"He looks good," Uncle Ted whispered, his eyes on the casket. "They did a nice job."
Max nodded. "Hmmm. He looks about five years younger."
Uncle Ted smiled respectfully. "The cancer did some job on him at the end." He unfolded his arms and tugged at his shirt cuffs, then turned his gaze toward Max . "How's your mother doing? It must have hit her hard after...last spring."
"Of course, my brother's accident was..." Max trailed off, collected his thoughts, and continued. "Well, it was shocking. It was hard for us all, especially Mom. You know how close she and Allen were. She was in such a state that she couldn't give Grandfather the care he really needed. Dad and I tried to help, but it troubled Mom that she couldn't be there all the time. She wouldn't admit this, but I think she's a little relieved."
They were silent for a moment to digest the enormity of this thought. Their eyes wandered over the elderly couples, faces Max barely recognized.
"They're in a better place," Uncle Ted remarked, then fixed a tight but reassuring grasp on his nephew's elbow. Max knew that some awkward but polite question about the scene of Allen's accident was coming. He was very familiar with the rhythms and gestures of these conversations by now, but the irony never grew old that he was the one to have the last word regarding Allen.
Uncle Ted's eyes glimmered like chipped ice for a moment, then lost their intensity. "How are you holding up?"
Max nodded a serious nod. "There's so much to do, that I don't have time to be upset. I haven't slept more than three hours the last two nights. It was like this after Allen, too."
Uncle Ted's hand slipped away.
"Of course, that's the ol' death adrenaline kicking in. It happens every time. When it's over you'll sleep like a baby." He patted Max on the shoulder. "Remember, if you need anything--anything at all--just give me call. I'm serious. Okay?"
"Sure thing, Uncle Ted. Could you excuse me, I just spotted someone I have to talk to."
With a look of solemn determination, Max moved through the crowded room and into the hallway. It was about ten degrees cooler there.
Death adrenaline. Max liked the sound of that. It was true, he told himself. There was a high that came with times like this. These events surge up and pull you along. Every word and gesture becomes magnified. The dullest platitudes suddenly take on a cosmic importance. He was so young. It's important to make the most of what you have. You never know. Life's so precious. You don't have to worry about saying something stupid or awkward, because every observation and recollection is met with grave understanding. And if you don't want to say anything, that's fine. Just stare off with a far away and bittersweet expression and tune out.
Max stepped onto the porch of Flynne's Funeral Home and walked around the corner to the empty, unlit end. He leaned against the railing and lit a cigarette. The October evening had grown frosty.
At his brother's funeral, everyone was amazed how well he held up, how dutifully he stayed by his mother's side. He met people at the door. He shook hands firmly and made eye contact as he relayed the news of his brother's shocking tragedy to family and friends. Yes, wasn't it just like Allen to try and do the work without any help. I keep thinking that things would be different if I had come home just a few minutes earlier I could have done more than just find him. No, you're right; I shouldn't do that to myself, but I can't stop thinking....
He was pleased with the way he handled everything, but what was most satisfying were the glimmer's of surprise that he caught. This wasn't the Max they all knew. Max the fuck-up. Max, who set fire to the couch when he was eight. Max, who missed a year of school because of his problems. Max, who couldn't be more like Allen. Well, he showed them. He was the one at his mother's side now, not Allen. They had come to mourn big brother the all-star, but it was me who stole the show, Max thought.
Dress shoes scraped the porch steps, and Max heard the front door open and close. More people. It was time to go back to work.
Yes, he was pleased with his performance, but he had to admit that this wake was less...tragic and, consequently, a bit of a letdown. Grandfather was in and out of hospitals and hovering near death for months. It was no surprise. Even though he died at home, they didn't do an autopsy. Certainly it was sad, but it did not resonate as dramatically as Allen's passing. Max supposed it was to be expected: Like any other drug, the death adrenaline was a high that got harder and harder to recapture. I'll have to increase the dose, Max told himself. He chuckled and flicked his cigarette into the dark.
In the velvety entrance room, Max met his aunt's husband, Dave, rocking their new baby in his arms. They whispered hello, and Dave said how sorry he was. Max responded that it was a blessing for the old man to go, and Dave agreed.
"He's getting so big," Max said.
"Bigger every day," Dave said, then added with a hint of embarrassment, "I don't know if bringing him was right thing to do, but we couldn't get a sitter."
Max said it was okay, sort of a reminder of what's really important. He smiled to himself and stroked the baby's soft, defenseless hand.
Copyright © 2001 Geof Smith.