Bill Tailor had requested that his funeral services be held in the Cathedral of the BlessedSacrament at the intersection of  K and 11th streets in downtown Sacramento. The ordinary bishop of the Diocese of Sacramento did not normally conduct funerals in the cheerfully painted cathedral, but Bill had been a generous constituent. Henrietta Tailor stood at the altar with her newly fatherless son. She was the first thing we, the gathered, saw as we filed through the front doors. She was flanked on one side by a casket and on the other by a portrait of Bill. From the way Bill was squinting in the photograph it was clear that Henrietta had made him remove his glasses just before the photo was taken. It was true that, without the glasses, Bill looked several years younger, but the squinting made him look like he was about to sneeze. Behind Henrietta, a line of confessionals stood, their plum drapes drawn back to reveal a wooden bench on either side of the rosewood grate. Above the altar hung a wooden cross, and from the cross hung Jesus.

I chose a seat in the perfect middle of the right-hand line of pews. I was early, and I occupied myself with calculating how long it would take to properly clean the plum confessionals. I concluded that it would take several hours. My fellow mourners loosely populated the rows of pews so that, when the final two people arrived, they were forced to decide between sitting within arm’s length of a stranger and sitting in the front row. After a brief, whispered conversation, they both decided to lean against pillars in the back.

The priest had not known Bill, so the service was a random collection of passages from Thessalonians, Shakespeare, and Christina Rossetti. I knew that Christina Rossetti was well regarded as the Shakespeare of funeral poets, so the recitations were relevant, if not necessarily applicable. When the priest finished his eulogy, “Let us, Bill’s dearest friends, know he who sleeps in death, so that we will not mourn like the rest of mankind,” Henrietta paused
appropriately, then rose to speak about her newly dead husband.

Henrietta’s voice was a consistent monotone, but her words hinted at affection. For Henrietta, Bill had been a vigilant man in almost every aspect of his life. He had a healthy fear of brain tumors, he had eaten quinoa, he never drank alcohol, and his vegan snickerdoodle cookies were always in high demand for baseball games and bake sales. Upon Henrietta’s request, Bill had even bought a significant life insurance policy. These things did not stop a drunken college student from driving 65 mph in a residential neighborhood, but, Henrietta reflected, Bill had led an admirable life. She had no cause for complaint.

​

Bored by the priest’s generic sermonizing, and made uncomfortable by Henrietta’s flat affect, my eyes began to wander. I traced the contours of the ceiling’s cherub-filled panels and marked the dust collecting on the roofs of the confessionals. The cathedral’s design was clever, however. The lines of columns that bordered the nave, the cherubs’ pudgy fingers, the light from the stained-glass windows all directed an attendee’s attention to the figure on the cross. From there it was a short journey down to Henrietta, standing before the altar. Henrietta was in her mid-forties. Her brown eyes and hair crowned permanently flushed cheeks and pale lips. Despite the affectionate content of her eulogy, her severe stance and whip-fast hand motions reminded me of the cruel governesses and mother superiors on well-produced television programs. Remarkably evil figures who have painfully tight buns on top of their heads and always carry a favorite cane, ruler, or switch in their hand. It’s not that these governesses were bad people, I thought, but their rigidity made them distinctly unlovable. Bill had apparently felt differently. Henrietta’s demeanor was magnified in her jacket and skirt. The cloth was a monotone violet and looked, from a distance, lightly starched. Henrietta’s tone broached no argument or disagreement. She described her former husband and that was who he was. It was easy to imagine that she made her own money, did her own housekeeping, and pushed Bill to be involved in raising their child. It seemed as though she was the type of parent a child does not disobey, because that child knows any punishment will be exactly fair. An amazing, strong, admirable woman. Bill must have been a good father as well.

Henrietta concluded by outlining how, in his will, Bill had asked for only three things upon his death. Firstly, that the funeral be open-casket. Secondly, that his son look for a safe in the master bedroom, take the shoebox therein, and read the entire contents of that shoebox at his funeral. Thirdly, that everyone Bill had ever known be invited to the funeral. Bill had understood that not everyone would attend, but he had felt it important that he say goodbye properly and had maintained a rolodex of everyone in his life for Henrietta’s convenience. The life insurance payout required all reasonable adherence to these three wishes. The first wish had not been possible for aesthetic reasons. A professional calligrapher had been employed and each person on the Rolodex had been delivered a hand-written note.

