Chapter Twenty-Eight

The morning of the funeral was cool and cloudy, threatening rain. Wealthy people from the first party mingled in the rose garden. The workingmen from the second party seemed to prefer the mums.
On the lawn, rows of metal folding chairs faced a small wooden stage. In front of the stage, Howard’s polished oak coffin rested on the exact spot where he had dropped dead: a chalk outline.
Elizabeth stood a few feet from the open coffin, wearing a black dress and black veil, dutifully accepting condolences. Derrick stood next to her to keep the mosquitoes away, but there were no mosquitoes; the cool weather had chased them away. The flies were out, however, and buzzed around Derrick’s head.
David walked up to Elizabeth and tried to think of some comforting words. She put a finger to his lips, silencing him. “Don’t say a word,” she said. “Save it for the poem.”
David nodded. He had finally decided what to do for his poem. He would stand up on the platform and say, “Howard inspired me to write this poem.” Then he would read My Name is Higgs Boson.
“He was my favorite Physicist,” David said. Then he approached the casket and looked at Howard. The interior of the polished oak coffin was red satin. Howard wore a navy blue suit and tie with a large nineteenth century ruffled collar that completely covered the neck. A neck wound made a bad impression at an open-casket funeral, so the undertaker had been creative in hiding it. Howard looked like a British Lord.
“Never been to a British funeral before,” Tyrone said.
David jumped, startled. Tyrone was standing right next to him.
“He’s not British,” David explained.
“So why’s he…oh, right. You stabbed him in the throat. Still a silly outfit he’s got on, though.”
Tyrone was no one to comment on how other people were dressed; he wore the ugliest brown suit David had ever seen.
“Is that burlap?” David asked, rubbing the coarse material between his fingers.
“It’s sackcloth. Tailored it myself.” Tyrone grinned his gap-toothed grin. “Before there was suits, what’d folks wear to the funeral? Sackcloth! I’m startin’ my own clothin’ line. It’s called Sackcloth and Ashes.”
David had to admit: Sackcloth and Ashes was a classy name for a high-end men’s clothing store. It had a ring to it.
Tyrone scratched his side and frowned. “It’s kinda itchy. That’s the only problem. Scuse me. Lots o’ rich folks around. Maybe I’ll find some investors, want to invest in Sackcloth and Ashes.”
Tyrone walked off to find investors, scratching himself as he walked. David was shocked that Tyrone would use the professor’s funeral as a way to make business contacts. He couldn’t criticize though; he himself was doing the same thing. He had a stack of business cards in his pocket, advertising his poetry services.
David looked back at Elizabeth and saw a thin man in an expensive suit handing her a bouquet of flowers. The man looked familiar (he had been at the first party) and the flowers looked familiar too.
“Please accept my condolences,” the man said and handed Elizabeth the bouquet. Elizabeth took it hesitantly and squinted at the yellow and pink tulips, their stems wrapped together in newspaper.
“Are those mine?” Elizabeth asked.
“They’re for you, yes.”
“That’s not what I mean. Did you steal them from my garden?”
That’s where David knew the tulips from: he read to them every day.
“You’re crazy,” the man said, but he looked nervous and his voice started to skip. “I got them at a flower shop.”
“Which flower shop?”
“I don’t remember.”
“You have a receipt?”
“I can’t show you the receipt. You’d know how much I paid for them. That wouldn’t be right.”
“So if I go over to the tulip patch, I’ll find it intact?”
The man looked around frantically for help, but there was no one to assist him; he was caught. He straightened up and stared straight at Elizabeth.
“I take back my condolences,” he said.
“You can’t take back condolences,” Elizabeth told him.
“And my flowers.”
He grabbed the bouquet of flowers, but Elizabeth held on tight. They both tugged with all their might, grunting and squealing. They dug their shoes into the grass tearing it up. The colored paper holding the bouquet together tore and the flowers fell to the grass.
Elizabeth stared down at the mangled flowers and her face froze in a catatonic stare. This was what David had been afraid of, what he had been trying to avoid: Elizabeth seeing dead flowers that would send her over the edge.
“All right, fine,” the man said. He knelt down and began gathering the flowers together. “I’ll put them back.”
He stormed off to the tulip patch.
