While We’re Still Alive

While We’re Still Alive

A boy looks out through a foggy backseat window. Panic blurs his thoughts. He’d only seen his father ten seconds before, but now, he can’t picture his face. He wipes the window to get one last look. If only he could wipe both sides of the window. All he can make out is the shape of a broken man, head downtrodden, as the car drives away.

***

The 1950’s arrived quick to some, slow to most. Malachi Turner felt as though he’d lived four lifetimes. He’s only twenty-seven and has taken over the family business. “Death” he says when asked is the family business. “My parents are dead. My siblings are dead. Sometimes...I feel more dead than alive. What can I say...we excel at death.”

***

A man in his early sixties walks into Malachi’s business. He keeps his face down. The brim of his hat covers his bloodshot eyes. He stands there alone. Motionless. Aware of every sound and smell around him but processing none of it. He’s waiting for someone to come and snap him back into life. To rescue him from the difficult days and years that lie ahead.

Malachi, noticing the distraught old man standing unattended by the door, speed walks to meet him. He knows the routine. He puts his hand on the man’s back and guides him towards a nearby seat. 

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Malachi says. “We’ll do our very best to bring you comfort in these troubling times.”

Malachi and the old man sit there for a few minutes. An awkward silence lingers. One that Malachi has grown much too accustomed to over the years. The old man had prepared ahead of time all the things he needed say, now nothing comes to mind. It’s as if his lifelong accumulation of words has abandoned him and left him mute. Malachi gives the man all the time he needs.

“It’s my son,” the man can only speak a few words at a time, “Matthew...he’s gone. Gone forever. Car accident last night. He went to the college here in town.”

“Matthew...yes...we did receive him this morning. Are you ready to see him? Not to rush you or anything.”

The man pulls his head up. He pushes his hat back and reveals his face for the first time. He looks Malachi dead in the eye, “How bad is it?” Malachi only catches a glimpse of the old man’s face. That’s all it took. He breaks eye contact and turns his gaze down towards his feet. The old man accepts this to be bad sign for his son. That it was worse than he’d originally been told. He doesn’t know the truth though. Not the half of it. His mind is on his dead son’s decomposing body lying somewhere in the building. Not on the son sitting beside him on the couch. “Is it really that bad?”

“I’m sorry,” Malachi stands up and turns toward the old man, still avoiding eye contact, “I just got something caught in my throat is all,” Malachi pretends to cough. “I just need to get a glass of water real quick and I’ll be right back. Would you like one?”

“That’s fine.”

Malachi walks over to the front desk. A receptionist types, oblivious to everything going on. He grabs two paper cups next to the water dispenser. Water splashes around as he struggles to fill both cups. He wipes his hands on the back of his pants and heads back to the old man. More water splashes on the way.

“You never answered me,” as Malachi hands the old man his water, “how bad is my son?”

“Sadly,” Malachi responds while still standing and fidgeting in-sync with each syllable, “I uh...I regret to inform you...that...that you might not be able to recognize him.”

“Well...I guess there’s no point in delaying the inevitable any longer. Let me see it.”

These words wake memories in Malachi’s mind. Memories that stayed dormant for over twenty years. Memories of his father yelling in his tobacco scarred voice: Don’t dawdle! Get to the point, would ya? While we’re still alive, please! For the first time in decades, Malachi has a newfound respect for his father. His father didn’t simply demand these things of others. He demands them for himself most of all. 

“I’ll go get the pictures from my office then.”

***

Malachi opens his file cabinet and pulls out a manila folder labeled Matthew Turner. He slides the contents out. It’s two photographs of Matthew Turner. His brother. His dead brother. The man who replaced him in his father’s memory and heart. He examines the photo differently this time than he did earlier in the morning. He looks past the mangled remains of a horrific car accident. They’re the remains of a brother he never knew. A brother who never knew him.

He slides the photos back into the folder and turns toward his desk. A business card flashes up at him. It reads:

Chance Funeral Homes

Funeral Director

Malachi Turner

He picks the card up and flaps it back and forth in between his fingers. He attempts to drop it back on the desk but it refuses to leave his hand. He slips it into his pocket, turns off his office light, and closes the door behind him.

