Terminal

NINE

The next morning was Sunday. On Sunday, God may have rested, but I was still dying, and trust me, that was a very fucked-up thing to remember upon waking. I lay there in the bed, disoriented, aware of nothing but the sound of my cells turning bad and ganging up on me. I imagined that I could hear them, scurrying like ants through my body. At least I wasn’t puking—

yet. I fumbled on the nightstand for my cigarettes, lit one up, and tried to force the thought from my mind.

I thought about anything else I could, anything that didn’t involve dying. The time Michelle and I played hooky from school and went down to the Baltimore-Washington airport to watch the planes from the observatory. How beautiful she looked on our wedding day. When we moved into the trailer and Michelle and Sherm got into an argument because Sherm scratched the dining room table while he was unloading it, and how John and I laughed when she shut him down with just a look. The day she came home from the doctor and told me that he’d confirmed the home test, and she was indeed pregnant. T.J. being born, and when I first saw him, I thought there was something horribly wrong because his head was cone-shaped. The relief I felt when the doctor explained that it was normal. The first Christmas that T.J. actually opened his own presents, and got excited over them. When John and Sherm and I took him fishing off the dam at Three Mile Island, and how we hadn’t caught any fish but T.J. came home with a stringer full of new curse words. T.J.’s first day at day care, and how he clung and cried and screamed not to go—and how happy and smiling he was when the day was over and he told us how much fun he had. The first time he said, “I love you, Daddy.” That one, that memory, kept the thoughts of dying out of my head the longest. But it also brought them crashing back in the hardest. I rolled over onto Michelle’s pillow and breathed in the aroma that she’d left behind. I could still smell her, but not as strongly as I would have been able to a few months before. That realization brought it all back again and soon, her pillow was wet, as was my face. Eventually, the sounds of cartoons drifted in from the living room, and I heard the hiss of bacon sizzling in the frying pan. I couldn’t smell it no matter how hard I tried. I blew my nose, clearing out the bloody snot, and tried again, but I still couldn’t smell it. I stayed in bed, smoking the cigarette down to the filter and feeling depressed.

At the moment, the best thing in the world I could imagine was to pull the sheets and comforter up over my head, curl into the fetal position, and just lie there, drifting in and out of consciousness until the cancer finally did me in—hopefully while I was sound asleep. I was never one of these people that believed in that chronic depression bullshit, never bought into the psychobabble and self-help books and feel-good pop psychology of people like Dr. Phil and Oprah. Michelle thought that Dr. Phil and Oprah both walked on water and shit gold bricks. I thought they were both assholes. I mean, if the two of them were so goddamn good at dispensing advice on how to control your life, then why couldn’t the fat fucks control their calorie intake? They were phonies—rich people who made their money telling others how to fix their lives, while their own lives were a fucking mess. I’d never taken Prozac, Paxil, or any of the other antidepressants that, according to the disclaimer on the commercials, had common side effects like bleeding from the eyes, fatal nose warts, and spontaneous human combustion. It was all bullshit; just mass-produced medication for phony diseases that existed simply to make the drug companies richer, and I wasn’t buying into it.

Listen up. Are you or a loved one depressed? Well, now there’s good news. Here’s Tommy O’Brien’s plan to cure yourself: Shut the fuck up. That’s all. Shut the fuck up and get on with it. Life’s a bitch, then you die. It’s that simple. Depressed? Shut up and get the fuck over it. Move to fucking Calcutta or Baghdad or Compton, then come back and tell me how bad you have it. But I was depressed. Depressed and angry. It wasn’t fair. Why should I have to die now? Why did it have to be me? I was too frigging young for this to be happening. But it was, and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it. Part of me wanted to lie there in bed and another part of me wanted to run through the streets, screaming “Fuck you!” to God and the tobacco companies and the foundry and my parents and the government and our president and the rich and this fucking town and everybody in it. I wanted to rage, to let my anger spill out of me. I wanted to smash things, break stuff—just destroy everything in sight and burn it all to the fucking ground and laugh amidst the ashes.

