Death Benefits

Death Benefits By William Holden The night air was warm and humid. A departure from the typical Dallas weather of dry and drier. An unexpected storm from the western prairies blew in earlier that evening. By blew, I mean, short-lived and violent. What remained were the clouds and the crackling streaks of lightning cutting across the endless night sky. Thunder rumbled and vibrated against the city skyscrapers. I backed into the driveway of my latest customer. A few drops of rain splattered across the windshield. Despite the size of my vehicle, a gust of wind came along and rocked the Mercedes-Benz. Another storm was coming. I wouldn’t have minded, I usually liked storms, except when I felt them coming. Every significant event in my life has been marked by a storm. Tonight’s atmospheric turbulence I felt deep inside my bones. Despite my past experience with Ma Nature, I ignored these warning signs and went about the business at hand. I got out of the car and walked around the back of the vehicle, opened the door, and pulled out the tools of my trade. I butt bumped the back door closed‚ then walked along the winding sidewalk to the front door. I knocked. Lightning spiderwebbed its way across the sky. I looked up‚ wondering what else fate could do to me that she hadn’t already accomplished. Sometimes I felt as if she had a vendetta against me. The front door opened. Thunder rumbled in the distance. It was in those few seconds I knew this wasn’t going to be a typical pickup. I should have paid closer attention to the ache in my bones. The man who greeted me looked like death warmed over. A cliché, I know, but the description fit him like a glove. His forest green eyes were bloodshot from tears and lack of sleep. His shoulder-length, unkempt burnt-orange hair matched the condition of his clothes. He was teetering on the edge and was about to fall off. Unfortunately, I could tell he was expecting me to catch him. It wasn’t part of the job, but what choice did I have? “Victor Kane, After Care Funeral Home.” I handed him my calling card. His hands trembled as he took the small rectangular matte-finished card. “I am sorry for your loss,” I added with solemn compassion. “Thank you for coming.” He tried to smile. The pain of loss was still too new for such simple expressions. “Death doesn’t have regular business hours, I’m afraid.” Another web of crooked light streaked across the sky. The rip seemed to settle into my tailbone and fester like an abscessed tooth. “I’m Cliff Sanderson.” He shook my hand and offered me a genuine smile. It was as if my presence somehow distracted him from the purpose of our meeting. His momentary reprieve from reality was cut short by the sight of the transport bag resting on the gurney behind me. New tears filled his already swollen, bloodshot eyes. “Please, why don’t you sit down?” I let myself in, took a quick look around the room, then guided him to the couch. I’ve always been one to keep my distance from a grieving client. I find it aids in keeping things on a professional level. Any closeness someone expresses can come across to the bereaved as a place of comfort and at times a place for physical solace. Someone in my position must keep those physical boundaries clearly defined. I ignored my rule and sat down next to him, cursing the storm outside for its part in all of this. “How long since he passed?” I pulled a tissue from the box on the coffee table and handed it to him. “I don’t…” He paused and looked across the room. I followed his bleary gaze to the grandfather clock, which stood in the corner. Its slow, swaying pendulum counted down the seconds, minutes, and hours of everyone’s life—everyone that is, except for the dead. Father Time was a mean-spirited old man, who fed off human anxieties about sickness and death. The clock told us it was ten-thirty. “About two hours, I think,” Mr. Sanderson said, then shifted his eyes back to his hands in his lap. “Good.” “What?” He looked at me with pained dismay. “My apologies, Mr. Sanderson. I didn’t mean anything by my remark. It’s an unfortunate aspect of my trade. The time of death, length of exposure, environmental conditions, are important considerations for me. I can assure you, I meant no disrespect. I know how difficult this must be for you.” I noticed the empty glass on the coffee table and the ashtray overflowing with smoldering butts. “May I get you another drink?” “No, I’ve—” He took the glass, tipped it one way then the other. The ice cube rattled reluctantly in the bottom. “Yes, I could use another one. The scotch is in the decanter.” He nodded in the direction. I stood, poured him a half glass, then, ignoring my policy for the second time in ten minutes, resumed my position next to him. “Thanks.” He held a smile for the briefest of seconds. “I can’t believe he’s gone.” His voice quivered with another wave of emotions. “I don’t know what to do without him.” “How long were you and,” I looked at my clipboard, “Michael together?” “Twenty-five years. We met in college.” He talked without looking up from the glass. “We would have celebrated our fifth wedding anniversary tomorrow.” “I’m sorry.” I raised my hand to touch his shoulder then thought better of it and returned it to my lap. “I know this may sound a bit insensitive, but I think you should find a way to celebrate the day. It will help with the grieving process.” “I can’t imagine celebrating, I mean…I have nothing left to celebrate.” His voice hitched in his throat. His body trembled as he tried to hold in the grief. He was teetering on the edge again. I gave in and rubbed his back. His muscles responded to my touch. As so often is the case, there is a need for physical contact when a loved one dies, a need to feel, a need to connect to the living. Cliff was no different. Loss restrained everyone. I knew sooner or later the grief would break apart and, in its place, s*x would fill the void. I only hoped I was not around when the pain needed a release. I cleared my throat and removed my hand from his shoulder. “Where’s the body?” I interrupted the silence. “It’s…Michael…he’s in the bedroom.” His voice quivered. He swallowed hard trying to hold back the sorrow long enough to talk. “Last room on the right.” He looked at me. “I don’t have to go in there, do I?” “No, it’s better if I go alone.” I patted