Bruce Wagner - I’m Losing You

She sat on the couch and waited, wondering about the gore. What if the girl had been stabbed or mutilated? Rachel didn’t think she could take that. She pulled a taharah primer from her sack. Some of the rules and regulations ranged from comical to macabre. All severed limbs were supposed to be tossed in the coffin. As blood was considered to be part of the body, it was kosher to be buried in the stained clothes of one’s demise. And if a Jew wanted to be cremated, that was too bad — his wishes could be overruled by something called the Halachah, or Law. Birdie emerged from the back. It was time to begin.

The room was cold. There was a tiled floor with drain and slop sink. Buckets were filled with water and wooden two-by-fours lay stacked on a chair. The girl was on a metal gurney, wrapped in a bag. Another woman was there, around Birdie’s age. She was the “watcher” who sat with the girl through the night, the one who recited prayers and reminded the body of its name “so it would not be confused before God.” They washed their hands and put on gowns. Birdie offered surgical gloves, but Rachel declined; no one else wore them. The bag was removed. Rachel gasped — she was blond and looked like an angel. There was a bluish bump on her forehead and the chest was spotted with bruised whorls. She will never have her period went through her mind, like a mantra to keep her from sinking. A tube had been left in her mouth, and when Birdie tugged, it wouldn’t budge. She took scissors and clipped so it didn’t protrude, closing the lips and cutting the hospital bracelet. They covered the face and pubis with separate cloths, then the whole body with a sheet. Birdie tore pieces from the sheet to be used for the washing.

They tucked the sheet down and washed face and hair, drying afterward but not covering. The body was washed from right arm to shoulder, down torso to legs and then back. The process was repeated from the left side, Birdie washing while Rachel dried. Normally, rainwater or melted snow was required, but in this case they used water from the tap.

When the first washing was finished, they cleaned under finger and toenails with toothpicks. That was the most heartbreaking for Rachel, because the girl had painted her nails in different colors. They used polish remover that Birdie got from a metal drawer. Then the two-by-fours were placed under head, shoulders, buttocks and legs. The second washing—“the taharah proper”—began. Three buckets were used this time, and the girl was completely naked, even though Rachel thought the guidebook said that wasn’t supposed to happen. They put a sheet over the body to dry it and the wood was removed. The other woman was ready with the shroud. (“After the taharah is completed,” the book said, “the deceased is dressed in shrouds sewn by the hands of a woman past the age of menopause.”) The sheet was lowered around the girl’s head, and Birdie put a bonnet on her, as well as a piece that went around the face. Rachel helped with a collared, V-neck shirt—“you fuss with it. You have to learn,” Birdie muttered — reaching in to take the little arm and pull. Both arms were brought to the head and manipulated through. The shirt had no buttons and was tied at the top. They slid the legs into the pajama bottoms, pulling them up to the waist. There, the string was twisted nine times, then made into three loops so it looked like the letter shin , which stands for God. Birdie tied strips of shroud just below the knee, and made a bow. The last piece they dressed her in was an overshirt, made the same way the shirt was, only longer. It was easier than before to get the arms through. They brought the wooden box next to her. Inside was a long strip from the shroud; when they lowered the girl in, it ended up around her waist. Birdie repeated the twisting procedure — it seemed like twelve or thirteen twists this time — then made the shin again.

The face covering was pulled down, and Birdie put broken pieces of pottery on the eyes and mouth. When the shroud was replaced, the other woman sprinkled dirt from Jerusalem over pubis, heart and face. The casket was lined with a very large piece of shroud that was then folded over the body, right side first, then left, then bottom and top. They put the lid on the casket and took off their gowns.

“To remove death,” Birdie explained as they washed their hands from a hose in the parking lot. “When you come home from the funeral there’s normally water outside the front door, for washing.” Rachel stood there, numb and exhausted. “What a shame!” Birdie said. “Thank God it was not also a sexual assault.”

That night, Rachel dreamt she stood pallbearer in a stream, guiding a raft into darkness. The chilly waters were deep and she carried a long pole. The little girl lay in her open casket, floating down this river that ran under Westwood. The bier became a barge filled with debris and Rachel climbed aboard, snaking her way past insolent men and passive women, searching for the vanished body. No one would help. Finally, she came to Tovah and a flying wedge of UTA militia.

“The cantor is ready for the second washing,” said her smiling friend.

Severin Welch

Deh-souls! deh-souls! deh-souls!

ev

Turle taub’s

DEH SOULS

“Well? What’s he saying?” Severin bent over the recorder like a crone at a crystal ball.

The Dead Animal Guy hit PLAY, squinting hard. He’d been up to the house before — even to the daughter’s. The Welches were clients from way back, when he worked for Three Strikes. Simon had kept in touch, and was simply delivering a carton of ciggies when he was suddenly drafted into a bit of the old Our Man Flint .

“Tell me! What is he saying ? Is it ‘Dead Souls’?”

Simon took in the scanner apparatus, gleaming at the gonzoid anarchy of it all. “Hey, this is off cellular!”

“Oh to hell with it,” said Severin, exasperated. He shooed at Simon and retreated.

“Rad! You should let my friends post ‘listen-ins’ on the Net. Get the lotus-eaters where they live!”

As Simon rewound, the ancient auditor fast-forwarded to the William Morris façade. He saw the red brick edifice before him; they’d know in an instant if the Gogol property was being developed — by and for whom and how much. But who could Severin ask? Certainly not Dee Bruchner. He thought about Charlie Bennett, the expired Hitchcock collaborator. He’d call the Guild in the morning, see if he could drum up the erstwhile rep. Maybe it’d be someone amenable to—

“Hey, I think I know who that is!” cried Simon.

The old man stumbled over, fairly salivating.

“That’s Zev Turtletaub, on Verde Oak! Around the corner — Ramon Novarro’s old place. I was up there last week.” They listened again. “‘ Zev Turtletaub’s Dead Souls’—hear it? Big producer. Did those canine flicks. And might I add, at the time of my housecall, the gentleman had a harem of, shall we say, ‘lovers of the dog.’ He is himself an extremely hairless Homo erectus.”

Severin liked the dog pictures; he’d seen them on cable. His pulse quickened. “Are you sure ?”

“It’s him, I’m telling you, Zev Turtletaub . His Siamese got stuck in the wall: a very large and may I hasten to add messy problemo. A two-hundred-dollar job. Mimsy! That’s the name of the mutt. Lotta people went to see those. I told him when I left that the next movie he makes should be more like Casper , only about the ghost of someone’s pet who gets stuck in a wall — starring Jim Carrey as the Dead Pet Detective. But instead of Casper , you call it Fluffy ! I do not think he was thrilled.”