But I didn’t do any of that. I didn’t run into the street. Instead, as the nausea hit, I made the now-familiar morning run from the bed to the bathroom, and I puked. Then I flicked on the exhaust fan so Michelle wouldn’t hear me, puked some more, showered, and puked again. I brushed my teeth and winced. My gums were tender and they started to bleed. The mouthwash burned them too, and I squinted my eyes shut and rode out the pain. After rinsing my mouth and getting dressed, I lit up another smoke and walked down the hall to join my family. T.J. was sprawled out on the floor again, still wearing his pajamas and picking at a half-soggy bowl of Cheerios with blueberries floating in milk. His eyes never left the screen. It looked like he’d gotten some sun during our visit to the park the day before. Michelle did too. She cracked two eggs and dropped them into the pan. They’d gotten some sun, but I was still as pale as the egg whites.

“Morning, babe.” She pecked my cheek as I leaned into her from behind, smelling her hair and giving her a squeeze.

“Good morning.” I did my best to sound happy and awake. “How’d you sleep?”

“Like a rock,” she purred. “Especially after—well, you know. How about you?”

“Okay, I guess.” I poured myself a mug of coffee. “You guys are up early.”

“Yeah, I promised my mom that we’d go to church with her. She’s been bitching that T.J. and I haven’t been there with her in a few weeks. I think she just likes to show us off to her friends. You want to go along with us?”

I shook my head. “I don’t think so, hon. Church gives me the heebie-jeebies.”

“You sure it’s not just that you don’t want to spend time with your mother-in-law?”

“Well yeah, now that you mention it. Your mom gives me the heebie-jeebies too.”

“Tommy!”

Laughing, she smacked my ass with the greasy spatula. I yelped in surprise.

“You take that back, Mr. O’Brien.”

“What are the heebie-jeebies?” T.J. piped up.

“It’s a present your grandma gave me,” I told him, and Michelle turned away, snickering. “What ya’ watching, little man?”

“Justice League Adventures. It’s my new favorite cartoon on Sundays.”

“And who’s that big green guy? The Hulk?”

“No, Daddy, that’s Jonn Jonzz, the Martian Manhunter. He’s getting ready to fight Vandal Savage but…”

I’d known that, of course. I’d been raised on Marvel and DC. Successfully getting him off the subject of his grandmother’s effect on me, I tuned him out, nodding in the appropriate places and expressing dismay over the character’s plight when required. All the while, I searched for the aspirin. I found them, washed four down with my coffee, and resurfaced for air just as T.J. was finishing up.

“…can outrace Superman because Flash is the fastest man on Earth!”

“Cool!” I responded.

Michelle was staring at me. The bacon was draining on a paper-towel-covered plate. The eggs looked just about done.

“What?” I asked.

“How many aspirin did you just take?”

I shrugged.

“I don’t know. Why?”

“How many?”

“Four.”

“Will you please get that prescription filled today? I mean it, Tommy. This is getting ridiculous.”

“It’s Sunday, Michelle. The pharmacy ain’t open on Sunday.”

“Yes it is, and you know it is too. You look like shit, Tommy. Maybe you need to get a second opinion while you’re at it. Whatever you’ve got, it sure as hell isn’t getting any better.”

That’s because it’s growing, I thought. Growing at an alarming rate. In fact, Michelle babe, I’m afraid it’s terminal. And soon, it will be later my niggaz and peace out!

“Okay, okay.” I held up my hands in defeated surrender. “I’ll go get the prescription filled today. This morning in fact.”

“You promise?”

“I promise.”

“Good.” She kissed me on the cheek, gave my hand a squeeze, and flipped the eggs onto a plate.

“Now come eat.”

I looked at the eggs and bacon and wanted to puke again. I felt the bile rise in my throat, burning me, but I fought the urge down and smiled.

“Looks great.” I licked my lips and sat down at the table.

I almost told her the truth then. The words were on the tip of my tongue. I swallowed them down again, and the taste was bitter.

“We’ve got to get ready for church,” Michelle said. “Come on, T.J., turn that thing off and go get dressed.”

“Five more minutes,” he negotiated. “It’s almost over.”

“Now,” Michelle countered, “or no ice cream after church. Besides, you’ve seen this one already.”