Bill and I hadn’t been close, really. In high school he was quiet. His eyes watered constantly from allergies, so he carried a monogrammed handkerchief in his left hand, and when we spoke, he would stare at my mouth as if our conversation was the only important thing in his world. When I got a note addressed to ‘Mr. Eric Carlson-Bennett and Ms. Lydia Carlson-Bennett,’ I felt obligated to go. I had been important to Bill, after all. I had been one of his good friends. Lydia had said, “Why would anyone go to the funeral of some kid we knew in high school,” but she hadn’t known Bill as well as I did. He was just quiet and that was ok, I thought.

After his mother was finished with her speech, Edward Henrietta Tailor carried his stool to the altar. He was a short boy with his mother’s red cheeks and his father’s watery eyes. When Edward climbed the stool, his straight back and steady hands were clear to see. His dark hair was parted down the middle, and his movements were precise, as though rehearsed, as though this was step #124 on the schedule that he had made for today. He carefully pulled his reading glasses from the pocket of his suit jacket. “Now that,” I thought to myself, “Is the most respectable ten-year-old boy I have seen in quite some time.” It felt as though I had swallowed something big and heavy. Edward must have loved his father and his father must have loved him. It was easy to imagine why.

Edward took a notecard from the tan shoebox on the altar and read, “To Dr. Roth: ‘Being smart is not some kind of get out of jail free card for being a dick. “It’s me, Dr. Roth, I have a PhD in poetry from UCSB.” That’s not even a good poetry program, you ass.’ That is what I would say to Dr. Roth, who was a douche.” The words were hesitant, but Edward was an advanced reader for his age. Edward stumbled slightly over “dick” and “douche,” and he looked back to where his mother sat. Henrietta’s shoulders were up around her ears and she was leaning forward as thought walking into a cold headwind, but she made eye contact with her son and nodded quietly. The attendee’s respectful hush had been replaced by a lack of sound like the moment in between a sucker punch and the first gasp of air. Bill had had a quietly morbid sense of humor, it occurred to me. This might have been funny to him. I remembered Dr. Roth from high school. I remembered him being very fond of Bill. Dr. Roth took Bill under his wing before Ms. Roth stabbed the aging teacher during our senior year. Dr. Roth would host a lunch for all of his honors students every Thursday. Bill and I went to Dr. Roth’s funeral together. My palms started to itch.

The stool wobbled slightly, and Edward pulled several notes out of the shoebox at once. Edward’s hands shook, and he looked up at the attendees and his eyes widened like he was surprised at how many of us there were. The notepaper varied in color, shape, and size. Some
notes were on pieces of scrap notebook paper that looked twenty years old, others were on office stationery. All the notes were in Bill’s restricted handwriting. Edward read, “To Bobby Fischer: ‘What? You think you’re better than me? Just because you play a glorified board game? A game set in medieval times? Get your head out of your ass. We aren’t just pawns to be sacrificed in your game, Bobby. You aren’t shit.’ That is what I would say to Bobby Fischer if he ever cut me off at an intersection and I was so mad that I followed him home and opened a can of whoop ass in his driveway.” The priest frowned. Edward took another note and continued reading, “To Charlie, to whom I lost my virginity: ‘We would always split a York Peppermint Patty after we had sex. I still haven’t found anyone who really likes the taste.’ That is what I would say to Charlie, who I miss.” I heard the two standing attendees find seats in back rows. Henrietta raised her penciled eyebrows, rolled her shoulders, and scratched the corner of her mouth. My son Luke had just gone through the fifth-grade sex-ed unit two months ago. I assumed Edward had done the same. Edward looked terribly uncomfortable at the mention of ‘sex’ and glanced over his shoulder at Henrietta. Luke had pulled his penis out in class and asked his teacher if she had ever had sex. When Luke had gotten bored just sitting at home during his suspension, I had bought him a new TV for his bedroom.

Around me, the attendees adopted a unified cycle of inhalation and exhalation. Edward grabbed a note that looked like it had been written on the back of some kind of flier or poster and read, “To Lydia Carlson, with whom I went to prom: ‘I asked you out because I thought you were the prettiest, coolest girl that I had ever met. After prom, when I asked to kiss you, and you just laughed and looked over your shoulder at Lauren, you totally missed out because I am a fantastic kisser. Also, I only wanted to kiss because Mr. Vasquez looked genuinely surprised when I told him I was going to prom with you and he was watching.’ That is what I would say to Lydia, about whom I was wrong.” Edward corrected the set of the glasses across his nose and the priest shifted slightly in his chair. Henrietta rolled her shoulders, picked a violet pillbox hat off of the ground, and put it on. Lydia Carlson was my wife, though. I remembered that prom. Lydia had thought Bill asked her as a joke. That I had put him up to it. Lydia and I had sex that night for the first time. I had been Bill’s only friend. He must have hated me.

