Is It a Wonderful Life?

Shards of light filtered into Henry’s eyes splitting his brain like a chainsaw through glass. Attempting to sit up brought the pain clear through his skull and he lay back down gingerly. As the chainsaw calmed a bit, he once again tried opening his eyes except this time with added care. He was lying on his back, his head awkwardly angled at the base of a very big oak tree. Painstakingly, he examined himself before rising again. His normally impeccable hair was now matted and felt slightly damp interwoven with a few twigs and leaves. He winced in pain as he discovered a large goose egg on his left temple. This explained the fire in between his ears. He held the side of his face as the splintering downgraded to tolerable and repositioned himself against the oak, discovering, with dismay, his middle-aged body protesting from a night away from his King-sized foam mattress. He shivered slightly from the cold Autumn air. One does this when one spends considerable time on leaf-strewn dirt. 

“Where am I?” Thought Henry. Moving as little as possible, he realized he was in his neighborhood park. Memories from last night trickled in. He had chosen to walk home from an author's book reading last night at his client’s bookstore. Having had a few too many “fingers” of Scotch to combat the storytelling he found somewhat disturbing, he decided a cab or a crisp night walk was in order. Choosing the latter, he had ventured out, despite the fact he had forgotten to wear a warm jacket.

The author thought a reading of a mysterious Gaelic tale including witches and goblins, incantations and curses, time travel, and all-around “things that go bump in the night” would be a crowd-pleaser during this Halloween week. And it had. Henry’s client, Jonathan, made a killing in book sales which only helped line Henry’s wallet as his distributor. He made a mental note to call him and get the numbers. Numbers always made Henry happy. Especially if they were in his favor. However, ever since he was a boy, talk of the netherworld always made Henry uncomfortable. Things that mattered--logic and money--had no room for nonsense and magic. The walk through the park was not just about alcohol, it was also about talking himself out of the increasing feelings of anxiety. It hadn’t helped. Startling noises in the darkness made him jumpy. He found his pace accelerating and quickly it turned into a scene from Snow Whites fight with the dark forest; hand-like trees grabbing and pulling on him as he stumbled along. Then everything went black. Had he been mugged? Or had he hit his head tripping on the oak root he was now intimately familiar with?

Henry realized he needed his bathroom even more than his bed so he clung to the tree for a moment to steady himself after crawling up to standing. Confident that he was able to walk, he shuffled out.  The early park joggers and dog walkers seemed alarmed by his presence, diverting their gaze. He realized he must look homeless and surprisingly recognized his same disgust at others doing the stilted walk of “those kind” who drank their dinner and slept in the park.  Maybe he was too quick to judge.

He wanted to shout out, “I’m not homeless!” except he realized that would make him look crazy and worse, more humiliated. Before leaving, his eye caught a crowd forming on the steps of the church across the street. Its beautiful white steeple gleamed against a crystal blue October sky and was surrounded by ancient maples of crimson and rust. Many wore black clothing, so Henry surmised there was going to be a funeral. Shivering he slowly turned and headed for his townhouse. 

Far from sprinting up the stairs in haste, as in so many times before, he pulled himself up the handrail and searched for his keys. Gone. He rang the bell for Celeste, but there was no answer. He felt his empty pocket where his phone and keys always were. Nothing. His need for the bathroom made him terribly impatient, so he groped around the planter for the hidden key. Again, nothing. In the process, however, he noticed the plants were needing a major trim and some water. Henry mentally reminded himself to tell Mister gardener- “what’s his name,” how he’d better improve or lose his job. 

“Unacceptable,” he said under his breath as he peeked in the side door window. Surely Ben would be up by now? 

“What the…?” He thought as he saw a living room devoid of furniture and his precious artwork. What was going on? Wait. How many calls had he ignored from her yesterday? He was legitimately too busy! She never seemed to understand that. Surely she would not pack up everything and just leave. Especially moving all the furniture. Certainly, it hadn’t gotten that far...yet. They had their disagreements and he knew they were drifting apart, but pack up and disappear?  Nah. Maybe? No. His pondering would have to wait, he realized, because the call of nature was on the line and wouldn’t hold much longer.