his leg, smiled then stood. “I’ll need to bring in the transport bag.” “Yes, of course.” He stood, walked me to the small foyer, then held the door while I rolled the raised gurney over the threshold and down the hallway. The phone rang. I heard Cliff answer it, which would allow me time alone with the body. I entered their bedroom. The smell of death filled the air. I closed the door to keep from being interrupted and walked toward the bed. Michael laid under a thin sheet pulled up to his neck. I studied his face. Two or three day’s growth of whiskers covered his jaw and neck. His eyes dark ovals of nothingness stared toward the ceiling. I leaned down and placed my face next to his as I followed his dead gaze, wondering what he saw last. His husband’s face? A spider crawling across the drywall? A long-lost memory brought to the surface of his dying mind? Or perhaps it was just the ceiling and nothing more. Death is different for everyone. Some see the eternal darkness right before they blink out. Others see past loves or forgotten moments from their childhood. Some see nothing at all, their sight being the first to go. Often people smell a fragrance that was important to them during their lives, or a favorite song being played for them moments before being taken away. The common myth of having your entire life played out in a few seconds is, in my opinion, wishful thinking, an impossible task to undertake in the moments before one dies. Michael’s arms were stretched straight, resting against his body on top of the sheet. Either you died extraordinarily peaceful, Michael, or someone adjusted your limbs. I pulled the sheet back. Michael was naked. At first, I figured he had died in his sleep. First impressions are usually wrong, and mine was no exception. As I studied his body, I noticed the dried come matted to his pubic hair. I followed the spray across his belly and chest. That must have been some orgasm. I knew my thoughts were insensitive, but in my trade, your thoughts are what kept you going at times. “Don’t worry, Michael. I’ll get you cleaned up.” I ran my finger down his cold, wiry cheek. I unzipped the black bag on the gurney, fanning out the sides. I turned, slid my hands and arms under Michael’s cold, stiff body. One, two, three. I lifted the body, bent around, then going feet first, slipped Michael into the bag. I zipped the bag closed before wheeling the body out of the bedroom. Cliff sat on the couch. The phone in one hand. The drink in the other. “Do you have someone to stay with you?” He nodded. Then said, “Michael’s sister and her husband are on their way.” “Would you like me to stay until they arrive?” I bit my tongue the moment the words came out. I only hoped he would not take me up on my offer. I scolded myself internally for letting this stranger in mourning get to me. Jagged bolts zig-zagged across the sky. The windows reflected its power. Thunder boomed along with the ache in my bones. He looked in my direction but past me to his husband in the bag. “No, it’s all right. They will be here soon enough.” He stood but didn’t come any closer to me or his husband’s body. “What’s next? I mean what do you need me to do? I’ve never,” a dull laugh broke his words. “Of course, I’ve never done this before.” He shook his head as if ashamed. “It’s all right. You don’t have to take on everything at once. We all have our own experiences with death, some more than others.” I kept my hand resting on his dead husband’s shoulder to keep me grounded to the reason I was there. “We’ll need to discuss the final arrangements of your husband’s life.” “Tonight?” “No, tomorrow will be fine. You’ll need to bring a suit or some other clothing for Michael to be buried in.” “Yes, of course. We never talked about any of this. We thought we had time. Michael doesn’t…” Cliff sighed and shook his head. “Michael didn’t own a suit.” “I’m sure whatever you chose it will be perfect.” I smiled. “I’ll be at the funeral home all day tomorrow. I have a viewing tomorrow morning, but it’s not until ten. Call me when you are ready. If I’m unavailable, you can speak to one of my assistants.” He nodded but said nothing else. He walked me to the door and held it open while I wheeled his dead husband out of their home “There’s no need for thanks.” I smiled again. It’s what I do at times like this. I smile. “You may call me at the funeral home, day or night, if you have any questions.” “Thank you,” he said again. I acknowledged his words with yet another meaningless, empty smile, then turned and wheeled the gurney down the sidewalk toward the back of the hearse. Rain fell from the sky like invisible beads of sweat. I loaded the body, secured it, shut the door, then did the same for myself behind the wheel. I looked into the rearview mirror. Cliff remained on the front porch in an aura of light from the motion sensor attached to the house. As I pulled away, the security light switched off, concealing Cliff in darkness. Thirty minutes later as I pulled the hearse into the loading zone, I still felt Cliff’s grief around me. Ignoring it, I escorted Michael’s body inside. I looked at my watch after getting Michael’s body into the preparation room. “A little over three hours. Not bad Michael, there’s still plenty of time.” I often spoke to the corpse on my table. It’s a lonely profession. It helps to have someone to talk about the day’s events, even if that someone can’t comment or respond. I also believe that it aids the dead in their transition to the afterlife. No one should go through that process alone. I removed my suit coat and tie, rolled up my sleeves, and began to examine the body for any visible signs of skin abrasions or damage. Except for some expected mottling, his skin was unmarred and healthy for someone at this stage. I pulled the shower head down from its suspension arm and began washing the body to rid it of bacteria, sweat, dirt, and in this case, the dried come. As I scrubbed the remnants of his final s*x act from his body hair, my stomach started to grumble, reminding me I hadn’t eaten since breakfast. I turned off the water, letting the hose retract into the ceiling. With the clean, sanitized skin, I pulled back Michael’s leg, lowered myself to his inner thigh. I inhaled his death, then sank my fangs into his skin, puncturing his femoral artery, and fed.