Deceased to Be (A Short Story by Martie Coetser)
~
The twenty miles to town pass unnoticed while Christine controls her thoughts. She has an unforeseen task on her agenda – the arrangement of a funeral. ‘Focus!’ is her mantra for the day. 'Focus on the here and now’.
Once upon a time regulations regarding the preparation of corpses were not legalized, but today a registered undertaker is the only legal way to bury the dead. She has chosen Finalé Undertakers, because the new manager is a stranger in town. She cannot allow any acquaintances to put a spoke in her wheel.
“The burial has to be on my farm," she informs the undertaker. "Where all members of my family are put to rest since 1850."
“Name of the deceased?” asks the undertaker, staring at the form he has to complete.
“You will find all relevant information attached to the deceased. Tomorrow morning. Please, I don't have energy for all this administration..." She fakes unbearable grief.
“Would you like us to take care of the guests? We have an excellent caterer and florist.” The undertaker shows the empathy Christine was hoping to get.
“Thank you.... for approximately one hundred guests." She knows that more people will attend to satisfy their curiosity, but she is not going to meet all their expectations.
She chooses cream-coloured paper for the program, a suitable notice and ‘Abide with Me’ as the song to be sung by whoever feels like singing. As scripture she wants Proverbs 24:16 - “For a just man falleth seven times, and riseth up again: but the wicked shall fall into mischief.” Reverend Smith will have to prepare a suitable message, and frankly she doesn't care a damn about the sacred rituals of the funeral.
Choosing a casket awakes painful memories. Her mother was put to rest ten years ago in the most beautiful casket of yellow oak after she had suffered cancer of the brain for almost a year. Five years ago her father lay in a casket of embuia for all to realize he was a formidable man. Today she chooses the cheapest casket of pinewood but willing to pay for the most expensive one on the floor, providing the difference to be donated to the home recently founded for abused women and children.
At last she is back behind the wheel of her Jeep. An impulsive need to stop at the hospital to see if Marjory is still alive, hovers over her until she switch the CD-player on to listen to the voice of her favourite epigrammatist, Colin Stewart.
I patted a friendly doggie
on my way
to see you
and gee,
those flowers
had a nice scent
at the local city hall
on my way
to see you!
The farm Christine inherited from her father who had been killed by his favorite stallion five years ago, is in her eyes the most beautiful piece of land in the region – a paradise with its own mountain and fountain and two fast-flowing streams fed by an underground lake. Besides the stud, successfully managed by one of the best thoroughbred stud-managers in the country, the chapel and the hall is an extra source of income, though to the benefit of the local orphanage which was established by her late mother many decades ago. The hundred-seat chapel, built twenty years ago by her father, is a picturesque building at the foot of the mountain, and so are the hall on the terrace below, framed with large shrubs of all sorts - white Mayflowers, red and pink bottle brushes and yellow jasmines, all in full bloom at the beginning of spring.
She has taken her heritage for granted, spending most days in her studio, painting, to keep up with the demands of interior decorators all over the country. They regard her as the reincarnation of Picasso.
She forces her thoughts back to the ‘here and now’. The workers had weeded the cemetery according to the Leviticus she read them this morning, and they had dug the grave. Kagiso, the foreman and a proud descendant of a Basotho chief, awaits her, obviously baffled because he has no idea who will occupy the new grave in the cemetery he has to maintain on a weekly basis to the best of his ability.
“Kagiso, why doesn’t this grave look six feet deep?” Christine asks. The open grave sends shivers down her spine.
“It is, Mosadi. Let me show you..." Before she can stop the old man, he jumps in and proves the diligence of the workers under his management.
“Thank you," she says. "I’m giving you hundred bucks for the closing of the grave after the funeral, which means I want you to do it all by yourself.” She has known and trusted him all her life. Using a rope he had fastened around the tombstone of her late grandmother, he walks out of the grave as fleet as a young man. Holding his one hand with the other - as a sign of his gratefulness - he takes the money out of her hand.