***

Malachi is sitting next to his father again. They’re in a different room now. A more private room. The folder rests on his lap. His fingers rattle against the shell of the folder. Up down, up down like a piano player. The old man reaches out and clenches his son’s bicep. His knuckles turn white like an embalmed corpse. 

“Please...don’t waste time...just show me.”

“It’s...generally...you see it’s just that we usually prepare the family before showing them.”

“Prepare me for what? Blood and bones? I’ve seen enough of that in my day. That’s preparation enough.”

Malachi tightens his lips to prevent a grin from appearing on his face. He’s amused to learn that his father doesn’t just talk this way to his family. Not even the kindest strangers are spared his father’s fiercely assertive demeanor. 

“Of course, sir. As you wish.”

***

Both pictures spread across the old man’s lap. The film is blurred with splotches caused by dribbles of tears that had fallen onto them. It was a distorted image of his son to begin with. The old man stacks the pictures together and slides them back into the folder. He looks away and hands the folder back to Malachi. 

“I just don’t understand,” the old man says, “I go to church every week. I read my Bible. I pray three times a day. All the while I’m giving to the Lord my time and hard earned possessions...and all he’s ever managed to do is take. He takes my only child. Not once...but twice. That boy was all I had. Now...now I have nothing.”

Malachi casually reaches into his pocket. The sharp edges of his business card poke his fingertips. He pinches the card with two fingers and immediately releases it. He pulls his empty hand back out and folds it together with his other hand. 

“Did you say twice?” Malachi is unsure why he just asked this question.

“Yeah...twice.”

“I can’t express my sympathies enough, sir.”

Raising his hand to cut off Malachi, “Spare me the act. Genuine or fake...I don’t want it.”

“Yes, sir. Of course.”

The two men share another, shorter, silence. Malachi twiddles his thumbs as his father stares out a window on the opposite end of the room. It’s just how Malachi remembered. Their time together hadn’t been much more than this moment now. Malachi would sit in the living room floor, making do with any household objects he could play with, as his father stared out a window and thought about everything that ever happened in his life.

“I can’t picture him,” the old man says. “Is that strange?”

“How do you mean?”

“I mean I try to picture his face in my head...but I can’t. It’s just a featureless combination of flesh. Nothing unique about him that makes him my son.”

“It’s not strange, sir. It happens to me quite often as well.” Malachi turns to his father, still looking out the window, “I find it to be a blessing. I don’t care about the physical features so much. Never have actually. They don’t really matter. I care about the memories I had with the person. The laughs and tears we shared. The quirky personalities. The things that made them different from everyone else I’ve known.” Malachi turns his head to look out the same window as his father, “Those are the things I want to remember.”

A gentle cuckoo rings throughout the building. It’s noon. The receptionist quickly grabs her lunch and walks out the door before the sound has a chance to die down. All that’s left is father and son.

“I’m guessing you’ll probably be wanting to shove off too then?” asks the old man.

“Yeah...I gotta meet someone for lunch.”

“I hope I didn’t keep the two of you waiting.”

“I wouldn’t worry about that. We’ve waited long enough on each other.”

“Well...I’ve been through enough of this kinda talk for the time being. Funeral’s in five days. We can make the other arrangements later.”

“I hoped you’d say that.” Malachi stands up and the old man follows behind him. Malachi goes to open the door for his father and stops to look at him. They’re both waiting for the other to speak. “Hey! Almost forgot!” Malachi takes the business card out of his pocket and hands it to his father, “In case you need to reach me.”

“I think the likely hood of that will be high,” the old man chuckles. He peeks at the card and gives it a double take. His arms fall to his sides. The card floats to the ground. He looks up at his son. No words.

“You didn’t recognize me cause I was only seven when you last saw me. I’ve grown quite a bit since then.” No reply. “Well...If you’re not too busy...and I know it’s not an ideal time to reconnect after all these years...but...I’d really like to buy you lunch and catch up.”

“Yes. Of course, Malachi. I’d like that very much.”

***

A man stares at a car as it vanishes into the fog. He stands by the empty road for what feels like hours until he’s certain the car will never return. He prays to God that he not die alone.