Brian Keene - Terminal

“I don’t know. I guess it doesn’t really matter once I’m gone, does it? It’s not like it’ll hurt or anything. What’s cheaper?”

“That depends on a number of factors. For example, although you said you were paying with cash, do you have any veteran’s burial allowances or social security benefits to draw upon?”

“No. I don’t even have a job anymore. I got laid off on Friday.”

“Hmmm. Again, you have my condolences. Even though you have indicated cash payment up front, we do have a wide range of payment and financing options available for you.”

I had to give Mr. Myers some serious props. The guy was a true salesman. I’d walked onto the lot wanting to buy a Kia and he was trying to sell me a Porsche.

“Whether you decide to be buried or cremated, or perhaps even to be placed in an aboveground vault, I would suggest a funeral service, as well as a visitation ceremony. If you are on display in a casket, you’ll want one that is, shall we say, aesthetically pleasing. Many other funeral homes in the county would attempt to convince you to purchase a more expensive casket than you require. I believe we have something that would fit your needs. For example, we have steel caskets starting at only eight hundred and ninety-five dollars.”

“Steel? Do I really need one made out of steel? I’m just as happy with a pine box. Seriously. It doesn’t matter when I’m dead, right?”

I remembered the solid gold coffin from my nightmare, and shivered.

“Quite. But though it doesn’t matter to you, it might be of some importance to your loved ones. I can assure you, Mr. O’Brien, that while we do have caskets to fit every budget, we do not offer a pine box.”

“Well, what about cremation then?”

“Were you to choose cremation, you would have two basic choices. Immediate cremation of the body would be the first, and least expensive. Or, if you prefer, you could have a complete viewing and funeral service, after which we could cremate the remains. That is what I would recommend.”

“But cremation is definitely the cheapest?”

“Yes, Mr. O’Brien, cremation costs less than burial or entombment. However, for a more accurate price, we will have to include the services you choose for the entire funeral. Whatever you decide, we here at Myers Funeral Home will guide you through each step of the process, even after death.”

Smiling, he stepped closer, flashing his perfectly capped teeth. This close, I could see the silver roots in his jet-black hair. I shivered again.

“Are you okay, Mr. O’Brien?” He stuck out a pale, liver-spotted hand and I backed away from it.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just cold, is all. It’s all part of what I have. The cancer.”

“It is indeed a shame. May I ask how long… ?”

“Three weeks maybe. A month. Possibly more. Nobody seems to know for sure.”

“Then time is of the essence.”

“You’re telling me.”

I hung around for a while longer. We talked about the additional cost of a gravesite versus cremation and he quoted me several prices, none of which we would be able to afford. I’d have to make arrangements with Sherm and John to give some of my cut from the bank to Michelle once I was dead, to help pay for the service. Like I said, the guy was a good salesman. Death was his business and business was extremely good. Didn’t matter who was in office at the White House or what was going on in the world. People died every day. He was a professional about it. But I felt very unsettled by the time we were done. While we talked, the temperature in the building kept falling. Or maybe it was just me. I don’t know. All I know is that when I left, I was freezing, and it took ten minutes in the sun to warm me up again. I wondered if my body would be that cold after I was dead and lying on a table inside that place, in one of the rooms Mr. Myers hadn’t shown me. They said that hell was a hot place, full of fire and brimstone, but now I wondered if maybe hell was cold, a frozen wasteland covered with ice and raining hailstones the size of softballs.

I checked my To Do list. I was hoping that with my next and final stop, I might be able to get some answers to those types of questions.

I was going to church. It was time God and I had a little talk.

Mass had been over for a few hours and the church was empty when I went inside. I peeked through the doorway in the vestibule, staring at the dimly lit interior. Candles flickered off the stained-glass windows, and I caught the faint hint of perfume and shoe polish and bubble gum, all left over from earlier services. I thought about the fact that my wife, son, and mother-in-law had been here only a few hours before me. What would Michelle have said if she saw me there that afternoon?

The doors swung shut behind me as I entered. I walked slowly down the aisle, touching the backs of the pews as I went. My wedding ring knocked against the wood of each one, reverberating loudly in the silence. Up ahead, above the altar, an eight-foot Jesus Christ looked down at me from His cross. It was pretty frightening. I’ve never understood how that image was supposed to bring peace and comfort. There was nothing comforting about a man nailed to wood. I watched Him now. His eyes were unblinking, His face contorted in agony, the drops of blood from His crown of thorns frozen on His forehead for all time. I stared back at Him. He didn’t look like a wooden statue. He looked very much alive, as if He could climb down off that cross at any second and speak to me.

Speak to me, I thought. Prove Yourself. If You’re real, like they say You are, then say something to me, dammit!

“May I help you, my son?”

I screamed. Whirling in fear, I banged my hip against the pew, and cried out again, this time in pain.

The shocked priest held out his hands.

“I’m sorry, young man. I am so sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

“That’s okay, Reverend.” My heart hammered in my chest.

“Father.”

“Father. Sorry. That’s okay, Father. It’s cool…” I gasped for breath, forcing my racing pulse to slow down before I died of a heart attack, cancer or no cancer.

“Are you okay, son?”

“Yeah.” I wiped my sweaty palms on my jeans. “Yeah, I’m fine, Father. Just a little jumpy is all. You scared me good.”

He started to apologize again and stopped, a look of recognition dawning in his eyes.

“Why—you’re Susan Stambaugh’s son-in-law, aren’t you? Tommy. Tommy O’Brien?”

“Um… I…”

“Yes, of course. You married her daughter, Michelle. I met you at the Christmas Eve candlelight service last year. I’m sorry that I didn’t recognize you at first. It’s been quite a while. How wonderful to see you. Your wife and son were just here this morning in fact.”

I jumped again. The last thing I needed was this guy figuring out who I really was. If he told Michelle’s mom that I’d been here, that I’d been in church, she would tell Michelle, and that would lead to all kinds of questions. Questions that would only cause trouble, questions for which I had no answers because I’d been lying all this time.

So I lied again.

“Sorry, Reverend—I mean Father, but you must have me confused with somebody else. I just moved here from Lancaster. My name is John. John… Sherman.”

I had to fight to keep from cracking up at the pseudonym, but the priest didn’t seem to notice.

“Oh. I see. Well, I must be mistaken then. It is remarkable, though. You look a lot like him. Quite uncanny.”

“Sorry. Wrong guy.” I shrugged, feeling sheepish.

There was an uncomfortable pause, and I began to worry that he didn’t believe me. Then he spoke again.

“Do you require confession, Mr. Sherman?”