“Shall we go and check the chapel and the hall, or can I trust your word that it is properly cleaned and ready to be used?” She looks at the evergreen cypress trees, a lovely fence for the cemetery, but blocking her view on the chapel and surrounding gardens.
“You will be happy about everything up there, Mosadi, but I’m not sure if the spirit of the one who's coming...”
She interrupts him. “Don’t you worry about the spirit, Kagiso. It will be too busy burning in hell to bother you." She takes a deep breath of fresh air before she continues. "I want all the workers to attend the funeral. I want them to sing ‘Abide With Me’. Will you arrange that for me?”
He stares into the open grave, confused, but willing to obey her orders.
On her way home the voice of Colin Stewart occupies her mind -
On my way
to see you
I said hello
Mister Sun,
thank you
for such a perfect day
and please don't rain
on my plans ahead.
When Christine enters the large, double-story house with the thatch roof that needs constant maintenance because wild pigeons regard it as a source of building material for their nests, the aroma of freshly baked anise rusks overwhelms her in spite of a leg of lamb roasting in the oven. Rosy, her childhood friend, housekeeper and confessor welcomes her in the kitchen with a broad smile on her shining ebony face.
“Christina,” she says, “you are just in time for a fresh rusk with a cup of Redbush tea." She knows how much Christine likes them fresh out of the oven, but dried out with coffee for breakfast.
“Thanks, Rosy, but I really don’t feel like eating now. Are you sure this batch is enough... you know how spoiled those wives of my brothers are. They will take exception if you don’t give them more than enough to take home.”
“You've spoiled them,” Rosy says.
“No, you did.”
“It was your mamma... she taught us how to be generous farmers. I’ve asked Abel to prepare vegetable hampers for them and Sam will slaughter two tollies first thing tomorrow morning. What more would you like me to give them?
“What about jam and canned fruit? Oh, nevermind! Just do whatever you feel like doing. I’m honestly not in the mood to organize gifts for my brothers and their snobbish wives.” She never blamed her two brothers for chosen money above the ground their father had left them; she knew they were both born to be the successful surgeons they are today. She doesn’t even blame them because they never took any notice of her, their baby-sister. “Their own children should be more important than you, Christine,” her mother convinced her before she was old enough to know anything about the importance of family bonds. For all she knows they will not even attend the funeral. When she was in hospital three-four months ago, they didn't even send her flowers. “Why care about someone who doesn’t care about herself?” is their premise.
The picture of her mother, smiling in a frame of gold against the wall halfway up the stairs to the second story where all the bedrooms are, captures Christine’s attention as always. “Mamma....” She decides to speak the words out of her heart. “I know you never meant to harm me. Those beatings you’d given me... you honestly believe you were obeying God. Proverbs thirteen verse twenty-four: He that spares his rod hates his son: but he that loves his son, chastening him betimes. Mamma, I always knew I was naughty, begging to be spanked by you who were so busy being the chairlady of every second charity organization that you never had the time to hold me in your arms. I had such a will of my own... never willing to accept rules. I had given you all your days, Mamma. I broke you heart almost daily.” Christine closes her eyes, fighting her tears, because they will soften her heart.
“Darling, you must understand, I love you,” her mother always explained. “It is my responsibility to raise you according to God’s will. I may not allow you to behave like a hooligan. Being cheeky to adults is a sin. The Bible says you must respect your elders. Please, darling, don’t force me to give you so many hidings.”
On her mother’s request she always put her arms around her mother’s neck and promise to be a good girl. She felt responsible for the tears that came running out of her mother’s eyes. She always blamed herself. Eventually she became addicted to her own feeling of guilt.
The next mesmerizing picture against the wall is Christine’s wedding picture. She and Wilbur were a beautiful bride and bridegroom, the children of the two most successful farmers in the region. After five years they are still regarded as ‘a perfect couple’.
“Sorry, Wilbur, I cannot be better, and this time..." No, she is not going to talk her anger out of her system. Let it simmer.
