Effects "Tonight the line will be out the door…down the street." The funeral director’s soft words seem to just roll past his slow-moving lips. "So expect to go well beyond our posted hours." I nod, my pensive eyes fixed on my wife’s lifeless body, her corpse, her remains, all that remains. The funeral director adds: "And do find some time to rest between sessions…and eat. Yes, please eat, however difficult it may be." I nod again, this time somewhat hesitantly, cynically, my eyes surveying his flawlessly pressed black suit. Oh, and where did you get your PhD in bereavement counseling? I want to ask. Then the pragmatist in me, noting how his flourishing gray hairs are starting to overtake their dark brown counterparts, says listen to the man, an experienced professional who has undoubtedly seen many a distressed family member faint on the very floor on which I now stand. "I will...I’ll eat something," I return, coughing out the words. Every horizontal surface of our--well, actually my--seven-figure Boston condo is layered with edible tokens of sympathy. Casseroles, meat trays, tins of baked goods. With only one refrigerator some of the perishables will perish. It’s inevitable; some will perish. Typical for academia. Pour an overabundance of money and resources into the latest hot topic, the zeitgeist. What do you do when a distinguished professor in the prime of her career dies? Send food…a lot of it. Unable to find a place to sit and eat, and, truthfully, not wanting to look at the damn food anymore, I grab my brother and we head down to the corner deli. Turkey grinder, a little bit of mayo. It seems to do the trick, the mass of bread soaking up some of the acid that has been gnawing at my stomach since the moment I heard the nurse’s fateful words. "She’s gone." The mundane banter that fills the deli is a nice diversion. The Red Sox, the Big Dig, it’s all music to my ears. Finally no one is telling me how sorry they are. My brother doesn’t say much, which is precisely why I brought him. "You better get this checked out," I said to Ellen a little over a year ago. We had just made love, and were lying in bed resting up for the next phase of what we used to call our "Sensuality Seminars." Every Tuesday afternoon we would close up whatever we were working on and head home to bask in, for several hours, each others flesh. Ah, the life of tenured college professors. "Does this hurt at all," I asked, massaging the nodule in her breast. "No, not at all," she said dismissively, and added, in the affectionately condescending tone that only she could master, "you worry too much, dear. And worry causes stress, and stress is, as we now know unequivocally, harmful to your health." She held her smile, then held my manhood. Thus began phase two of the seminar. The funeral director was right. The line is out the door, even when I show up twenty minutes early. I enter through the back door and take my place alongside the coffin. Next to me are my parents, and Ellen’s parents. And that’s it. Ellen was an only child; my younger brother, at his strong request, sits nearby in a heavily cushioned antique chair. It’s darker tonight, different. Not just because the sun is setting; something else is setting…setting in. Reality. This afternoon everything was so routine. As strange as it may sound, it actually felt natural to me. Like I had just finished presenting research findings at a conference and members of the audience processed up to the podium to speak with me for a brief moment. I can handle this, I remember telling myself earlier today. But now, as the minute hand on my watch stands a mere degree from perpendicularity, self-doubt begins to ooze from my pores, bonded to the molecules of perspiration that leave my skin. I work my index finger behind my collar and stretch my shirt away from my neck. Then I rub my hand across my forehead and my heart quickens when I inspect my fingertips and see the moisture from my brow. Not good. Slapping my hand against my slacks, I hear that door clank open. Oh no! Here they come. But I’m not ready yet. I quickly look around, for someone, anyone, the funeral director, my brother, but all I see is a dead body. My heart rate accelerates; sweat continues to flow. The mourners surge toward me in a lugubrious torrent. Why are they running? Slow them down, please, somebody, slow them down. A knot grows in my stomach. A knot, that’s where this all began. I can’t handle this. I can’t handle this. "Oh, God, help-" Wait. What am I saying? I have to remind myself that I am a steadfast agnostic. I know better than to call out futile implorations to a nonexistent entity. A false sense of divine protection on which the majority of our population rely. There is no God to help me, now or at any other moment. I am a scientist, I deal strictly with the tangible, not the imagined. And what about those awe-inspiring events you may ask, the mysteries of our universe that have no plausible scientific explanation, and seem only justifiable in terms of a Supreme Being or spiritual influence? Time. Give us time. This was precisely my urging in a recent journal article. All phenomena, I reasoned, regardless of how far they appear to fall outside our current laws and theories, do, in fact, have a scientific etiology which, in time, will be revealed. Empiricism will prevail. Although my little cerebral digression does create enough of a mental distraction to ease my angst, the effects are ephemeral, and, as the first mourner stands three Smoots before me, there is nothing, real or imagined, that can help me now. My heart reverberates in my chest, and the sharp pain in stomach causes me to bend forward. Everything appears distorted, both images and