“I never get to do anything…”

Begrudgingly, he stomped down the hall to his bedroom. Michelle followed along behind him, arguing. As soon as they were gone, I got up, dumped the food into the garbage can, covered it up with paper towels, then changed bags. By the time they were finished, I was washing the dishes and Michelle was none the wiser.

T.J. was wearing his tan Osh Kosh and fraying old sweater, and it reminded me of my nightmare. I shivered, despite the scalding dishwater, as I recalled those cancerous tentacles wrapping around him.

“How was breakfast?” Michelle asked.

“Great.” I smiled. “Bacon was crispy, just the way I like it. Eggs were great too. Thanks for making it.”

“Must have been. You wolfed it down quick enough.”

I nodded and forced another smile.

“Okay, we’ve got to jet. We’re late and Mom’s going to have a fit. Will you be here when we get back?”

“I promised John I’d help him change his timing belt, then I’ll pick up the prescription. Should be home by two or three at the latest.”

“Okay. Sounds good.” She gave me another quick kiss, and I hugged T.J. and told him to have fun. Michelle made a fuss about me getting soapsuds all over his clothes, and T.J. giggled. Then she ushered him out the door.

I stood at the kitchen window and watched them walk down the sidewalk together, hand in hand. I cried. I cried for a long time and used a dishrag to dry both my hands and my face. Then it was off to the bathroom again for another battle with my stomach. This time, it came out both ends, and there was blood in both my vomit and my stool. After about twenty minutes, when I felt like an empty, dried-out bag of skin, I stood up and got on with the business of dying.

The truck didn’t want to start right away. It felt about as healthy as I did. When I finally got it running, I stopped at the big supermarket on Carlisle Street with the pharmacy inside. I had lied to Michelle about my plans. There was nothing wrong with John’s timing belt, and in fact, I didn’t even plan on seeing him all day. The last thing I wanted to do was spend the day hanging out with John and Sherm. There were other things that I needed to take care of instead. I had a To Do list for the day…

I walked through the produce section, past the paperback rack and the aisles for bottled soda, potato chips, and pet supplies before I found the pharmacy. There was a big guy behind the counter, dressed in a white lab coat with a name tag that said CASEY. He looked more like a club bouncer than a pharmacist.

“Good morning.” He grinned. “Can I help you?”

“Yeah. I’ve got a prescription that I need to get filled. Wasn’t sure you’d be open today, to tell you the truth.”

“Yep, we’re open on Sundays. That’s why I’m stuck here today instead of at home watching the game. People get sick seven days a week. Let’s take a look at your prescription.”

I handed him the crumpled-up piece of white paper. He unfolded it, smoothed out the wrinkles, and carefully deciphered the doctor’s handwriting.

“Hmmm, eighty milligrams of OxyContin, to be taken twice daily. Not a problem. Should be about fifteen or twenty minutes.”

“Okay.”

“I just need to see your insurance card, and I’ll also need your date of birth.”

I looked down at my feet. “I don’t have any insurance.”

“That’s okay. Lots of people in this town don’t have health insurance.” His voice was still friendly, but his smile had drooped a few notches. “Will you be paying by cash, credit, or debit card?”

“Um, none of them right now,” I said. “I was just wondering if you could tell me how much it was going to be. That way I know how much to set aside for next week.”

He paused, studying me. “Well, eighty milligrams per day, taken twice daily—that comes to six hundred and fifty dollars per month.”

My mouth dropped open.

“Jesus fucking Christ! Six hundred and fifty bucks? You’ve got to be shitting me.”

“You’re lucky, pal. Just be glad that your doctor didn’t put you on one hundred and sixty milligrams. That would be even more expensive. On the street, they call OxyContin the poor man’s heroin, but there’s nothing poor about it.”

“What do you mean, ‘on the street’?”

“OxyContin, if taken properly, is released slowly into the body. It’s a time-release capsule. But drug addicts circumvent the time release by crushing the pills and inhaling or injecting the powder. It gives them a heroin-like high, supposedly. The cops blame it for part of the rise in crime across the country here lately. Between that, and the fact that there’s no generic version, the prices stay high.”