As quickly as possible, he headed for the church. They had bathrooms and what was one more mourner? He slipped by the procession, through the main door, then quickly to the right where he knew the men’s room was. After much relief, he approached the row of sinks and looked in the mirror. He was shocked at his appearance. Henry always prided himself on neatness and grooming. With a standing barber’s appointment weekly, manicures once a month, and a tailor on retainer, he was the consummate successful businessman. Making sure Celeste cleaned, laundered, and pressed his clothes precisely how he wanted was a priority and if she didn’t do it right, she’d do it again. Who he saw now was rumpled, a little dirty with stained knees and blackened fingernails. No wonder the soccer moms were worried.

Cleaning up in the sink and smoothing his hair to near perfection, even hiding the lump on his temple, he ran his damp hands over the wrinkled clothes until they were somewhat presentable. Now he would have to figure out where his keys, his phone, and his family were. Stepping outside the bathroom, the aroma of baked goods and sausages crept down the hall from the gathering room. Gotta love the food at a funeral! His stomach grumbled in protest and Henry thought, I could wait until after the funeral was finished and grab a bite before figuring out my predicament. Free is a very good price.

Pretending to sign the guest book, a kind, smiling yet appropriately downcast, funeral director held out the program for the deceased as Henry entered the sanctuary. He slipped it in his pocket and did his best to look mournful.

 “I wonder if they have a class for that in mortician school?” Henry mused. Not wanting to be too suspicious, he sat close enough to the crowd to appear as one of them, yet far enough away to not have to meet curious eyes. The music was slow and lovely, the scent of flowers in the air soothing and the lights a respectful dimness. How many funerals had Henry been to? He couldn’t recall. He despised death or even the thought of it, so usually, he had to “work” if there was a memorial service to attend.  Unless, of course, there was media present or an opportunity to make money. This is nice, he thought; tasteful and not too scary. I can do this for a free breakfast he decided. 

Henry scooted over to better see the casket. “Niiiice!” He thought. “This guy must be wealthy! I picked out that same casket!” He remembered Celeste dragging him to the funeral home to “pre-plan” for that inevitable day. He didn’t want to think about it. Nevertheless, if he was going to leave the earth, why not go in style?  Dark Mahogany with brass poles and hardware would be his chariot someday. The Grim Reaper intruded into his thoughts and a cold shiver went down his spine. Trying to shoo the specter away, he convinced himself he was fit and healthy--still young yet. The pastor stood up to the pulpit. 

“Friends and family. It is my honor to be with you today as we remember our...uh...friend...uh our uh...brother.” He seemed to grapple for the appropriate word. Henry squinted his eyes and realized that was his pastor speaking. Not that he ever used “his” and “pastor” in a sentence before. Church was not a priority if football played or a golf course was attainable. When was the last time he went?

“Reverend Ron? Bill? Joe?” Henry tried to grasp his name. “Dan!” He almost said out loud. Grinning that he had remembered his name, he hadn’t paid attention to the words the man was speaking until he heard laughter in the pews.

“Seriously, though, even as our friend wasn’t one for human warmth, he was always, how shall I put it? Generous... at least right before tax time. Thanks for the new carpet!” Pastor Dan exclaimed which brought further laughter. Henry had no idea he was such a stand up comic, . He really had the crowd going. Admittedly, Henry snickered too, however, he was taught to respect the dead, so this light “bashing” seemed a little too irreverent. Not my business, he reminded himself, still I pity the poor guy. 

“He must have been a real jerk.” Henry mused. 

After a somewhat awkward message that proved it was hard to find something nice about the man, Dan said, “Now I invite you to share. We want your thoughts. Would a few of you want to come to say a few words before his family speaks? 

Crickets seemed to chirp as people looked around at each other with “not me” looks. 

Anyone?” Finally, after a very awkward pause, a nice looking middle-aged man in a “power suit” took Dan’s place. 

“Hi, My name is William Davis, and I was a friend. Well, maybe not a friend-friend,  I worked with Henry, and sometimes we would sit together during meetings. Yeah, he was called a real shark at work... I dunno, maybe he was.  I just think he was trying hard to get ahead. And some people think that is a noble thing in our business. I can say I never had a bad deal with him.” After a slight pause, he said, “I was in a different department.” He grinned a little as the crowd burst out in laughter again. Continuing, he said, “I wanted to tell you his wife was wonderful and very understanding whenever we saw each other.” Turning to the wife he added,  “Thank you, Mrs, for your kindness after my mother passed. I felt as if you saw me, even if I never heard it from him. You made him better.” He stepped down and was replaced by another.