Several people gathered around Elizabeth and tried to console her. David saw that Derrick was also not faring too well: he was surrounded by a swarm of flies and swatting wildly at them. David walked up to him and asked how it was going.
“They’re trying to climb in my ears!” Derrick moaned. “Why are they coming after me? There’s a dead body right there!”
“Shhhhh!” David said.
“What? He’s dead. He can’t hear me.”
“Elizabeth’s right there.”
She was only a few meters away, accepting condolences. She pretended not to hear or maybe she was too upset to notice what Derrick said.
Derrick moved his mouth close to David’s ear and whispered.
“How come they’re not buzzing around him?”
“The mortician probably used special chemicals to keep the bugs away.”
“I need to talk to this mortician. I need some of those chemicals.”
“They’re only for dead people.”
Derrick glared at Howard’s corpse.
“Lucky stiff.”
“You should be grateful you’re alive.”
“What’s with you poets and gratitude?”
“What’s wrong with gratitude?”
A cold, gloomy wind blew through the garden, rustling the tree branches and rushing through flower petals. Dark storm clouds moved in front of the sun, dimming the garden. A couple raindrops drizzled down and then stopped. David hoped the funeral wouldn’t be called off due to rain.
Some people suggested moving the funeral inside, but Elizabeth refused; she was set on having it out in the garden, and it was only a couple drops. She sent someone to bring out umbrellas. She had hundreds of umbrellas in her house for just such an eventuality.
Elizabeth didn’t want to move the funeral inside, didn’t want Howard rained on, didn’t want to close the coffin, and didn’t want to cover him with plastic wrap, so she asked that the casket be carried up into the gazebo. David enthusiastically grabbed the front right side and heaved; glad to move it off its chalk outline spot.
They lugged it up the steps, into the center of the gazebo, and set it down on the duct tape. David’s lower back hurt and he was pretty sure he had a hernia. He had forgotten to lift with his legs.
Natasha was standing by herself over in the cherry blossom grove. David walked over to her.
“How you doing?” he asked.
She burst out in a sob. David put his arm around her shoulder to comfort her.
“He died on his birthday,” she sniffled. “That’s the worst birthday present ever.”
David was about to say, “What about socks?” but he managed to restrain himself.
“At least I’ve got you,” Natasha said, hugging him tightly. “I’m so glad you’re here. You’re like a brother to me.”
David’s heart sank. “Thanks,” he said through gritted teeth.
David looked over to the shadowy pine trees and noticed Tyrone and Loquacious Washington whispering to each other conspiratorially.
“Look at that,” David said to Natasha.
Tyrone reached into his sackcloth jacket and pulled out a bottle of red wine and a corkscrew. Loquacious held out a drinking glass. Tyrone corked the bottle and poured Loquacious a full glass.
“So what?” Natasha said. “They’re having a drink. I don’t see why funerals don’t serve alcohol. They force people to bring their own. I wish I had my flask.”
“It’s not that,” David said. “Loquacious is a teetotaler.”
“A what?”
“She doesn’t drink alcohol. Once, many years ago, she got really drunk and took a solemn vow never to touch alcohol again…and she never did. Loquacious takes her vows seriously. Something is going on here.”
Loquacious glided casually next to the rose bushes, through the crowd of wealthy people. She swirled the wine in her glass and sniffed it, making exaggerated facial reactions. My! That’s some nice smelling wine! I would never expect wine to smell so nice! Suddenly, Loquacious “accidentally” stumbled, fell forward, and spilled her red wine all over the front of a man’s white shirt.
The man looked down at the red stain spreading over his chest pocket. His tie and shirt were ruined. An angry look came over his face.
“You ox!” he shouted. “YOU CLUMSY OX!!!”
“Now Pete, take it easy with her,” a man said, placing a hand on Pete’s shoulder.
“No!” Pete shook the man’s hand off his shoulder. “This is my favorite shirt! It’s filled with sentimental value!”
Loquacious shook her head and clucked her tongue. “That’s a shame,” she said. “Nothin’ gets red wine out.”
“Who drinks wine at a funeral?!” Pete screamed.
“If only we had some Ghetto Traveler,” Loquacious said. “That’d do the trick.”
“Ghetto Traveler?” Pete said. “What’s that?”
Tyrone came running through the crowd, holding out a bottle of his patented multi-purpose cleaning fluid.