“Well, this is bullshit, man. I can’t afford this.”

His smile completely vanished.

“Look, buddy, I don’t set the prices. If that’s not affordable for you, then talk to your doctor. There are generic versions of other painkillers that he can prescribe.”

“How cheap would they be?”

He shrugged. “Anywhere from three to five hundred a month.”

“Nothing cheaper?”

“Not unless you want to walk over to aisle six and get yourself a bottle of aspirin or ibuprofen.”

“Well, I guess that settles that.”

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing. Don’t worry about it. Look, don’t take it personal, okay? I’m sorry for bothering you. Just been trying to figure out what I’m going to do, and this may have helped me make up my mind. Thanks for your help, Casey.”

“Whatever you say. Hang in there.”

Without another word, I turned and left the counter. I’d promised Michelle that I would get my prescription filled. As far as I was concerned, I’d tried. Now there were no doubts in my mind about what I had to do. The bank robbery was the only way, even if just to pay for my painkillers.

Before I left the store, I remembered that I was down to three cigarettes. I strolled up to the customer service booth and flashed the girl behind the counter my best flirtatious smile, the same one that had finally won Michelle over.

“Can I help you, sir?”

“Boy, I really hope so. I put a five-dollar bill in the soda machine outside and not only did it not give me a soda, but it won’t give me my money back either. I think it must be broken or something.”

“Well, that’s not good.”

“No it ain’t. Do you have one of those little envelopes that I can fill out for a refund from the vendor?”

She didn’t, of course, and I knew that. The store automatically refunded your money on the spot, then squared up with the vending company later on. But I played stupid.

“I can take care of it for you right now, sir.”

“You can? Awesome! That would be great. Normally, I wouldn’t bother, but five bucks is five bucks, you know what I’m saying?”

She nodded in sympathy, filled out a little piece of paper, had me sign it, and gave me a crisp, new five-dollar bill. Easy money, and soon, there’d be more where that came from. I climbed back into the truck, drove across the street to the discount tobacco store, and bought a fresh pack of smokes. I walked out with a buck in change, enough for a soda later on. Then I went to the library, second on my agenda for the day.

The library was only open for limited hours on Sunday, and I had to wait until somebody unlocked the doors. Despite the fact that it was a beautiful, balmy spring day, I stood there shivering on the sidewalk. Eventually, I got back in the truck and let the heater run. I rubbed my hands together in front of the dashboard vents, trying to get some circulation in my numb fingers. By the time the librarian showed up, I was almost warm. I gave the librarian my driver’s license, signed in for a computer, and logged onto the net. I typed ALTERNATIVE CANCER TREATMENTS into the search engine, waited a moment, and got seven hundred and ninety-nine thousand matches. The sheer amount of information was pretty daunting. There was information on herbs and supplements and vitamins, some of which were supposed to prevent you from getting cancer (too late for me on that one), and others that were supposed to help combat it, either taken separately or with prescribed medication from a doctor. I clicked on a few links, but the herbs were just as expensive as the painkillers my doctor prescribed. Next was heat therapy, which supposedly killed the cancer cells from the inside out. One week of intensive therapy cost seventeen thousand dollars, and the recommended treatment was a minimum of two weeks. Just a little bit out of my price range. Other cures and treatments involved acupuncture, something called applied kinesiology, emulsified vitamin A, Cesium Chloride, holistic meditation, vitamin E, essiac tea, ellagic acid, mushrooms (that didn’t sound too bad), marijuana ingestion (that didn’t sound too bad either), Aloe Vera extract, Rife technology, infrared treatment, mistletoe pills, hypothermia (which kind of invalidated the heat treatment theory and cost the same amount), peroxide therapy, hyperbaric units, flax oil, high doses of vitamin C, shark cartilage, kelp, harmonic vibration therapy, whale song therapy, and thousands more—each one more whacked and expensive than the last. It was all bullshit. There were doctors and clinics outside the US that I could visit for help, but I couldn’t afford gas money to York, let alone a plane ticket to Argentina or Switzerland. I slammed the keyboard in aggravation and the librarian gave me a stern look of admonishment. A new headache pounded behind my eyes. Frustrated and angrier than ever, I logged off and stormed out of the library. I had two more things on my To Do list for the day.

