The Librarianist

Bob was tasked with identifying the body at the coroner’s ahead of its transportation to the funeral parlor, and he took the morning off work so that he could attend to this. The coroner was a friendly, unhealthy man; he led Bob to a broad white-tiled room with a single window casting a beam of sunlight over a gurney, upon which lay a body draped by a sheet. As they crossed over to meet the figure, the coroner explained to Bob that he had performed an autopsy on the corpse earlier that same morning. This was not the norm for a death by natural causes but had been done according to the express demand of the deceased. “The funeral parlor had a letter written by Mr. Coleman on file, which they passed off to me yesterday, in keeping with Mr. Coleman’s orders. It was a little confusing to follow, but the gist was that the gentleman was phobic of murder by poison, and wanted someone to check him out postfact.”

“Who did he think was going to poison him?” asked Bob.

“Well, the Vatican, is the short answer. The longer answer points to a group of priests living in the Forest Park area who Mr. Coleman believed had it in for him. The letter paints a clear picture of mental instability but I went ahead with the procedure, to be a sport.”

“And was he poisoned?”

“He was not. His heart was faulty, and no sign of foul play whatsoever. One thing I will say that was unusual: this man had the lungs and liver of a nineteen-year-old boy. All shiny and clean like they’d never been used.” When Bob explained about Connie’s father’s beliefs, the coroner said, “Yes, you could see he’d never taken a drink or a smoke. I suppose they tell themselves the lack is worth it. Personally, I’m happy as a clam to lose the fifteen years.” Connie’s father’s letter had prompted a curiosity in the coroner, who asked Bob roundaboutly, almost apologetically, what the situation of the man’s death had been. Bob spoke of Connie’s father’s unhappiness about the pending marriage of his daughter.

“And you’re the groom-to-be?”

“That’s right.”

The coroner made the noise of understanding. “The so-called broken heart is the heart stilled by romantic disappointment or some other great loss — death of a child, say. And while the phenomenon does from time to time occur, death by sorrow is highly uncommon. What is far more common is death by bitterness, outrage — pique. It sounds to me that this man died from pique.” As he spoke he began rolling back the sheet to expose Connie’s father’s corpse. There was a staged effect to this which brought to Bob’s mind the magician’s elegance of gesture: voilà.

“Is this your man?”

“That’s him.”

The coroner watched Bob making his survey of the deceased, the light of curiosity still glowing in his eyes. Bob gamely explained his dislike of Connie’s father, naming all of his shortcomings and awfulnesses. Bob was becoming impassioned in his critique when he caught himself and smiled at the coroner, who was listening with evident interest and enjoyment. Bob said, “You must hear all sorts of sordid family gossip in your line.”

“All sorts, yes. I’m not really supposed to say it, but the truth is that it’s a fascinating position.” He went about covering Connie’s father back up. In a wistful voice he said, “Really, though, you should have seen this man’s liver and lungs. They were right off the assembly line, new in the box.”

When Bob got home the radio was on but Connie wasn’t in the house. He found her in the backyard, digging up weeds. She’d outfitted herself in some old clothes of Bob’s, and she told him, “Just you wait. I’m going to make this garbage dump into something special.” Bob sat on the patchy grass, watching her as she worked and waiting for her to ask after his visit to the coroner’s. When she didn’t ask, Bob told her he’d be glad to discuss his experience if she wished him to; but, she said she didn’t care to hear of it. She thanked Bob for his assistance, and Bob told her, “You’re welcome.” There was no funeral service and the whereabouts of the ashes remained a mystery. Six weeks after Bob had viewed the corpse a lawyer sent a letter to Connie explaining she would receive nothing from her father’s estate. But she’d already known and accepted this, and so the letter held no weight of consequence with her. Bob watched as she deposited the letter, with comical care, into the trash can under the kitchen sink. Her face read of unaffected amusement, and he loved her very dearly.