​

The lady sitting a few feet to my right was looking around and trying to control a grin like she thought this was a prank show. I felt that I failed Bill somehow.

Edward dumped the shoebox of notes onto the altar and grabbed one at random, reading, “To my friend Phil: ‘Remember when you had that joke, “My dick is two inches… off the ground!” and everyone would laugh? I didn’t get it. Is the joke that you have a long penis? I think if you were a real friend, who cared about me, you would explain the joke. I tried retelling the joke and no one laughed.’ That is what I would say to Phil, who wasn’t a very good friend.”

Edward’s prepubescent voice made the dead man’s words ring as they bounced around the cathedral. A man, who I assumed was Phil, frowned at the woman sitting next to him. A lady three rows behind me started having a quiet coughing fit.

Edward pulled a scrap of wide ruled notebook paper from the pile and read, “To that old man in the Dick’s Sporting Goods who threatened to call the police because my mom left me alone for the weekend with a new puppy and I really wanted to look at the new running shoes, so I took the puppy with me to the store even though she wasn’t potty trained and she peed on the floor: ‘I don’t care how old I am. I will clean this mess up myself then I will find you in that retirement home where your kids left you because you’re a mean old sack of shit who has the emotional range of a stale fig newton, then I will beat you until you can barely breathe, then I will hook you up to an iron lung and give you a mirror so that you can watch the life be repeatedly forced back into your reluctant husk.’ That is what I would say to the old man in the Dick’s Sporting Goods store who told me that my parents should be ashamed to have such a disrespectful son.” The priest was visibly sweating, sitting next to Henrietta. The shadow cast by Jesus on the cross had shifted and now the priest, Henrietta, Edward, and the coffin were exposed to the noon sunlight. The other attendees moved in their pews. We had stopped looking for hidden cameras. Bill was speaking to us. Henrietta removed the violet pillbox hat from her head and began to fan herself.

As he read, Edward began to find a rhythm. Each new note removed from the shoebox was accompanied by a collective inhalation from the audience. Bill would make his proclamations through his son’s mouth. There may be a gasp or a sigh. Edward would pause respectfully to allow us to gather ourselves then he would read the next note.

Phil and his wife had left. Some other people I didn’t know left as well. It was like we were all standing in line to receive our communion wafers. Edward would tell us what Bill thought, and one of us would know what he or she had done wrong, and then he or she could be better. Henrietta had said it herself. Edward was so respectable. Bill had done everything right. Even the priest, who wasn’t even one of Bill’s friends, leaned forward as Edward read from the back of a blank check, “Regarding Laika, the first animal to orbit Earth: ‘Listen, I know she died in her reentry. She must have seen some crazy stuff up there. I am a big fan. I think her story of rags to riches, from stale pirozhki from trash heaps to mounting the world, is an inspiration. It’s just that the Russians could have gotten much more valuable data if they had used a rhesus monkey instead of just a mutt-dog. She was a huge waste of resources. Some successor to Sputnik.’ That is what I have to say about Laika, who is still pretty cool.” The priest coughed. I sat surrounded by the people who had known Bill well enough to like him and to come and we waited. Maybe, I thought, we waited because he was dead and that made him matter more. Maybe Bill Painter had had everything figured out and we all wanted to know how we fell short.

Edward loosened his perfectly tied black tie and pushed his glasses back up his nose. His hair was still perfectly combed, even under all the pressure. Luke didn’t comb his hair, even when we went to church. Edward selected an old white napkin from the shoebox and read, “To Henrietta: ‘You don’t look good in violet.’ That is what I would say to my wife Henrietta, who doesn’t look good in violet.” Henrietta stopped fanning herself and put the violet pillbox hat back on her head.

​

​“To be honest, that is about all I can remember,” I said. “I kept waiting for Bill to say something about me.”

“Thank God I didn’t go to that thing. Sounds really awkward,” replied Lydia Carlson-Bennett, “I don’t know what Bill was talking about, though. Maybe I did look at Lauren. She is my best friend. I can look at my best friend whenever I want. Why do you care, though? You didn’t even like him in high school. He was always hanging around you like a loser.”

“You shouldn’t speak ill of the dead,” I said, “It’s rude.”

