...The Undertaking Continued
The hospital that Milo died in is state-of-the-art. There are signs on
every
door declaring a part or a process or bodily functions. I like to think
that, taken
together, the words would add up to The Human Condition, but they never
do.
What's left of Milo, the remains, are in the basement, between SHIPPING &
RECEIVING and LAUNDRY ROOM. Milo would like that if he were still liking
things. Milo's room is called PATHOLOGY.
The medical-technical parlance of death emphasizes disorder.
We are forever dying of failures, of anomalies, of insufficiencies, of
dysfunctions, arrests, accidents. These are either chronic or acute. The
language of death certificates–Milo's says “Cardiopulmonary Failure”–is
like
the language of weakness. Likewise, Mrs. Hornsby, in her grief, will be
said to
be breaking down or falling apart or going to pieces, as if there were
something
structurally awry with her. It is as if death and grief were not part of
The Order
of Things, as if Milo's failure and his widow's weeping were, or ought to
be,
sources of embarrassment. “Doing well” for Mrs. Hornsby would mean that
she
is bearing up, weathering the storm, or being strong for the children. We
have
willing pharmacists to help her with this. Of course, for Milo, doing well
would
mean he was back upstairs, holding his own, keeping the meters and
monitors
bleeping.
But Milo is downstairs, between SHIPPING & RECEIVING and LAUNDRY
ROOM, in a stainless-steel drawer, wrapped in white plastic top to toe,
and–
because of his small head, wide shoulders, ponderous belly, and skinny
legs,
and the trailing white binding cord from his ankles and toe tag-- he
looks,
for all
the world, like a larger than life-size sperm.
I sign for him and get him out of there. At some level, I am still
thinking Milo
gives a shit, which by now, of course, we all know he doesn't–because the
dead don't care.
Back at the funeral home, upstairs in the embalming room, behind a door
marked PRIVATE, Milo Hornsby is floating on a porcelain table under
flourescent lights. Unwrapped, outstretched, Milo is beginning to look a
little
more like himself–eyes wide open, mouth agape, returning to our gravity. I
shave him, close his eyes, his mouth. We call this setting the features.
These
are the features–eyes and mouth–that will never look the way they could
have
looked in life when they were always opening, closing, focusing,
signaling,
telling us something. In death, what they tell us is that they will not be
doing
anything anymore. The last detail to be managed is Milo's hands–one folded
over the other, over the umbilicus, in an attitude of ease, of repose, of
retirement.
They will not be doing anything anymore, either.
I wash his hands before positioning them.
When my wife moved out some years ago, the children stayed here, as did
the dirty laundry. It was big news in a small town. There was the gossip
and
the goodwill that places like this are famous for. And while there was
plenty of
talk, no one knew exactly what to say to me. They felt helpless, I
suppose, So
they brought casseroles and beef stews, took the kids out to the movies or
canoeing, brought their younger sisters around to visit me. What Milo did
was
send his laundry van around twice a week for two months, until I found a
housekeeper. Milo would pick up five loads in the morning and return them
by
lunchtime, fresh and folded. I never asked him to do this. I hardly knew
him. I
had never been in his home or his laundromat. His wife had never known my
wife. His children were too old to play with my children.
After my housekeeper was installed, I went to thank Milo and pay the bill.
The invoices detailed the number of loads, the washers and the dryers,
detergent, bleaches, fabric softeners. I think the total came to sixty
dollars.
When I asked Milo what the charges were for pick-up and delivery, for
stacking
and folding and sorting by size, for saving my life and the lives of my
children,
for keeping us in clean clothes and towels and bed linen, “Never mind
that” is
what Milo said. “One hand washes the other.”
I place Milo's right hand over his left hand, then try the other way. Then
back again. I decide that it doesn't matter. One hand washes the other
either
way.
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