The main bedroom is the proverbial dancing hall, large and spacious under the thatch roof with its permanent odor of nature spiced with tar. The bathroom, accommodating a large spa-bath, a shower, a foot-spa and a toilet, all in the color of cinnamon, is Christine’s favorite room in the house. She loves spending hours in the bath while the water massages her aching body. Undressing had become the most painful action in her life.
“What a wreck am I at the age of thirty?” she thought while looking at her naked body in the mirror. She is a living evidence of a woman with fatal masochistic orientations, with bruises all over her body and collar-bones like enlarge goiters after too many fractures. But warm water, squirting and jetting out of stainless steel nostrils, comforts her like the tender kisses of a devoted lover.
In her mind the list of to-do’s for the day is clear. The funeral is arranged. The grave has been dug and the chapel and the hall is ready for the ceremony. Someone will pick up the phone to dial 911. When the police arrive, they will find everything they are looking for, including the invoice and receipt of Finalé Undertakers. They will follow all procedures with diligence. Rosy will make the necessary phone calls, as she had promised this morning with tears in her eyes.
Things will move quickly. The funeral will be the very next day.
After almost an hour in the bath, merely acknowledging her thoughts and the pictures presented by her brain, Christine feels tired. But Wilbur will be home in an hour and she wants him to see her as the most sensual woman he has ever met, the woman he had fallen in love with six years ago. She chooses the crimson-colored dress, disguising her ugly shoulders but not her mesmerizing cleavage.
Rosy had prepared Wilbur’s favorite dinner: Leg of lamb, baked potatoes, green beans, pumpkin cakes in syrup, mixed salad and sago pudding for desert. The wine is chilling in the fridge and the silver bracket with seven red scented candles is the centerpiece on the table laid for a king and his queen.
“Wow!” Wilbur says the moment he sees Christine. “What have you done to my wife, pretty woman?” He devours her with his intense, chocolate-brown eyes.
She smiles. How many times she had wished he could always be this attentive, charming and bewitching man, inspiring her to be a passionate lover with only one goal in her life - to delight him, the man of her dreams?
“Mmmm, you smell like exotic flowers,” he moans in her ear. His body, firmly pressed against hers, and his wanting hands on her buttocks, arouses in her the shivering need to be loved by him forever and a day.
“Shall I take a shower before dinner or after?” he asks with lust sparkling in his eyes.
"Make it after dinner.” She free herself slowly from his embrace, afraid he might get the idea she doesn't want him. That will make him angry; he can’t handle any gesture of rejection. She lit the candles and opens the hot tray. “Would you like to help yourself or may I dish up your plate while you fetch the wine in the fridge?” The calmness in her voice surprises her.
“Oh, go on and spoil me,” he says. “I’ll get the wine.”
“To us!” he utters his usual toast when they sit opposite each other at the table for twelve, elegantly reduced to a table for two with the seven red candles in their silver bracket.
“How was your day?” she shows her usual interest, although she knows he will not burden her with the nitty-gritty of his flourishing company.
“Besides Marjory’s absence, everything went according to plan, as always.” He enjoys his food as if Marjory was not admitted to hospital last night where she is either dead by now or still fighting for her life.
“What’s the matter with Marjory?” As if she doesn't know. Poor woman was appointed as his private secretary only six months ago. She is only twenty-two years old. What does she know about men, not to talk about men with psychological disorders?
“She was attacked by a burglar. Beaten up. The bloke had apparently broken her back but I’ve heard she is still alive.” He always lies without blinking an eye.
There is no hope in heaven or hell that you will ever change, she thinks while sipping her wine.
“When... did it happen?” she manages true concern in her voice, as if she knows nothing. As if she believes he was present at the meeting of the church’s Building Committee last night.
“Yesterday evening, just before seven.” He wipes his mouth, all of a sudden irritated. “Listen, if I wanted to talk about Marjory, I would have done so last night when you came home at whát fuckin' time. Don't let me ask you where you were." His eyes darkens, as always when he feels threatened.
She yawns behind her hand in an effort to get some oxygen on her brain; she tends to hold her breath too long in times like this.