Okay, so I was definitely going to die. I’d given up all hope of there being any last-minute reprieve. The doctor wasn’t going to call and say that it had all been a mistake, just one of those crazy mix-ups. Traditional medicine wasn’t going to work, and the alternatives were no fucking alternative.

My life was a bitch, then I died. End of story. It was time to shut the fuck up and get on with it. Get on with dealing with it. Get on with dying. And especially time to get on with making plans to cover my ass and my family. The bank job was only part of that insurance policy. Next on my list was the funeral parlor. Stop and think about it for a minute. How many people really get to plan their own funerals? Not as many as you might think. I figured that I’d take advantage of the opportunity.

I’d driven by the Myers Funeral Home a thousand times, but I’d never been inside. I guess it’s that way for most people. A funeral home isn’t the kind of place you go to hang out on a Friday night. You don’t go there unless you have a very specific reason. There were only two other cars in the parking lot, a black hearse and a matching black BMW. I got out of the truck and stared at the building. My mother had been taken care of by the funeral home across town, and this was the first time I’d seen this one up close. It was pretty daunting—cold, gray granite walls and huge weeping willow trees that kept the place hidden in their sprawling shadows. Tall pillars and a stone archway crowned a set of red marble stairs that led up to the main doors.

Swallowing hard, I climbed them. Dead leaves crunched under my feet. After a moment’s pause, I went inside. It was quiet, quieter than the library, and it smelled like a hospital. You know that chemical, antiseptic smell? I don’t know what I expected—flowers maybe, or even formaldehyde—but not that empty air.

An older man with jet-black hair and a matching black suit met me in the lobby and smiled politely. He smelled just like the rest of the place. When he shook my hand, his palm was like dry ice.

“Good afternoon, sir. My name is Anthony Myers. Welcome to the Myers Funeral Home. I’m pleased to be of service.”

“How you doing,” I mumbled, letting go of his hand. “I’m Tommy. Tommy O’Brien.”

“How do you do, Mr. O’Brien?”

His usage of Mister in front of my last name made me think of the doctor. I shrugged it off.

“How can I be of assistance to you today?” he asked.

“Well,” I struggled, unsure of how to put it, “I need to check into funeral prices and stuff like that.”

He gave me a sad, sympathetic smile and nodded. “I see. I see. Well, Mr. O’Brien, let me assure you that both of my sons and our entire staff are ready and able to assist you. This is a family-owned and -operated business, so we understand families quite well. We want to ensure that your immediate needs as well as your anticipated needs for the future are fully satisfied.”

“Uh-huh.” I nodded. It sounded like he was reading off a cue card.

“Normally, we have family counselors on hand to answer your questions, but since this is Sunday, I’ve given them the day off. That’s one of the benefits of being the owner. I will, however, be more than happy to assist you. Curiously enough, do you have fire insurance, Mr. O’Brien?”

The question threw me for a moment.

“No. Why?”

“Well, many people do, yet the chances of a fire are one in one thousand three hundred. You have automobile insurance, I presume?”

Rather than telling him that the policy was about to expire if we didn’t pay the premium, I just nodded.

“Of course you do. All drivers in this state are required to. Yet the odds of being in an accident are only one in two hundred and fifty.”

“So what’s your point, Mr. Myers?”

“My point is that your odds in this case are one in one. It’s a service that everyone eventually needs. And my family has been providing that service for over a half century. In short, we can help you.”

“Okay, okay. I get the picture. Look, let me be straight up with you. I’m not interested in a sales pitch. I need cold, hard facts, not a brochure.”

“I understand, and I apologize if I came across that way. We don’t view it as selling, Mr. O’Brien. Easing a difficult time is our objective. We offer nothing less than total perfection, and we demand that of ourselves as well. You may be wondering how we do that. Well, by not losing our compassion for the families we serve. Who is the deceased, if I may ask?”

“I am. I’m the—the deceased. Well, I will be soon, at least. I—I have cancer. At a very advanced stage.” I almost added It’s growing at an alarming rate but didn’t.

