaned in, his lips almost brushing his brother’s cheek. He could see the thin dark red line floating in blue around his brother’s throat, almost a smudge beneath the thicker make-up, some artist’s trick. He took the nail, traced the line lightly, then drew a new one harder just below it, scratching the make-up, almost tearing the skin, no blood to draw.
“You cheat. You fucking cheat.”
“What am I supposed to do now. You little snot, are you the only one you ever think about. I’m stuck now. We’re all stuck.”
His voice was quiet. He stood slightly, leaned on the edge of the coffin, then pressed the nail against John’s left eyelid, saw a little dot of white.
“Now it’s my job to be here. Now I can’t go away. Why the hell do you think you’re the one with the right to do this?”
He pressed harder, until the skin broke. No blood came.
Daniel stopped, reached out and cupped his brother’s head in his hand, felt the hair hard with spray, and lifted it gently from the satin pillow, not feeling the stiffness he expected. He centered the looped nail carefully on the pillow, and slowly lowered his brother’s head.
He stood at the back of the room, sweating in a heavy herringbone suit, straight legs of cheap wool bunching against the backs of his knees, sweat trickling down his calf, his white shirt stuck to his back.
The parlour was cooler after the spring sun, but it smelled. Not like death, unless death smells like perfume, carpet cleaner and flowers. Six wooden folding chairs, one foolish row, and at the front a large dark coffin, rich brown wood with dark twisting veins, the top rising rounded like a old car hood. It looked too small for his brother.
“Could I be alone with him, for a few minutes.”
The funeral director, Mr. Holmes, was at Daniel’s elbow, and he leaned close until they almost touched shoulders.
“Are you sure I couldn’t be helpful?”
Daniel was early. It was just after 11 and the service wasn’t until 1. Mr. Holmes held his hands in front of him, one finger marked with a series of small scars, half-smiling like he knew a secret he couldn’t share, a short man in a black suit that cost as much as the coffin.
“I’d really like some time alone with my brother, just a few minutes. Everything has happened so fast, and I’m afraid he’ll be gone and I won’t have . . . “
Half-sentences and silences were their language.
Holmes could spot the problem bereaved, the family members who would sprawl across the coffin sobbing, the brothers who would stumble into recriminations and blows before the service ended. But this young man looked all right, pale and sweaty, too thin, but not a problem.
“Yes, of course. I’ll just be in my office. Please let me know if you need anything.”
Daniel walked to the front of the room, the carpet soaking up his steps, heard the noise of the cars and trucks heading into the city as the door closed, mingled with the sound of blood rushing in his head.
His fingertips touched the wood, cooler than the rest of the room, and he leaned his forehead against it. The lid was one long piece, not the two halves he’d seen in films. His fingers slid under the rim and he pulled.
His brother, in an old suit too small for him, his hair arranged in a spray around his head even though no one was supposed to see it. He’d been afraid, but he wasn’t sure what of - some stranger, a wax dummy, some final cheat.
No tears. He reached in his jacket pocket, pulled out a jagged shape, a long nail his brother had twisted with pliers, making a loop that always sat on the pavement or ground so the point would pierce a car tire or foot, a toy from the Anarchist’s Cookbook.
He rolled it in his palm, felt the smoothly looped bottom, the metal stretched, the tight turn and half-twist, the jagged point. Made a fist, felt the point bite into his palm.
He reached with his right hand, felt his brother’s cheek, dry and cold and dusty with make-up and powder, the scratch of stubble the only real thing.
Daniel leaned in, his lips almost brushing his brother’s cheek. He could see the thin dark red line floating in blue around his brother’s throat, almost a smudge beneath the thicker make-up, some artist’s trick. He took the nail, traced the line lightly, then drew a new one harder just below it, scratching the make-up, almost tearing the skin, no blood to draw.
“You cheat. You fucking cheat.”
“What am I supposed to do now. You little snot, are you the only one you ever think about. I’m stuck now. We’re all stuck.”
His voice was quiet. He stood slightly, leaned on the edge of the coffin, then pressed the nail against John’s left eyelid, saw a little dot of white.
“Now it’s my job to be here. Now I can’t go away. Why the hell do you think you’re the one with the right to do this?”
He pressed harder, until the skin broke. No blood came.
Daniel stopped, reached out and cupped his brother’s head in his hand, felt the hair hard with spray, and lifted it gently from the satin pillow, not feeling the stiffness he expected. He centered the looped nail carefully on the pillow, and slowly lowered his brother’s head.
posted by paul at
6:27 PM
1 Comments:
Interesting to know.
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