sounds. Spinning. The room is spinning. Or maybe I am. Just do it-faint. Let yourself go. Someone will catch you, or pick you up from the floor. See, he was wrong; I should have gone with my instincts. Eating didn’t help. I’m going to faint anyway… Then suddenly I see her. For some reason I glance out the window, at the long line of lamenters. She’s bundled in wool-long coat, scarf, and hat. It’s a wonder I even recognize her with so much of her being concealed. But that face, oh that face, how unmistakable it is. She must’ve heard from a colleague, I surmise, extending my hand to the first visitor. "Thank you," I say. "Thank you very much. Yes, she will be sorely missed." Seeing Kathleen proves to be the distraction I so desperately need, and somehow I muster up the strength to go on. Before I know it I am so deeply entrenched in the continual interactions that I just seem to forget my far too close encounter with a severe anxiety attack and, not to mention, the plush carpet below. Finding myself compelled to make frequent glances outside the large picture windows, I manage to keep Kathleen in my field of vision, in my awareness. She glances back at me from time to time, but when she does I quickly avert my eyes from her and focus, once again, on the person before me. For the longest time she doesn’t appear to be moving, as she, apparently, is letting people pass her in line. Maybe she’s wavering, not sure if she wants to see me or not. She starts moving eventually and then I lose her as she progresses in the line and enters the funeral home, somewhere to my rear. Out of sight, but not out of mind. For several minutes I figure Kathleen to be on the other side of the wall behind me, behind Ellen’s coffin. Then for a longer interval I place her in the long hallway that runs the length of the building, adjacent to this large rectangular room, their largest room. And she emerges, coat folded over her arm, hat and scarf out of sight, in perfect harmony with my mental extrapolation. Her hair as dark and full as the first time she let it down in my presence (during a late afternoon Rocky Mountain hike), Kathleen glides through the airport-like maze of suspended velvet barriers. The whirlwind continues, but with no trepidation, as I find myself accepting the maelstrom of events-handshakes, hugs, kisses, tears-as the order of the day. Scientists are good at that, construing disorder as order. I can handle this, I find myself repeating. Not only do the relentless interactions seem orderly, but they are also beginning to merge together. The mass of variegated mourners--old and young, rich and poor, of color and not-become indistinguishable to me. A single entity. They all begin to look the same, act the same, and, most notably, utter the same words. What a terrible loss. What a terrific life. She touched so many lives, sparked so many positive changes. Our world is a better place because of her. As Kathleen approaches I regain my ability to distinguish. She’s close enough now that I can see her face, which is still as taut and smooth as glazed porcelain. Fifteen years could be a day. My heart quickens once again, but it is a welcomed reaction. Or is it? Do I really want to see her? I loved Ellen with every fiber of my being, and will miss her tremendously, the void, the huge, cavernous void, will forever remain. Do I want to be reminded that I have loved before? And lost? Making a conscious effort now to keep Kathleen out of my field of vision, I keep my eyes fixed on the mourner at hand. But my heart rages on; I can feel her presence. Another mourner, former student, husband at her side. A hug, handshake, not so much as a glance at the line. It’s the end of the line, I reason, hearing the door clank shut. A few more people, eyes fixed, narrowed. Okay, let’s get this over with now. Finally the last mourner. While he kneels I take a quick look around. Just family, and a few stragglers. That’s peculiar. Where did she go? Has she left? But this all becomes extraneous, completely extraneous, when the funeral director prompts me to pay the last respects of the night. As I kneel to do so the void within me turns solid, and a sharp pain ensues. Right now I couldn’t force myself to think about, or care, where Kathleen might be, as thoughts of Ellen occupy every neuron of my brain. Back home, exhausted, I quickly say goodnight to family members and close myself into our--I mean, my--room. I drop onto the bed, shut my eyes, and feel the bed spin beneath me. The whirlwind continues. Involuntarily (why would I choose to do so?), my mind replicates the evening’s events, as some of the mourners pay respects once again. In no discernible order of importance, random people cross the membrane of my awareness. The horde of women, clinging closely to one another, each carrying a candle. Some were young, some old. Some had thick hair, some were donning bandanas or scarves over hairless scalps. A few had their bald scalps exposed, unashamed, almost proud. Ellen’s breast cancer group. They seemed to swarm the coffin, me, intoning prayers and mantras of apparently esoteric significance. I didn’t understand everything they said, which seemed like it was the way it was supposed to be. The women placed their small candles on the floor around the coffin, the funeral director closely supervising the position of each. One woman, older, thinning gray hair, a leader perhaps, approached me with an earnest expression and handed me a larger candle-a tall glass cylinder with a swirl of different color waxes inside. "This is a Forever Candle," she announced with an air of great importance. "It contains wax from the candles of all our sisters…including Ellen’s." I thanked her deeply. "Keep it