He paused, then found his way around the roadblock and back into the sales pitch.

“I see. How regretful. How tragic. You certainly have my condolences, Mr. O’Brien. You would not be the first person we’ve assisted in a similar situation, but it always saddens me deeply. Of course, prearranging your funeral service is something we can assist you with as well, obviously. People often feel uncomfortable talking about it. Many think that prearrangement means a preoccupation with death, but that is simply not true. Rather, it is a personal tool for a family’s emotional and financial preparation. Many of our customers prearrange their own funerals. In your case, I think it is very much the right and honorable thing to do. Have you conferred with the rest of your family?”

“Not exactly. Sooner or later I guess I’ll have to, but I haven’t gotten around to it yet. It’s hard to bring up.”

“I certainly understand. Well, the first step is to get together with your family. Offer them your thoughts and listen to theirs carefully as well. I would strongly recommend that you pursue that course of action before we proceed. If you consider it for a moment, Mr. O’Brien, you’ll see that your funeral will most directly affect your family, so it is essential to include their suggestions in your plans. When will you have the opportunity to speak with them regarding this? Perhaps they could accompany you back here, or we could make an appointment to meet with you all in your home?”

“To be honest, right now, I just wanted to get an idea how much it was going to cost and everything, you know? What all’s involved and stuff like that?”

“Very well.” He gave me a curt nod and continued. “Normally, the next step, as I said, would be to arrange a conference between myself and your family members. During that meeting, we would discuss the funeral choices that will help to create a tribute that is appropriate and meaningful to you all.”

“Is there a charge for that?”

“For the counseling meeting with the family, Mr. O’Brien?”

“Yeah. How much does that cost?”

He cleared his throat and began to repeat himself. “Well, that’s all part of the process, you see. Funding a prearranged service eases the financial burden on your family members. It allows you to be assured of an adequate fund for future payment. However, in a case like yours, an exception would have to be made. If you don’t mind my saying so, I take it that I’m correct in assuming that a five-year financing plan is not something you’d be interested in?”

“Yeah, you could say that. In five years, the whole thing would be kind of moot.”

“I see. And how would you be paying for any services rendered by us?”

“Cash and up front.”

He brightened.

“Have you given any thought as to what type of service you would like?”

“I don’t know. I’m Irish, so I guess a wake would be kind of cool. I could see my friends hanging out and getting drunk over the casket, you know? Pump some tunes in, maybe turn the bass up. That would be all right.”

“Sadly, I’m afraid that we do not allow alcoholic beverages on the premises, Mr. O’Brien. You need a liquor license in the state of Pennsylvania to do that.”

“Oh. Well, that’s okay. My wife would have probably shit a brick if we did something like that anyway.”

He flinched, then asked again.

“So, other than a wake, do you have any preferences?”

“What do you recommend? To be honest, I really haven’t been to too many funerals. My dad died when I was young and I don’t really remember his. My mom’s was a few years back, but it wasn’t much. Don’t take that personally, though. Mom didn’t have any money. Your competition across town did that one. Didn’t they go out of business since then?”

He gave a polite chuckle.

“Yes. Indeed they did.”

“Well, there you go.”

There was an uncomfortable moment of silence between us and I could feel the sales pitch building in him again.

“Hey, Mr. Myers, let me ask you something. You ever see that horror movie where the undertaker is shrinking people’s corpses down and turning them into dwarves? Had those flying silver balls in it and this little kid and an ass-kicking ice-cream delivery guy that fought them?

Phantasm, I think it’s called?”

He frowned. “No, I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of viewing that particular film. Why do you ask?”

“Well, in the movie, the undertaker sticks a long needle in this one guy’s body, and pumps this yellow stuff into his veins while his blood is pumped out. The whole machine looks like two blenders strapped together or something. Just wondered if that’s how it happens in real life.”

“I can assure you, Mr. O’Brien, that kitchen utensils are not used during the embalming process.”

“Oh. Well, in any case, that movie was the bomb.”

“Perhaps we should get back to discussing your service.”

“Sure.” I could tell that I was getting under his pompous skin, and I liked it.