​

“Maybe it’s rude for the dead to insult us. Make sure you pick up Luke from his play-date on your way back.”

​

“Of course,” I said. I waited until I heard dial tone. Luke had texted me twelve times over the course of the ceremony. He said that he had earned a trip to Dairy Queen as repayment for not breaking most of the Robertson kid’s toys. Luke said he wanted to get a fudge-dipped cone for himself and a fudge dipped cone for Lydia. It didn’t matter that Lydia was lactose intolerant and would throw the cone away as soon as we got home. The last time I drove past Dairy Queen without rewarding Luke for his good behavior, he screamed and screamed, and I turned the car around anyway. The Robertsons themselves hadn’t texted me to come pick Luke up early, which was good. I needed to pick up cash.

​

I pushed my way through the heavy wooden front doors of the cathedral. I made my way past the now empty pews, skirted the altar with the squinting picture of Bill, and took a side door to the rooms devoted to the reception. Most of the other attendees had left by this point. Only the ones who had not received a note from Bill still milled around. Bobby Fisher and Laika were nowhere to be found. Lydia always said that I’m not funny. Little does she know.

Every now and then one of the attendees would build up the courage to offer Henrietta their condolences. They would say something to the effect of, “I am so sorry for your loss.”

To which Henrietta would reply, “You are too kind.”

To which the attendee would say, “How inconsiderate of me! My name is _______, I knew Bill from _______. We were good friends.”

To which Henrietta would say, “It’s nice of you to come. Bill never mentioned you, but I know he would really appreciate you taking the time to be here.”

To which the attendee would nod gravely and walk out of the room, weave their way through the pews, get in his or her car, and leave.

​

Watching this little drama repeat itself, I imagined these former attendees sitting in their respective living rooms, watching their respective kids eat respective fudge-dipped ice cream cones while pulling the hair of their respective dogs. I imagined them wondering what Bill Tailor had thought about them that was so bad, it couldn’t be written down. “Surely,” I imagined them thinking, “he had something to say about me. I was his best friend in high school. I broke his heart. He knew something I didn’t.” He had even spared a thought for Muttnik, after all.

​

The reception was being held in the ordinary bishop’s office. The carpet was thick and green and there were heavy gold drapes that trapped the Sacramento heat inside the oval room. I could only assume that the room was designed to sweat donations out of the constituents invited to meet with the ordinary bishop. The room probably helped to make him a very wealthy man.

I wove through attendees until I found Edward sitting in the bishop’s personal chair. The chair was pressed up against a wall and was made of oak and wicker. A fleur-de-lis protruded from behind Edward’s head. Edward had put his glasses back in his suit jacket pocket and was methodically pulling apart a shrimp. I glanced around, but the curved walls lacked any indication of a refreshment table or a shrimp platter.

“Hi,” I said.

“Hello,” said Edward.

“My name is Eric Carlson-Bennett. I am an old high school friend of your dad’s.”

Edward watched his mother deflect another well-wisher. “It’s nice of you to come, but my father never mentioned you.” It felt as though Edward was holding a secret just above my head so that I couldn’t grab it, even if I jumped.

​

“That’s ok. I just wanted to see how you’re doing,” Which, I realized as I said it, was a terrible thing to say to someone at a funeral. Not only does it serve to remind them that they should be in mourning, but it precludes any form of genuine response. If they are doing well, they lack the emotional depth to appreciate the scope of their own failures to the deceased, and if they are doing poorly, they are pitiable. I realized that, in asking how Edward was doing, I forced him to either burst into tears or respond with a meaningless platitude such as, “We’re surviving.” Perhaps Edward understood the nuances of his options because he sidestepped the question all together.

“I’m just glad my father was able to express himself,” Edward said. He continued to shred the shrimp. His hair was still perfectly combed, and he was not on the verge of tears. His fingers worked with precision. Each finger had a role it executed with poise and grace. I received a text from Luke saying that he had pooped in the Robertson kid’s bed as a prank.
 

“Maybe your dad used to tell stories about an Eric Bennett? We were pretty close in high school. We had a lot of good times in Dr. Roth’s honors English class.”

“I am sorry. He never mentioned you. My father didn’t mention Dr. Roth either. He never mentioned Lydia Carlson or Bobby Fisher or anyone.”

“What about an Eric B., or just Bennett?”

“No. I am sorry to disappoint you.” The words almost caught in Edward’s throat, but he took a deep breath and continued dissecting the shrimp. Edward really was very advanced for his age. He must have loved Bill and Bill must have loved him. My palms were itching again.

