Life After Death

The rescue plane traced distant contours, circling, seeking, never nearing. Henry searched for a break in the canopy through which to attract attention, but the dense foliage clung and clawed, engulfing him in greenery slick with the jungle’s sweat. From the sky, he was invisible. The faint whirring of the engines taunted him like the whining mosquitos feasting on his blood, stealing him drop by drop from the refuge of his skin.

Although last night’s violent storm had cleared, spent after tossing and tumbling the plane from the sky, the air in its wake was a humid soup, vibrating with unfamiliar bird chatter and incandescent with insect wings. Shrouded in its sticky folds, Henry leaned against a tree trunk, tie loosened and shirt sleeves rolled up, flicking flies from the gaping wound in his calf. He should have been killed outright with the other passengers−he was no less deserving of their sharp, shocking end. Instead, cruelly spared, he faced a slower demise, abandoned in this remote pocket of land.

But he wasn’t afraid. He was ready. For as long as he cared to remember life had stretched its flat and desolate terrain before him, presenting a duty made bearable only by hard work and the blister packs of tablets that promised unremarkable days. With as much strength as he could muster, he filled his lungs to summon death and hasten his passage.

“I’m here!” he hollered. “Henry Watling, of Watling and Son Funeral Home! I’m waiting for you!”

A raucous flock of birds erupted from a nearby tree, screeching protests as they dispersed. Henry’s invocation was otherwise unheard. He slapped at the sting of a mosquito on his cheek.

Having devoted his career to death, he wasn’t spooked by its presence as others often were. When the plane had begun its final, nose-dive descent, the large lady with glasses sat next to him shrieked, her lacquered nails indenting his arm. The man wearing a bow tie across the aisle screamed for his mother, clutching his briefcase like a swimming aid. Henry had merely patted his breast pocket to check for his passport should it be required for identification purposes.

Henry was a sensible man, and frugal too. He would never have squandered his own hard-earned savings on this trip. Never before had he gambled− he believed in neither recklessness nor luck. Yet in an ill-judged moment, he had purchased tickets for the Funeral Director Association’s annual raffle. Upon winning the all-expenses-paid trip to their International Conference, he’d thought it only right to accept the offer, on behalf of the business of course. But look where frivolity had led him. At his age, with his experience of how the world worked, he should have known better.

“It’ll do you good to go, Dad,” Nicholas had said when he heard about the prize. “Time to shake things up, get some new ideas. It’s all about compost burials and wicker caskets these days.

Henry had baulked. Watling and Son was a traditional family business. Conservative. Nicholas’s mother would have wept to hear such new-age nonsense. As it stood, she was probably turning in her grave.

“Solid oak coffins are the cornerstone of our work,” he’d reminded his foolish son, fuming. “These new-fangled fads lack dignity.”

Nicholas had rolled his eyes and thrown a pained expression to Audrey, who was cleaning up after an embalming. Audrey, the dear old brick, had simply offered a neutral smile, never being one to hold disagreeable opinions. She understood that since finishing his business degree Nicholas had become challenging, forever rattling on about diversification and consumer choice. If he’d followed advice and gone to Mortuary School, he would better understand the needs of the bereaved, and appreciate that change was unwanted and unnecessary. Now, Henry mused glumly, he’d probably be glad his father had taken a one-way trip, and the business could be all Son before the Watling. Henry gave it a year before it folded. 

He would be long gone by then. Although right now death was dallying, taking time out after the busy night shift. To occupy himself while he waited, Henry limped as far as he could around the crash site. The mangled fuselage was scattered throughout a wide, basin-shaped depression surrounded by high cliffs. In the absence of commissioned marble and masonry, Henry feared the craggy precipices would be their only memorial. He would die unreachable, lost in body and soul, his final resting place marked by an anonymous tangle of florid, wild orchids.

He attended to as many dead as he could find. The assertion of duty and responsibility brought comfort as he waited for his own reckoning. There wasn’t much to do, just the closing of eyes, the covering of faces. It struck him that this was the kind of natural disposal Nicholas swore was all the rage− simple biodegradation, a return to nature. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad way for a body to end up. In some ways, it was a new beginning, a flourishing of life after death. Nicholas would have approved. Henry chided himself for being so stern− perhaps he should have given the boy more time.

Fortunately, Henry had put his foot down to Audrey coming along− what a close escape she’d had. Having worked with the business for years, she’d become a valued colleague, practically family. She’d been a godsend with young Nicholas when Henry had been lost in grief, her care extending over time with hot dinners and endless errands. She was a thorough worker, attentive to detail, both clinically and artistically talented. No one could give a glow to dead faces the way she could. Moreover, Audrey worked without any chatter or nonsense; qualities Henry highly regarded.

After Henry had squabbled with Nicholas, she’d brought over a cup of tea. Weak, with a good splosh of milk, just as he preferred. After all this time she knew him inside out and it made for a cordial relationship. Since being widowed, Henry had spent more of his waking hours with Audrey than with anyone else.

“Henry?” she’d asked, with a pensive smile. “I’ve been thinking…”

Good grief, Henry had thought, the woman’s asking for a raise. But instead, she’d asked to accompany him to the Conference.

“Perhaps it would be helpful…to explore ideas. To consider new directions,” Audrey had suggested, her cheeks as flushed as one of her made-up cadavers. “It might be a pleasant change to spend some time together… outside of work. Relaxing. You and I are both overdue a holiday.”

Henry had made clear it was a preposterous notion. The business didn’t have reserves to cover her expenses, not even after the busy run they’d had following the nursing home listeria outbreak. But she'd hovered, hands patiently clasped, her sensible shoulder-length hair tucked behind her ears, watching him sip his tea while he pretended to ignore her.

“I’ll cover my own expenses. I’d very much like to go with you, Henry.”

How doggedly she had pursued the matter, how irking her persistence! With cool-headed diligence, Henry had insisted that she must stay and ensure Nicholas didn’t initiate any of his ludicrous modern whims. Hadn’t it been imperative that one sensible head stayed behind?

Henry groaned. His leg wound smarted, his body ached from the bruises and bumps vying for his attention. Audrey would have known what to do. She was just the kind of woman to carry a clean handkerchief and antiseptic cream upon her person. Come to think of it, she would have made a fine travelling companion. The image of her small, clean hands and closely clipped nails came to mind; her earnest, gentle gaze. His heart skipped a beat, perhaps a symptom of its impending failure. What if things were different, he wondered, and they attended next year’s Conference together? With crushing regret, he remembered that his life was due to expire. There would be no next year.

Audrey would miss him; he was certain of that. Nicholas too, despite their differences. He pictured them weeping, reminiscing, adrift without his stable guidance. This strangely warming thought left him yearning to console them, hungry to share the giddy joy of a homecoming. How fine it would be to feel Audrey’s gentle lips brush his cheek, to be pummelled by Nicolas’s hearty backslaps upon reuniting.

The drone of the rescue plane interrupted Henry’s reverie. This time it circled closer. Turning towards the amplified throb of its engines, Henry glimpsed the gleam of its approach through a channel of broken branches carved out by the crash. Vigour surged through his body, dulling pain, stoking purpose, and taking him quite by surprise. He leapt up, scrambling through the mud and snagging shrubbery, clambering over metal debris and luggage cases split open like windfall fruit towards the spears of sunshine slicing through the shadows. Standing in the sweet light, wild-eyed and dazed, he flailed his arms at the blue sky above in a manner unbecoming of one prepared for death.

“I’m here!” he screamed to the spiralling plane. “Henry Watling, of Watling and Son Funeral Home! I’m waiting for you!”