Alarmed that: one, the deceased was named Henry, and two, because the guy looked familiar, Henry felt suddenly uncomfortable and shifted in the wooden pew. Where had he seen that guy? In fact, everybody kind of felt vaguely familiar as he studied the audience. Were they part of Pastor Dan’s church and he maybe saw them on the rare occasions he was there?

Two other individuals did their best to communicate something nice about the poor schmuck to comfort the family. It was apparent by now that the guy was rude, used people, refused to remember a name or care to, was an executioner in business and inattentive at home, opinionated, biased, superior, and arrogant as all get out. A common comment was said that he always looked good. Henry suddenly felt both vain and shallow. Another individual took the floor.

“Hello there, I understand it’s not nice to be critical of the dead, but can I just tell ya?” Her arm gestured outwardly. “Thank God he had a family like you! Or I would have quit a long time ago!”

Henry could not move. That was Margaret. His Margaret. His secretary.

“Now, I want to say I am truly sorry for your loss. I guess it isn’t easy to lose someone and in a weird way, I’m going to miss this grumpy old man. I am thankful for the job, don’t get me wrong. Although sometimes I wondered if he ever knew my name? “If you were wondering, it is NOT, ‘Babe,’ ‘Sweetie,’ or Hey!’ as you might be inclined to think.” Deeper laughter ensued. “In truth, I always thought there was a nice guy down deep...WAY down deep.” Louder laughter erupted as she continued her almost kind speech. 

Stone-faced and stiffly sitting, Henry’s hand reservedly reached for his pocket as another member of the crowd got up to speak. He didn’t want to look at the program and was physically shaking but he had to confirm his suspicions. As his hand touched the funeral paper, however, he froze as the next speaker rose. 

It was Ben.

“Hi everyone. You know me. I’m Ben. And thank you for coming. I had a hard time figuring out what to say. I guess as  I look back on my life, all I can think of is, I’m grateful. Dad gave me a wonderful home to live in, a great car, great school. He never beat me. Probably cuz he was never home. Even so, despite the fact I didn’t know him well, there’s nothing in my heart that thinks he was bad. Not to me. He is .. uh he was..my dad. I’m truly  sad it’s too late to change things.”

No one laughed. A few dabbed at their eyes. Ben touched the casket on his way back to his seat and Celeste reached out to him. A silent look of connection passed between them. They knew each other's heart.

The splintered glass from this morning which shattered his head in pain now left a raw and ragged path to his heart. Broken. Bleeding. Baneful. 

Understandably, he should be questioning how he could be both in the coffin and in his seat. He should have asked the question of what really happened. He should have cried out in his defense. except he had nothing. Except for pain. No voice. No excuse. Nothing left.

Untangling the regrets weighing upon him, he exited the church, walked blindly through the street and into the park. Bitterness, rage, ambition, and prejudices melting with each step. Performance, superiority. and greed were replaced with a desire to understand others, himself, and his son. He longed to take back the years. Regardless, it was too late. He remembered a song about cats and cradles and silver spoons.  His tears left ugly red splotches on his perfectly formed face. He prayed for the first time in a dozen years. Maybe more than a dozen. For the first time, humility looked like an opportunity and not a weakness. 

“Please God, let it not be too late. Let this be a Christmas Carol second chance or an “It’s a Wonderful Life” angel story. It can’t be too late. Please!” 

He didn’t notice the bicyclist racing toward him from the left nor how close he was to the oak, notwithstanding, one impact produced another, and his emotional darkness retreating into physical darkness. 

Shards of light filtered into Henry’s eyes and once again split his brain into glass pieces. Learning from a previous lesson. He relaxed and slowly reopened his eyes. He was lying on his back, his head awkwardly angled at the base of a very big oak tree. Suppressing overwhelming giddiness his hand sought his left temple to find a rather large goose egg. An unfamiliar, yet delightful emotion of joy rose in his soul as he sat up, ignoring the pain it caused. He fumbled with his pocket. Finding no paper program, he instead grasped his keys, he nearly shouted with joy.

Could it be? Did he have his second chance? He raised up to look across the street. No funeral today! His heart leaped as he silently lifted his face to the sky and whispered, “Thank you.”