“Keep in mind that your service should represent an opportunity for your friends and family to reflect on your life and to honor your memory. There is, of course, no single style of funeral. No one template. That is why I must insist on input from you. I can offer suggestions, of course. There is a lot to think about, Mr. O’Brien. Without sounding morbid, my staff can help notify your loved ones, arrange everything, take care of securing the death certificate and the necessary permits—”

“Permits? You mean you need a permit to get buried in this state?”

“Indeed.”

I shook my head in disbelief.

“So what else can you guys do?”

“Well, we would also coordinate all the details of the service with the clergy involved. If I may ask, are you a religious person, and if so, what doctrine?”

“I don’t know,” I answered truthfully, “but I intend to find that out before the day is over with. That’s actually next on my list of things to do.”

“I see,” he said, even though he clearly did not. “Well, whatever you decide your religious denomination is, Mr. O’Brien, we can arrange that for you as well.”

“What about—my body and stuff? What happens with it after I’m dead?”

“We would, of course, take care of your body and arrange it for cremation or burial. Do you have a preference regarding these two choices?”

“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?”

“Uh, no. Not at the moment. Look, to be honest, Father, I was hoping that I could have a couple minutes alone with God. I haven’t spoken to Him in a while and I think I need to.”

“Certainly. It happens to us all, I’m afraid. Nothing to be embarrassed about, believe me. But are you sure that I can’t assist you? Would you like to speak with me? Perhaps I can offer guidance, a friendly ear or a bit of understanding. I am the Lord’s representative after all.”

“No, no—I think I’d better take it up directly with Him, if that’s okay with you?”

“Of course. This is God’s house, after all. I am just His servant. I’ll leave you alone now. However, if you need me, I’ll be in the rectory right next door. Think it over, okay? I may be able to help you, son. I’d like to try. It’s my job. Think about it.”

“Thanks, Father. I appreciate that. Maybe I’ll take you up on it later. But right now, I just need to pray.”

“I understand.” He smiled, gave a short half nod, half bow, and then left. I was alone again with Jesus. He hadn’t moved, still just hanging out, glaring at me from above. Slowly, I shuffled to the front, my baggy jeans brushing against the carpet with a SWOOSH. I knelt, gripped the rail, stared up at Jesus, and prayed aloud.

“Dear God…” I began, then stopped, struggling for the words. After a moment of silence, I found them.

“What the fuck is Your problem, You son of a bitch? I mean, what—just because I haven’t talked to You since I was a little kid, You decide to give me cancer? Is that it? Where were You, huh? If You wanted me to talk to You so bad, You could have let me know. You never wrote or called or sent me a burning fucking bush. What was I supposed to think? I grew up in a fucking hellhole, man. Do You have any idea what that was like for me? Do You? You’re supposed to be omnipotent, so maybe You do. I used to lie in bed at night and pray for You to help me, but You never did. You never lifted a finger. Where were You? Can You imagine what it was like to live with my father? I was glad when he died. Glad. Is that a sin? Is that why You did this? Is it because I hated You when Mom died? I hated her too, but still—why’d she have to go out like that? It’s fucking bullshit, man. Did You do it to punish me for something?

“You’re a total bastard. I quit believing in Your ass a long time ago, and do You know why?

Because You didn’t give me a reason to believe. That’s all I needed. Just a reason. But You couldn’t give me one. I thought about it sometimes, sure. When Michelle and I got married and we said our vows, I thought about it then. And when T.J. came along—man, I thought about it long and hard. They’re the best things that ever happened to me. The only good things in this fucked-up life. I thought that maybe You gave them to me—that maybe You really did exist. I believed, if only for a little while. So where do You get off, huh? Who the fuck are You? It’s not enough that we’re poor and that I’m raising my family in a trailer, just like I was raised? It isn’t enough that the little rich yuppie kids at T. J’s day care are already calling him white trash? On top of all that bullshit, now You’ve got to give me fucking cancer too? How dare You. Even if You’re pissed off at me, what did they ever do to You? Why do they deserve this? Is this Your idea of divine justice? ‘Tommy doesn’t believe in Me so I’ll leave his wife a widow and his son an orphan and they’ll be poorer than ever before.’

