The Last Call

Everything was ready for the ritual. The chairs and sofas were ranged in close, straight rows, all of them, more or less, facing the smaller room where the open casket rested. There's pressure in my head, that numb feeling I’ve experienced before: like a headache coming, or a stormy ocean trying to come out of my head, but not quite. 

As I walked into the main room of the funeral home last night, to attend the wake, I passed two acquaintances, both younger than me. They were sitting on a couch in an anteroom, looking distraught. I stopped to say, “I’m sorry for your loss. When my grandpa died, it was really hard.” They nodded numbly, and I followed my family into the main room.

Those words sounded so ridiculous. If these people had said that to me when Grandpa died, I don’t think it would have helped. At first I didn’t want to say anything to them, but Mom insisted. “It’s the polite thing to do, you have to offer condolences.” When she puts it that way, I guess it would probably have hurt worse for them to act like I didn’t exist, even if they did remind me of the horror, if they’d come to Grandpa’s funeral.

My family headed towards the casket, pausing to greet the deceased’s son, one of my Dad’s friends from work. I didn’t follow them. Instead, I plopped myself down on a padded bench right beside the door we'd just come through. 

One of my Dad’s other co-workers, another friend of the deceased, walked over to me. “Aren’t you gonna go see him?” he asked with his hoarse voice, quiet when he’s usually not.

For a moment, I was mad at him, mad that he was acting so friendly and happy when there was a dead person lying in a coffin over there. The only coherent thought in my head was I’ve seen this too many times. Over and over and over again. I shook my head, no. I was looking down at my hands, clenching the soft brown fabric of my messenger bag. I didn’t notice that until now. He walked away again, and I got up to go after my family. 

I wasn’t sure where my dad had gone; he was probably talking to someone. My siblings were with my mom, in another, smaller anteroom, the one where the casket was; they were standing right next to it. I didn’t want to look at his face, so I dropped down onto the far side of the kneeler that was positioned beside the casket, as far away as I could get from Mr. Dennis’s head.

I dug in my pocket for my rosary, determined to say one decade for the repose of his soul. That would consist of praying one Our Father, ten Hail Marys, one Glory Be, and one Fatima prayer. While my hand was still in my pocket, my mom leaned down and smiled at me. “Peacock feathers!” she said, discreetly pointing up at the open part of the casket. “He has peacock feathers!” I knew what she was talking about; I’d had a brief glimpse as I knelt down. 

Mr. Dennis and his wife lived outside of town, and one day, a peacock showed up. They called him Blue. Someone came to take Blue somewhere else, but he flew off into the woods, and didn’t come back for a few days. In time, he returned, and he’s lived there ever since. Every time Blue molted, Mr. Dennis would pick up as many of the feathers as he could find. I remember how he gave some of them to us when we visited for one of his grandson’s birthdays; he lived immediately next door to his son.

He showed us how peacocks had two different kinds of feathers in their tails: the long, slightly flimsy green ones with blue eyespots, that everyone knows about; and the shorter, stiffer, rusty-colored feathers, underneath the long green ones. When Blue lifted his fan, he began to shake it, and we could hear something rattling. Mr. Dennis told us that it was the short, stiff feathers under the green ones. We walked around behind Blue, and could see the short fan underneath the long one, vibrating and clacking.

I nodded to my mom; perhaps I said “I know,” but I don’t remember. I finally got my rosary out, and began to pray the Our Father. It was difficult. The pressure in my head was interfering, and I couldn't concentrate. As I started on the first Hail Mary, small, rapid footsteps thumped on the carpet, and something hit the kneeler, to my left. I looked in that direction, and saw the young grandson whose birthday party we had attended. He looked at me, and I looked down again, trying to refocus on my prayers. His mom was close behind him, and I heard her instruct the little boy: “Say, ‘Bye-bye, Grandpa,” “Bye-bye Grandpa,” he repeated. “Say, ‘I love you, Grandpa.” “I love you Grandpa,” he echoed again. I tried fiercely to keep praying, now deciding that I would only say three Hail Marys. I started the second one. I wasn’t really praying, only frantically reciting the prayers mentally. I hadn’t even prayed the Our Father properly. 

I stopped trying to pray the second Hail Mary, and got up from the kneeler. My mom and siblings were to the right of the casket, the foot of it, looking at a white foam board on a stand, with pictures of Mr. Dennis glued onto it. He was younger in these pictures, only a child in some of them.

Soon we left that small room, moving back out into the main room. We looked at more boards of pictures, some of them still of his younger days, some more recent. Some were of him as I knew him: older, with white hair. He served as a volunteer firefighter for many years, and so did his son, so there were several pictures of him in different fire trucks. One of them showed him, his son, and his grandson, all sitting together in the cab of a truck. More of them were of him and the various animals he had owned. I saw two cockatiels sitting on the blades of a ceiling fan, several pictures of a doe deer in a house, lots of different dogs, Blue, donkeys, and a horse. I remembered another story Mr. Dennis had told us, this one about his donkeys. 

He had two donkeys to start with, a jack and a jenny. They had a baby, another jenny. Eventually, the jack died, and it was just the mother and daughter. 

One day, the jennies got out, and someone called to tell them that their donkeys were wandering around near the highway. Mr. Dennis went to retrieve them. He said “I put one arm around each of their necks, pointed them towards home, picked up my feet, and I rode ’em all the way back like that.” 

The picture of the horse especially attracted my attention. I’d seen that horse at his house: her name was Lacey. She didn’t belong to Mr. Dennis; her owner was boarding her there. The photo had ‘Horse Hug’ written across the bottom, and he was indeed hugging the mare in the picture. He was standing on her right side, facing the same way as her, his arms around her neck, his left cheek pressed against her neck. It made me a bit happier to see that picture, the way he seemed so oblivious of the way he looked, just enjoying a horse hug. 

We left the wake soon after.  

The next day we are back in the same room, many, if not all, of the same people here as last night, the noteworthy exception the double row of firefighters in the entry hall, clothed not in their protective gear, but in neat dress uniforms. Then again, what do I know? I sometimes have trouble remembering faces, so all of these people might have been here last night. 

The two acquaintances who are younger than me are on the same couch, but dressed more fastidiously; the boy in a smart three-piece suit, and the girl wearing a tasteful black dress. 

We hurry to sit down, choosing seats near the back of the room, on the right. Other people find their seats as well, and the catholic priest who will preside over the service arrives. He doesn’t take his place at the front of the room, though; he stays in the rear.

The fire crew files in, lining up at the very back of the room. The man who has, until now, been standing at the head of Mr. Dennis’s casket, joins his comrades in the back. 

There’s a sudden, ear-piercing, prolonged beep from a radio, and I think, Oh, no, not a fire right now. That’s not what’s happening, though. The radio crackles dissonantly with static, and I almost jump. A woman’s voice intones:       

“Dennis D. C. Cummings; Dennis D. C. Cummings; Dennis D. C. Cummings; 

This is the last call for Dennis D. C. Cummings. For thirty-six years you’ve served faithfully. Now, you rest in peace.”    

There’s another burst of static, and then the radio is switched off.