The Undertaker Has Red Hair

In the quiet of the church, without even looking, I know Mr. Paulson is walking up the aisle to the ambo. I hear his footsteps moving, and he comes into my vision. 

Mr. Paulson is not a remarkable person to look at. The small, round glasses he wears don’t stick out, literally or metaphorically. His expression at every funeral is solemn, but not stiff or overly mournful. He is a good funeral director. 

I prefer the title undertaker to funeral director. Perhaps because the former is not much in use anymore, it’s more appealing to me. I like unusual things. 

The most unusual and arresting quality about Mr. Paulson the undertaker is that he has red hair. 

Mr. Paulson mounts the stairs into the sanctuary and steps behind the ambo. Behind him, I can see my sister and brother, who are altar servers for this funeral Mass. 

They are both staring straight ahead, lips pressed closed, almost frowning. I glance up at Dad, who’s sitting beside me in the pew. His eyes briefly meet mine, and I see he’s pressing his lips together, too. Meanwhile, I am gently biting my tongue. All of us are trying very hard not to smirk, let alone laugh, and Mr. Paulson hasn’t even said his bit yet. 

Poor Mr. Paulson. This is not his fault at all, and we’re not laughing at him. 

This is all because of my little brother. 

My brother is wonderful, and an enormous blessing. For such a long time, it was just three sisters, but we all wanted a brother. I still remember the night Mom and Dad came back from the hospital after the ultrasound that would tell us whether we would have a brother or a sister. 

We—I and my two sisters—were at Grandma’s house for the evening. When Mom and Dad came in, we immediately stopped playing and ran to them, demanding “What is it, what is it, what is it?!” 

Mom and Dad waited until we had quieted in anticipation of the announcement. 

Finally, Mom said, “It’s a boy!”

My sisters and I grabbed each others’ hands to make a ring and started spinning as one, screaming wordlessly and jumping up and down. I’m still surprised Grandma didn’t try to hush our racket of ecstasy. 

I also remember the first time I saw my brother, and the first time I held him. Both events were within minutes of each other. 

When Dad came out of the hospital to meet us and take us to Mom and the baby, for a minute I thought he had gotten a tattoo. There was a dark footprint on Dad’s arm. 

“What is that?” I asked. 

“It’s the baby’s footprint.” 

I thought a baby’s foot would be smaller. That mark looked too big to be a baby foot. 

“When the nurse stamped his foot with ink, she asked me if I wanted her to stamp it on my arm, too,” Dad explained further.

I vaguely recalled having seen a piece of paper in my baby keepsake box, with a footprint (mine) and a thumbprint (Mom’s) on it. 

My brother was all wrapped up in a blanket, and Mom was holding him, so he was a bit hard to see. 

When it was my turn to hold him, I wasn’t quite sure what to do. It was the first real baby I could remember holding; for some reason I had no memory of holding either of my little sisters. 

My brother didn’t feel like my baby dolls. He was hard and soft at the same time, and he was so heavy and warm. I was afraid I would drop him, even though he hardly moved at all. I think I only held him briefly before saying I was done, and asking for someone to take him back. I think my parents laughed. 

My brother is so different from my sisters and I. Soon after he began crawling, my mother found him standing up in his car seat which she had left on the floor. He was in a wide stance for balance, purposely rocking the baby car seat under himself. 

As he got older, he routinely jumped off of things, and sometimes accidentally fell off of them, declaring he meant to do that as he groaned and writhed on the floor. He played with my Buzz Lightyear toy and eventually broke off one of the arms (just like in the movie) by accident. He seemed capable of making effortless sound effects with his mouth, especially shooty-shooty bang-bang ones for guns, aircraft, spacecraft, explosions and Hot Wheels car crashes. 

One of my favorite of my brother’s skills is his ability to make an approaching “aaaaAAH!” sound. He often starts it as he comes down the stairs, and culminates it as he jumps off the last three steps and ‘falls’ on his hands and knees. 

He eventually got very good at mimicking phrases, and can very accurately imitate accents. 

We have attended many funerals. We have heard Mr. Paulson say the same exact thing many times. My brother can imitate it, I think, perfectly. His tone and inflection sound just like Mr. Paulson’s. We laugh every time my brother does his imitation. 

Now, as Mr. Paulson places his hands on either side of the ambo, I bite my tongue a little harder, trying to forestall a grin. 

“Immediately after the service, a luncheon will be provided downstairs in the parish hall. All are welcome to attend.” 

On the altar, my sister has turned her head away and pressed her mouth into her sleeve, acting as if she’s coughing. I know she’s disguising a laugh. The expression on my brother’s face doesn’t exactly look as if he’s trying not to laugh, but it doesn’t look like a normal expression to have at the end of a funeral. I wonder what people think of them. After we leave, my brother will do his imitation, and we’ll all have a good laugh together. 

I’m just glad Mr. Paulson has his back to them right now.