He abruptly stands up. “Let’s leave the desert for later. Let’s go upstairs. You look absolutely stunning, my angel. When was the last time you went out of your way to please me like this?” The intense look in his eyes scares her; his thoughts can change any moment now from positive to negative; outrageous anger can overwhelm him; he can change from charming lover to a merciless devil in one second.
“Wilbur...." Oh no, her voice is filled with fear, and her mouth is all of a sudden as dry as a whistle. "I have... missed you the entire day. You go take a shower. I’ll be with you in a few minutes.” She teases him with her naughty-girl-yearning-for-naughty-boy-smile as if her heartbeat is not accelerating to the point of standstill.
Towering over her, he lifts her chin with his finger. “I love you, Christine. Don’t you ever doubt my love for you.”
“I love you too, Wilbur.” She looks him in the eyes. How pathetic are they both? Masochist and sadist, the perfect couple.
He goes upstairs, whistling cheerfully and she walks out on the porch where a chilly breeze embraces her. She briefly considers her Plan B – to phone the police and give them the name of the so-called burglar who had taken the life or at least ruined the life of an innocent woman. But she is beyond the point of no return.
She had passed the point the night before while she was looking at Marjory’s swollen face and the redness under her skin that would rapidly turn blue and eventually yellow. For the fist time in five years she saw herself in Marjory, a pathetic woman who allows a man to hurt her in the most humiliating way with his fists, feet and head like an animal who went crazy with rabies.
“Why did you not warn me?” Marjory wanted to know, barely able to speak with her swollen lips and neck clamped with a brace. “You should have told me your husband is crazy.”
Overwhelmed with disgust Christine returns to the dining room.
“Christine!” Wilbur shouts down the stairs.
“I’m coming!”
One of three guns in the house, always loaded as self-protection against criminals targeting farmers, is on top of the book shelve next to the stairs. It feels cold and heavy in her hand.
Halfway up the stairs she touches the picture of her mother. “I always loved you, Mamma, and I will never blame you... You had no idea what your were doing..."
“Christina!” Wilbur shouts.
“I’m on my way!” Christine shouts, and the voice of her favorite poet fills her mind.
I've got to tell
the whole world
after today
I will never
have to see you,
as I climb these stairs,
and believe me,
it will be the last time
you ever see
anyone
again!
Wilbur on the bed, waiting to be loved the way he loves to be loved. His mouth opens like that of a fish on dry land. But this time she is not going to allow his voice to touch any of the twisted strings in her heart. She pulls the trigger, and again and again while shocks shudder through her always-aching shoulder.
At last the gun falls out of her hand.
She closes his staring eyes, as she had planned to do. Then she walks backwards to sink into the nearest chair.
The deceased to be is now finally deceased. All she has to do now is wait for the next thing to happen.
~
© Martie Coetser (November 2011)
Author's note:
This story is fiction. The author is not a victim of a wife beater, though she remember one vicious fight and bloody scratch marks that were not on her face.
"Deceased To Be" written by Martie Coetser was inspired by epigramman@hubpages.com
On my way by Epigramman
I patted a friendly doggie
on my way
to see you
and gee,
those flowers
had a nice scent
at the local city hall
on my way
to see you!
E-books by the Epigramman
Click thumbnail to view full-size
I helped a little old lady
across the road
on my way
to see you.
I said hello
Mister Sun,
thank you
for such a perfect day
and please don't rain
on my plans ahead.
Hello Mister cab driver,
please keep the change
'cos I'm in a hurry
to see you
with thoughts
of Gene Kelly
in my hop,
skip,
and jump
when the choreography
Remarkable tributes to Epigramman
- mckbirdbks: Beauty Thirty by Epigramman
Epigramman's first eBook Beauty is available now. - A.A. Zavala: Man of Mirth: Epigramman
ep·i·gram: •A short, witty poem expressing a single thought or observation. •A concise, clever, often paradoxical statement. •Epigrammatic discourse or expression.
of life
has brought me here
to see you.
I've got to tell
the whole world
after today
I will never
have to see you,
as I climb these stairs,
and believe me,
it will be the last time
you ever see
anyone
again!
