Mark Rogers - The Dead

But it’s just as well he’s not still in there, Gary told himself. Remember that fist coming up through the coffin? Those shrieks?

Gary caught himself. That had only been a dream. It meant nothing. Hell, he was the only one who dreamed it-it hadn’t even made the newspapers.

And besides. If Dad returned from the dead, what there be to fear from him?

But what if he woke up in Hell? came the answer, and found you beside him?

A hand came down on his shoulder; he was back in the nightmare, and that thing from the coffin had him at last…

He turned.

It was only Mr. Van Nuys.

Of course.

“Would you and your brother please come to my office, Mr. Holland?” he asked, sounding agitated.

Max had just risen from the kneeler in front of the bier, crossing himself, and they followed the undertaker. On the way, Gary noticed the fish-tank. A lot of its inhabitants seemed to have a bad case of ick. There wasn’t a dead angelfish at the top, but there was one on the bottom, a small sickly-looking catfish going over it with its suction-cup mouth.

Once he was settled behind his black walnut desk, Van Nuys said:

“I’m afraid I have some potentially bad news, and I thought I’d warn you ahead of time,” he began. “Some of the gravedigger locals have decided not to wait for the union vote, and are going out on wildcat strikes. I had a call just before you arrived, and there’s a very good chance the Ocean County local might strike.”

“Damn,” Gary said under his breath.

“Well,” Max said, “If they do go out, we’ll just have to put up with it, won’t we?”

“I’m afraid so,” Van Nuys replied. “Even if we could arrange for burial outside the county, the diggers there would probably refuse the job in sympathy.”

“It’s not certain though?” Gary asked.

“No. I should know by eleven tonight. I’ll give you a call.”

“Okay.”

“Anything else?” Max asked.

Van Nuys smiled uncomfortably. “I know this is a terrible time to bring this up, but… with your mother still missing, I was wondering who I should send the bill to.”

“Me,” Gary said, and gave him his address. “Me and Max’ll take care of it.”

“Very good,” Van Nuys replied.

As Max and Gary headed for the door, the overhead light flickered.

“It’s been doing that all afternoon,” Van Nuys said. “Power trouble. Has there been any on your side of town?”

Gary paused. “Nope,” he laughed. “My car’s been acting peculiar, though.”

“Mine too,” Van Nuys said. “Think it might be catching?”

“I hope not,” Gary said, and he and Max continued toward the chapel. A young priest, tall and sandy-haired, was standing in the lobby.

“Excuse me,” he said, “but I’m looking for Celia Holland.”

“I’m afraid she’s not here,” Gary said.

“I see,” the priest said, extending his hand. Gary took it. So did Max. “Father Chuck Pendergast. I’m from St. Paul’s.”

“Gary Holland,” Gary said. “And this is my brother Max.”

“Pleased to meet you, Father,” Max said, a hint of suspicion in his voice.

Father Chuck went on: “I knew your father rather well-”He caught sight of the memorial book. “Excuse me just a moment.” He went over and signed it.

While he was at that, Max nudged Gary and said, “I’ll be in the chapel.”

When the priest returned, Max was already gone.

“So that was Max,” he said.

“Yep,” Gary said.

“I understand there was something of a tiff when Father Ted visited the other day.”

“I’d like to apologize for my brother,” Gary answered. “He really did get out of line, if you ask me. He has some pretty strong views.”

“That’s what Father Ted said. Views your mother shares, apparently.”

“Yeah. But she never would’ve picked a fight like that. It was all Max’s fault.”

“Still, Father Ted said she made him feel sufficiently unwelcome…”

“I’m sure she did. But she kind of got drawn into it, if you see what I mean.” He paused. “What exactly’s on your mind, Father?”

“Well,” Father Chuck said, “Father Ted was really quite hurt by the exchange, and he wishes to know if your mother still wants him to speak tonight, and celebrate the mass tomorrow. He thought he should give her one more opportunity…”

“It’s hard to say what my mother wants now,” Gary answered. “She disappeared yesterday.”

Father Chuck was visibly dismayed. “ Another one,” he said, shaking his head. “Your poor family. I’ll remember you in my prayers.”

“Thank you, Father,” Gary said, trying hard to sound as if he cared. “But in any case, Father Ted will do just fine. Mom said Dad would’ve wanted him. She’d made up her mind.”

Father Chuck smiled. “Good for her. I thought Father Ted was overreacting. I respect him very much, but he’s too sensitive. I didn’t think your mother would’ve hardened her heart. She always struck me as very tolerant. It’s so good to know people who rise above their opinions.”

Sure didn’t read Mom very well, Gary thought. “I always try to rise above mine,” he answered, not entirely comfortable with the fact. “When I have any, that is.”

“That’s the spirit,” said Father Chuck. He looked toward the chapel, and sighed heavily. “Well, I think I’ll go in now. Nice to meet you, Gary.”

They shook hands again. “Same here, Father,” Gary said. He watched the priest enter the chapel, then drifted over to the aquarium. Another of the angelfish had died.

It was floating at the top.

After the viewing, Max and Gary and Linda went for dinner with the relatives, to a place called Gallardo’s out on Rt. 87., past the canal. The food was good, Uncle Buddy and Dave were abominable, and everyone else was polite-with the exception of Max. Buddy and Dave ignored him.

At seven they returned home to freshen up, then went back to the funeral parlor. The chapel was already open, and there were several people inside. Gary introduced them to his relatives.

“Bob MacAleer and his wife Lou Ann,” he said.

Mr. MacAleer, he of cable TV and biblical scholarship fame, rose halfway from his chair and shook hands with everyone he could reach. Lou Ann smiled, a pretty woman on the plump side, rather too heavily made up.

“And that’s their son-” Gary snapped his fingers. “Jamie, right?”

Jamie, a porcine eighteen or nineteen by his look, turned briefly, working his hand through a shock of long black hair that was the diametric opposite of his father’s patent-leather look; he nodded lackadaisically, as if to say What do you care? and turned back around. Six feet away, Gary thought he could smell marijuana on him.

“Didn’t I see you on TV this afternoon?” Dave Holland asked Mr. MacAleer.

MacAleer smiled. “Just after Reanimator? ”

“Yeah. You were talking about the Bible.”

“That was me, son.”

“I think the Bible’s crap,” Dave said.

The smile dropped from MacAleer’s face.

“And that’s Mr. Hersh and Mr. Williams over there,” Gary said hurriedly, pointing to two men across the aisle. They came over. “Mr. Hersh owns Hersh’s Department Store on Beichmann Avenue…”

“Hersh, huh?” Buddy asked. “Must be Jewish or something.” He laughed inexplicably.

“B’Nai Brith, circumcision, the works,” Hersh said, nodding. “I know some ex-Irgun members you’d probably love to meet…”

“Ir-what?” Buddy asked.

“And Mr. Williams here owns the Beichmann Theater,” Gary continued.