Observe the Dead

I don’t see what the fuss is all about, to be perfectly frank with you.

Never did I see this many people going out of their way to engage with me when I was alive. Now, I’m dead and laid up in my poor daughter’s kitchen and suddenly the whole neighborhood’s out in their Sunday best. Margaret Walsh showing up in the dress she wore to her own father’s funeral as though I was as close to her as he was. That woman hasn’t said two words to me since we got off the boat in America, because she tried cutting in front of me, and I told her that I’d happily be thrown in American jail for assault if she put one foot on New England soil before I did. For wasn’t I the one who got up early so I could be the first off the boat, and she thought she was going to take that away from me just because back in Kenmare her family was treated like kings and queens? I let her know first thing that there are no kings and queens in America, lessen you count the Kennedy’s, and surely you should, for aren’t they so beautiful to look at?

And Catholics. Don’t go forgetting that.

Princess Margaret resented me for the rest of my life just for being the first one to breathe in good, old-fashioned American air, and now that I’m dead, she’s wailing and caterwauling like I was her best friend on earth. What an actress she turned out to be. If I was alive, I’d tell my daughter to throw the heifer out on her rear end, but I’m not alive, am I? More’s the pity. I just knew as soon as I kicked the bucket, the looney’s would come out of the woodwork. On my deathbed, I told my daughter, I said, “Bridget, I made a list of people who aren’t allowed at calling hours after I’m gone, and don’t you dare cave and let them in when they show up.” She knows she disobeyed her mother. That’s why she’s off in the corner chewing on her thumbs even though I told her a dozen times a day to leave those sad fingers of hers alone. Oh, I don’t blame the pitiful girl. She’s never had a strong constitution when it comes to telling people where to get off. She probably thinks I’m going to haunt her forever for letting that sow Margaret stand over my casket and sing “Highland Paddy,” but I’m sure I’ll learn to get over it, for aren’t I going up to Heaven once I’m done with my own funeral, and won’t I be made a saint once I get there? The Good Lord has seen the number of fools I’ve had to put up with in this life, and I know when I reach the Gates, he’ll be standing there applauding me for how I’ve suffered. Living in this small town all these years with this bunch of daffy ducks makes what Job went through look like a trip to the county fair. Once I have Heavenly Grace bestowed upon me by His Greatness, I won’t have any anger or hatred for even one of the many drooling potatoheads that have tormented me all these years just because I made my fortune here in America like every immigrant dreams of doing.

Oh, you should have the gossip going ‘round town when I bought my first ice cream truck. They didn’t even approve of a woman driving, let alone driving around a truck with desserts on it. I owned one of the very first ice cream trucks in the country, and dear me, was I the talk of the town, especially when I had Bridget and I used to take her with me. She’d be strapped to my chest nursing, and I’d be doling out the vanilla cones to all the children. It was quite the scandal. You’d have thought she was fatherless, the way they spoke of her. I had a husband the whole time. My beloved Connor, who passed away at such a young age. I’m sure I’ll see him in Heaven as well, and when I do, I’m going to say--

“Now don’t let me find out you’ve been chatting with Jean Harlow while you’ve been up here, or I’ll take this halo off my head and beat you with it, you cad!”

Oh, I did love him, but he could never keep his hands to himself. But wasn’t he a good father to lil Bridget and so how could I complain? The man never worked a day in his short life, what with his bad elbow and all, so it was on me to provide a living for the whole family of us. Luckily, the ice cream truck made us enough money to move into one of the nicest houses in town, and as soon as we bought it, I told the contractors to build a hill right next to it, and then to move the house onto that hill. They thought I was daft, but wasn’t I going to live the rest of my life overlooking all those dullards who dared to doubt me? And sure’n, I did. Worth every penny to wake up each day and look down on your detractors. And now I’ll be looking down on them for the rest of eternity, for aren’t I going way, way up, and aren’t they going way, way down? Don’t tell me Princess Margaret and her ilk aren’t headed to the fires of you-know-where after all the sinning they’ve done. What with the gossiping about me, and the being mean to me (an innocent), and coveting all I had when I was alive, and then daring to show up at my daughter’s house that I bought for her since my house is going to be turned into a museum. Look at all that lying Margaret is doing; pretending she’ll miss me. His Father surely sees all that and the minute she ascends, He’s going to be waiting by the lever to hit the trapdoor while I stand between my Connor and Ms. Harlow making sure they aren’t getting too cozy with each other.

I will say that seeing all those fakes and phonies lining up outside my daughter’s house did hearten my spirit a bit even knowing it was all a show. So many people die and go into their graves without so much as a prayer or a poem. I’m going up with a pageant. Scornful though I am, I’m also a bit touched. Tomorrow they’ll all go back to saying I was greedy and wily and filled with rage for most of my life, and they won’t be lying. Eventually I’ll be forgotten about, and so will Margaret the Princess, and my daughter, and my daughter’s daughter and maybe even that small town where I first set foot so many years ago.

Best to take things for what they are, I suppose. A woman shows up at your funeral and says you were friends. Well, why not? When the living lie about the dead, we call it a memory. Let Margaret have her memories.

And that ugly black dress.