The Librarianist

“I don’t know, Bob. Maybe he was married, or engaged. Maybe he had kids. Who knows?” She shrugged. “But, I wanted you to understand that the story of your father and me is a small story, but that doesn’t mean it’s an unhappy one. I can’t pretend to’ve loved the man, or even to’ve known him, but I liked him, okay? And he liked me too. And that’s not so bad a thing, when you consider all the hell people put each other through.” Bob’s seventy-five-pound mother lay there saying these things to him, her hand folded in a bony clutch, the hospital sheet yanked up to her chin. The nurse returned and told Bob it was time to let his mother rest, and he left.

There were no decisions to be made in terms of the funeral ceremony because every detail had been addressed by Bob’s mother. There were ten or eleven people in attendance; Bob recognized certain of them, women his mother had worked with, some with their husbands, none of whom introduced themselves. It occurred to Bob that these individuals were likely looking at him not as the son of the deceased but as the burden she had shouldered in her lifetime — the infamous bastard child in the flesh. A priest gave a reading of familiar, possibly overfamiliar Bible texts; it was like listening to a recitation of the Pledge of Allegiance, where the words formed shapes on the air, but the meaning of the words was absent. Bob’s mother’s vessel was witness to this from the comfort of the coffin, which was open just enough that one could view the top of her hair and a small, shadowy segment of the side of her face. Bob had noticed this coffin arrangement when he entered the room but had no reaction to it at first. But soon and he began to dislike it, mildly, then less mildly. There was a funeral matron standing at the head of the pews; when the coffin situation became problematic for Bob, he left his seat and walked up to meet her. “Hello,” he said.

“Well hello to you,” she replied.

Bob explained that he was the son of the deceased and the funeral matron gave his arm a squeeze of sympathy with her white-gloved hand. She asked if he was satisfied with the arrangements and he said he was, but that he was curious about the coffin. Why was it set up like that?

“Like what, sir?”

“Open just a little bit.”

The matron modulated her voice to near a whisper. “The coffin is as requested by the department.”

Bob was alarmed. “Which department do you mean?”

The woman’s eyes suddenly widened and a blush drew up her throat. “Excuse me, my goodness! Not department. Departed.” She exhaled, collecting herself. “The casket is displayed as per your mother’s preference.”

“She asked for it to be like that?” said Bob.

“That’s right, sir. It’s not uncommon, actually. Both the fully open and fully shut casket can feel extreme, when you think of yourself, you know, in there.”

Bob said, “I guess she just wanted to be a peeker.”

“Yes, sir, I believe she did.”

“Okay, well, thank you.”

Bob returned to his seat to find someone was sitting in it. He was a well-fed professional man of sixty years preceded by the reek of eye-stinging cologne. Bob paused to stand over him; the man looked up with a wracked expression that told Bob: go away from me. Bob took a seat in front of the man and resumed his study of the funeral.