“Why me? Huh? Tell me that—why did it have to be me? Why not one of these asshole billionaires that drain their companies and their stockholders dry, then do two months in some minimum security, golf resort prison? Why not them? Or why not some pimp or crack dealer in York or Baltimore? Am I no better than they are? Why not give it to some terrorist or something?

“Look, I’m too young to die, God. I want to be with my family. I want to watch my son grow up. I want to see him play football and go to college and get a chance to have all the things I never did. I want to grow old with my wife. I love them so much and I don’t want to be separated from them. I just want one more time around. That’s all I’m asking for. Just a little more time to spend with them. A little more time to live. Please! I don’t want to die. I’m so fucking scared of dying. Please…”

I wasn’t aware that I was crying until the first hot tears hit the railing.

“Please! Please tell me. I don’t understand. What’s it all about? You give us this nice planet and people go around fucking it up, and You let them get away with it. You let them slide. You give us war and famine and poverty and disease and racism and serial killers. Your followers fly airplanes into buildings and send their own children into shopping centers to blow up Your other followers, and You don’t do anything about it. You could stop it. You could stop it so easily, but You don’t. Why? Why don’t you step in?

“Why? Why do You put us through this shit? Why did You give me cancer? Did I break the rules? Do You sit up there on Your cloud with a pair of measuring scales, balancing out the good and bad deeds we’ve done in our lives? Is that what it’s about? Or is it simpler than that?

Maybe I was right before. Maybe You’re just pissed off that I don’t believe in You. Maybe that’s where You get your power—from belief. And if enough of us don’t believe in You, then You’ll just fade away, the same way the old gods did. Is that what happened to Zeus and Odin and all the others? You cease to exist if we don’t believe? And since I don’t believe, You’ve got to put a stop to that shit?

“If You wanted me to believe in You, then You should have been there for me. You should have given me a reason to believe! Showed me that You really do exist.”

My tears fell like rain, and the lump in my throat strangled my words. With the tears came blood, trickling from my nose. I smeared them across the polished banister and raised my head, looking Jesus in the eye.

“Help me. Show me that You exist. Save me and I promise that I’ll never doubt You again. I’ll go to church. I’ll start living right. I’ll quit drinking down at Murphy’s Place and smoking weed and watching porn. I’m willing to do whatever it takes. Whatever it takes. Just take it all away. Take away this pain You gave to me. All You have to do is show me. I don’t understand what it is You want from me. How am I supposed to know unless You tell me?”

The figure on the cross didn’t answer. Instead, He was silent, looming over me.

“Give me some proof. That’s all I’m asking for. Give me a sign—one single, simple sign.”

Silence.

“Cure me,” I whispered. “Make this cancer go away and let me live.”

I still felt sick. I was still dying. I’d become what I hated in other people by giving in to the culture of blame. It was time to move on. I stood up and wiped my bloody nose on the back of my hand.

“Then fuck You. I knew You wouldn’t help. You can’t help me because You don’t exist. You’re not real. You’re just another fairy tale, like the Easter bunny and Santa Claus. You can’t help me. I’ll do this my way.”

There was no lightning bolt or angel with a flaming sword. God didn’t show up and smite me down for my sacrilege. Jesus didn’t climb down from the wall and bash my head in with His cross. The priest would have probably said that was because He was a loving God, a forgiving God, but I knew it was really because He didn’t exist. I’d given Him a chance to prove me wrong, to show me that He was there for me, for all of us.

I’d gotten nothing. Nothing from God. Nothing from the government. Nothing from my doctor or the medical establishment or my employer.

The only person I could rely on to take care of my family was me. And pretty soon, I’d be gone.

It was time to get on with it.

It was raining when I walked outside. While I’d been inside the church, the beautiful, warm weather had vanished, replaced with dark, ominous clouds. I welcomed them. The downpour washed over me and it felt like a baptism. Dying, I was reborn.

I got back in the truck, and drove home—feeling more alone and depressed than ever before. But I was also beginning to feel something else. Something new. Determination. A feeling of peace settled over me, and I liked the way it felt.

Then the fear set in once again, washing it all away.