Funerals

FUNERALS
TOBY TODD TOMORROW CAME HOME from Susan Bone’s funeral and put the program of the service into the top left-hand drawer of his desk, along with all the other funeral programs he had acquired over the years–-more than 80 of them by now. Some of his friends had more than he had, but they were less discriminating in which funerals they would attend. Toby went only to those of the people he knew personally. Carrie Larsen and Kerry Larson, his two best friends, went whenever they felt like it, sometimes traveling all the way across town for the event, sometimes taking in two or three in one day.
In another drawer of the same desk, he kept the obituaries, but with the same discipline as the funerals: only those of friends and acquaintances. He had hundreds of these.
Toby was not nearly so strict about the viewings. In fact, he was not strict at all. Several times a week, around six in the evening, he’d begin dressing--shaving and picking out the appropriate tie--and then run on over to the funeral home to see who was there. He had to be careful though; if he got there too early, before the legitimate mourners, the immediate family might try to introduce themselves to him. By arriving late, he could usually distance himself from the other guests, yet still maintain an air of solemnity of his own. He’d sign the registrar–-sometimes with his real name, other times not–-wait in line and, when it came his turn to look, stare at the dead figure lying alone in the casket and imagine the last breath.
Did they know it was their last breath?
If someone tried to speak to him–-to make communication or just to try to establish some kind of connection–-Toby would respond, soberly: "An old friend," or "It’s been years. . . ." or some other ambiguity, and shake his head and look away as if in a private pain. If he’d read the obituary, he might make up a little story–-an anecdote of some kind–-but usually that was not necessary.
At the funerals themselves, Toby would almost always leave directly after the last speaker–-or the prayer, if there was a prayer; or the musical number, if there was a musical number. He didn’t like to linger–-or loiter; he hated the small talk that followed--the attempts at civility; and he couldn’t stand the traffic of the procession.
But if the funeral was held at the little chapel at the cemetery itself, he’d stick around for the dedication of the grave. He thought it fascinating how, after the dedicatory prayer, the survivors would stand around, chat, but no longer about the deceased--rather, about their own lives-–or at least what remained of them. And then the funeral director would, at the appropriate moment, thank everyone for coming and announce that the ceremony was over, that people could stay if they wanted, but-–again, that the ceremony was over–-and that the groundskeepers–-never the grave diggers--would be finishing up with the job soon, and that the visitors, again if they wanted, could return later in the day after everything had been cleaned up.
Once, Toby remembered, after this concluding speech, one of the family members of the deceased took the director aside and said that, no, they were not finished yet. He said that there was still the burying to do. The director looked back a little startled--there was some muffled talk for a few minutes–-and then he motioned for the groundskeepers, who were a polite distance away, to get on over. They dutifully put out their cigarettes, got into the truck, and did as they were told. The mourners made room for them as they maneuvered the vehicle into the area--as they got out and made sure that the straps were secure and in place, and then actually began lowering the casket into the ground. That done, the family members took the shovels from the back of the pick-up and began filling in the grave with the dirt from the pile beside the hole. There were just two shovels, so they had to take turns, which was probably best because no one was really dressed for this type of thing. After everyone who wanted had had the opportunity to participate, the workers finished up.
The pile of dirt beside the grave was gone, but the grave itself was barely full; the casket was still visible. The groundskeepers returned to the truck, backed it up right next to the partially filled hole, and then, with some mechanical maneuvering, set in motion the back bed of the truck, which began to rise and allow the dirt to slide down toward and into the remaining emptiness. Afterwards, the workers used their other equipment to distribute and then compress the soil so as to reduce the amount of sinkage over the next few days for when the permanent marker would be set in place. The onlookers looked on.
* * * * * * *
As time would have it, Toby and Carrie and Kerry all died. Not together, of course, but separately. Years apart. Miles apart. Ironically–-or maybe it wasn’t ironically–-they did not attend each others’ funerals. They’d each moved away, to different parts of the country, and never saw or heard from each other again.
This is how I heard it happened: After breaking up with Kerry, Carrie moved to Philadelphia. There, her life soon dwindled to nothing. At the time of her death, she had been living in a motel, paid rent by the week, and those who found her estimated that she had been dead for about five days when she was discovered. She owned nothing of value, there was no next of kin, and she was given not even a pauper’s burial; she was cremated, and that was that.
Kerry fared somewhat better: He’d moved to L.A. shortly after the break-up and worked, in the sanitation field (he was a garbage collector), right up until his death. He was not rich, but he had no debts. And so, when he died, he was, of course, given a proper funeral. However, like his one-time best friend and lover Carrie, he too had no friends at the end. The service was, therefore, very simple and was conducted by the pastor at the funeral home-–someone who did not know Kerry from Adam. A few curious onlookers showed up for the service, and two complete strangers buried him in the ground.
Toby Tomorrow moved to Arizona. He lived quietly for a number of good years, but when he learned that he had cancer, he refused treatment and instead bought the first car he had ever owned in his life and drove out to California.
He drove out to California.
He drove out to California because he wanted nothing to do with the way so many of his friends and acquaintances and strangers had died and been disposed of. He drove out to California because he had heard that the California condor was an endangered species and that its feeding grounds were being depleted by the encroaching human populations, and that without the necessary food they too, like Toby, would soon be gone and not be given a proper funeral. He drove out to California with just a small backpack and a sleeping bag and enough food for a couple of days. Once he arrived in California, he decided that he would leave the car at the end of the road and shoulder his pack and hike as far as he could and then set up camp and eat the remaining food and sleep the remaining days, and when he died of starvation--instead of cancer--he wanted the huge surviving condors to swoop down on his body and do what they needed to do.
Most of his plans went well: He left the car at the end of the road; he hiked in for a number of miles and for a couple of days; he set up his small camp and ate his food; he slept comfortably; and after eating and sleeping, he died. Peacefully (so they say). But afterwards, when the scent of death had sent out its call, the coyotes got to his body before the condors could and did with it what coyotes do, leaving barely a scrap for the intended recipients.