It felt as though my shoulders were too heavy for my body. I watched Edward’s slender fingers slowly tease apart the fibers of the shrimp muscle. He started carefully rolling groups of these fibers between his forefinger and thumb, slowly making a thin rope. His hands were incredibly steady. I received a text from Mr. Robertson asking me when I planned on coming to pick up Luke. There was an opening in the stream of attendees seeking Henrietta’s attention, so I patted Edward vaguely on the head and left him to his shrimp.

As I walked up to Henrietta, some small changes were evident. The violet pillbox hat and jacket were nowhere to be seen. The violet skirt had lost its starched appearance. A cream-colored blouse hung loose from her frame. She resembled, rather than a governess, a woman who has returned home from a long day at work. Her eyes came to rest on me as I approached. I didn’t expect her to sneer when she saw me, but I was still surprised when she didn’t.

“How can I help you?” She delivered the question in the same flat tone she had used during Bill’s eulogy.

“Hello, Ma’am. I am so sorry for your loss. My name is Eric Carlson-Bennett. Bill and I knew each other in high school. We were good friends. Best friends, maybe.”

Henrietta watched me as I itched my palms, “That is kind of you to say. I guess I am meeting a lot of Bill’s old friends today. I am afraid Bill never mentioned you, but I’m sure he would have appreciated you stopping by.” Henrietta delivered the lines simply. Statements of fact that meant nothing other than what they meant. I received a text from Mrs. Robertson asking me if I could come get Luke sooner rather than later because the Robertsons had totally
forgotten that they had plans later today and really needed to get going. I wanted to grab Henrietta. I wanted to grab her and tell her that maybe I had ruined Bill Painter’s life. That I had mattered to him and I had been his best friend and now he needed to tell what I had done wrong so it could be fixed.

“Maybe Eric Bennett?”

“I am afraid not.”

“Lydia Carlson is my wife.”

“Now that rings a bell.” Henrietta’s eyes were flat. She held eye contact until I stared at the floor, then looked back at Edward, who remained perfectly composed.

“He is a very polite young man. You should be proud.”

“I am.” Henrietta paused until the silence became impolite, then asked, “Do you have children?”

“Just the one. Luke. He can be a bit of a handful.” It felt like the words dribbled out my mouth and dripped down my shirt and ran down my leg. It felt like I was peeing myself in the middle of Bill Painter’s reception.

“That’s nice.” Henrietta rolled her shoulders as though settling a weight more comfortably on her back. Her neck twisted back and forth as her shoulders flexed. She looked tired, in her crumpled blouse and violet skirt. Healthy tired, though. Not tired like me. Tired like I was dying.

“Yeah.” I remembered Bill. He was always tired like Henrietta. Like he was putting the world on his shoulders. We would get our grammar tests back and Bill wouldn’t say a word, just put the test in a special binder that he kept in his backpack. Twenty years later, Bill’s perfectly well-behaved son is carefully reading a note addressed to my wife and another one addressed to a dead grammar teacher that says, “To Ms. Stablinsky: ‘Who cares if it’s who or whom? When was the last time someone died because of a misplaced “who?” That’s right. C+? Go fuck yourself.’ That is what I would say to Ms. Stablinsky, who should go fuck herself.” I couldn’t even remember what grade I got in that class. I had been important to Bill. He had been the loser and I had been his cool friend. He held on to these petty moments and I married the hottest girl in our grade. If he was too dumb to remember me, then it wasn’t worth the effort.

I received a text from Mrs. Robertson letting me know that they were running late for their plans, so they had just left Luke on the sidewalk outside their house. I received a text from Mr. Robertson letting me know that he didn’t think it would be a good idea for Luke to come over to play anymore. I received a text from Luke letting me know that he had earned three ice cream cones from Dairy Queen. Bill fucking Painter had to have remembered me, I thought. He had something for everyone else.

“I need to get going,” I say, “I have to pick Luke up from a playdate.”

“I know Bill would really appreciate you taking the time to be here.”

“Do you think I could take a look at Bill’s notes? Just in case there is something in there Edward missed.” If I only knew how many Hail Marys, or whatever.

“I don’t think so.” I was very tired. It felt like someone had put lead in my veins. I still needed to pick up cash. On my way out of the ordinary bishop’s office, I stopped a few feet from Edward’s chair and consider saying goodbye, but he seemed occupied, so I just left.