“Ghetto Traveler comin’ through!!!” he called. Everyone backed up and gave him some room. Tyrone tore off the cap, and splashed a generous amount of the front of Pete’s shirt.
Pete screamed, tore off his blazer and tie, and ripped at his white shirt. “It burns! IT BURNS!!!”
“That means it’s workin’,” Tyrone said. “The tingling sensation.”
Pete threw his stained white shirt on the grass, swatted at his chest like he was trying to put out a fire. Then he stopped, dropped, and rolled around in the grass. That didn’t help. He jumped up, hooted and hollered and hopped up and down, then ran to the refreshment table and started ladling punch onto his chest with the serving ladle. That was going too slow, so he picked up the glass punch bowl and dumped the pink liquid on his chest. He sighed pleasantly and collapsed to a sitting position on the grass. His chest was now smooth; the punch had rinsed it clean of hair.
“Ghetto Traveler also removes hair,” Tyrone said. “No mo’ nicks ‘n cuts.”
Loquacious knelt down and rubbed Pete’s hairless chest. “So smooth!” she marveled. “Where does one get such a product?”
Tyrone picked the white shirt up off the grass and started to massage the stained area with his fingers, working the Ghetto Traveler through the fabric. The stain faded and then disappeared. Everyone applauded. Pete staggered to his feet, and Tyrone handed him his shirt back.
“Good as new, sir.”
Pete held his shirt up and stared at it, dumbfounded.
“What an amazing product!” Loquacious exclaimed. “Is there anything Ghetto Traveler can’t do?”
Tyrone looked at Howard’s coffin sadly. “One thing,” he said.
Suddenly, the sky lit up with a flash of lightning. Seconds later, an impressive roar of thunder shook the garden and the birds flew out of the trees. Without warning, water poured in sheets. Everyone ran to the nearest available shelter: those closest to the house ran inside, a couple people crouched under the refreshment table, David and Natasha ran into the gazebo, followed by a large crowd that included Derrick, Tyrone, and Loquacious. Soon, the entire gazebo was full. The rain soaked those closest to the edge, so they pushed towards the center. David and Natasha were crushed up against the oak coffin and about to be smothered; they had to climb up on top. David tried not to step on Howard’s neck or face, but his muddy shoes dirtied up the red satin. Howard didn’t seem to mind; his face remained calm.
Lightning crashed so brightly they had to close their eyes, then thunder so loud they had to cover their ears. Natasha grasped onto David tightly. Hail began plunking down on the gazebo’s wooden roof and then the little balls of ice started to fill up the yard. The winds roared and a huge crash of lightning exploded simultaneously with its thunder. The storm was right on top of them. David’s heart pounded and felt like it would explode. They were all about to die. It was the apocalypse. The world was going to end before David got to read his poem.
He grasped Natasha’s shoulders and kissed her forcefully on the mouth. She jerked back at first, startled, but then returned his kiss, passionately. The lighting crashed, the thunder shook the air, and the hailstones pounded the gazebo roof, but all that didn’t seem to matter.
Everyone was frantic, except for Howard who lay there tranquilly. He didn’t seem to mind that the side-sucker was now sucking on his stepdaughter’s face. David wasn’t fooled by the professor’s calmness. His calm demeanor and stoic face seemed to say, “I’m going to haunt you.”
A bolt of lightning cracked inches from the gazebo and Derrick let out a yelp; he had the most to be worried about. Lightning always went after him. He not only absorbed insects, but electricity as well. He was a human lightning rod as well as a human citronella candle. Lighting had already struck him twice in his life. Derrick suspected that this was because there were metal implants in his body, most likely placed there by aliens.
Derrick ran down the gazebo steps and made a mad dash for the house, crunching over the hailstones and slipping through the wet grass. His body jiggled madly as he ran. He was halfway to the house when a bolt of lightning struck him, making an exploding sound and sending him flying ten feet up in the air. He landed on the foldout table, breaking it and sending the deli meats to the grass. There was silence and no one dared breathe as they looked down at Derrick’s limp body, waiting to see if he would move.
Derrick sat upright, his face dazed and his hair frizzy. Two more bolts of lightning struck him in rapid succession, one in the leg and one in the shoulder.
“OW!!!” he screamed. “STOP IT!!!”
***
ב' בכסלו תשס''ח
ירושלים
November 12, 2007
Jerusalem