burning," she emphasized. "Forever. When it gets low, drip some of the wax onto the top of a new one as you light it. I will leave several at your house, and we’ll keep them coming." I assured her I would do so. Now I can’t help but think: So that’s what she did all those nights. Made candles. Ellen’s dear friend, the anthropologist from the Far East. He approached me, his swarthy skin moist with tears, an unexpected smile softening his face, and spoke excitedly about the small leather relic he held in front of me. A circle with a hole in the center, and various designs etched throughout, the relic dangled from several inches of frayed twine. A necklace, I thought at first. But no. His eyes wide, the anthropologist explained the function of the relic, how it can help Ellen "find her way" in the spirit world. "She will return to her dwelling," he went on, "souls always do. So hang it on your bedpost and it will guide her, it will help her." I thanked him, and slid the relic into my jacket pocket, where it will remain. Vast differences notwithstanding, all cultures possess some form of afterlife misconception, conceived, ions ago, out of fear. Fear of mortality, of the reality that the end of life is, in fact, just that-an end. People have always had a difficult time accepting this. Desperation is ubiquitous; virtually all people cling to the misapprehension that when someone dies they are going to a "better place," like I heard countless times this evening. Grasping at straws, they are; or in the case of the smiling anthropologist, at leather and twine. My friend the psychoanalyst would agree with me. And oh yes, he was there this evening. A firm handshake, sincere words. "You have my deepest sympathies," he said. "Please let me know if I can be of any assistance to you." That’s what I like-focusing on the tangible, on the here and now. Not on some abstract, wishful notion, or false reassurance about a better place. It’s always nice to converse with someone who shares your beliefs, or in this case, disbeliefs. In fact, he was the one, during one of our many lunch discussions, who had enlightened me as to the fallibility of the human psyche, how we are hard-wired, with our use of defense mechanisms, to distort troublesome reality. He was also, tonight, the only one among the multitude of respect-payers who did not say "I’m sorry." Why should he? Nothing is his fault. "Can I send you any food?" he asked before leaving, to which I replied "No thank you." I like that, too-no unsolicited sympathy gestures. As I toss and turn in bed, Kathleen thrusts her way into my consciousness. It was just a matter of time. Immediately I begin to hypothesize about this evening. Maybe she just wanted to pay her respects to Ellen without seeing me? They did know each other, if not personally, certainly from the journals and conferences. Maybe as she got close to me she reconsidered. After all, we did leave on less than amicable terms. She may have thought my seeing her might stir up negative emotions, not fair to a man who just lost his wife. But either way it was a little strange how she- The book! I spring out of bed, through the bedroom door, and pad across the lustrous wooden floors. Where is it? Where is it? Ah-the end table by the couch; someone must have been reading it. Sinking into the plush couch, I open the leather-bound book, a guest book of sorts. I flip through the voluminous hardback, scanning every page, every name. Here it is! Kathleen’s elegant cursive, soft and flowing, graces the top of the last page. I gaze upon her signature for several minutes, recalling the details of her slender fingers, seeing them glide the pen across the page. Then it’s back to bed, where I lie awake, my thoughts back in Colorado, when I met Kathleen at the new faculty orientation. It was instant compatibility, just like with Ellen. And we were quick to progress our relationship into a physical one, and our bodies merged beautifully together like they had at one time existed as one. Just like with Ellen. The more I thought about Kathleen, the more I realized how similar she was to Ellen. Appearance, personality, ideologies. They could have been sisters. At the funeral service I stand at the pulpit and extend warm gratitude to all (the proper thing to do). Then I make a quick segue to the remainder of my eulogy, in which I focus on effects. Effects are everything to scientists. With a somber expression, and dry eyes, I delineate the many effects of Ellen’s life, at both micro and macro levels. Clearly she had many positive effects on individual lives, as was clearly demonstrated last night at the funeral home. And she also had broader effects, I explain: on her field, as she constantly challenged sociologists to strive for the most effective methods; on her world, as she epitomized, by immersing herself in the problems of our cities, the ideal of putting theory into practice; and on her gender, as she represented the perfect role model. Kathleen is there, listening to every word. I keep my eyes focused on her the whole time. I am speaking to her; I am speaking to Ellen. Riding in the limo to the cemetery, I think again about effects. The effects Ellen had on me. While I truly marvel at, and respect, the effects she had on others, I can think of not one positive effect she has had on me. Yes, our marriage was splendid, our life together wonderful. But now that she’s gone I am left alone, a widower, a forty-something professor with no family. I must say, objectively, these effects are unmistakably negative. Ellen’s remains are buried. She is gone. It is time to move on. Kathleen is gone, too. I never did get a chance to see her again. The day after the burial I bid my family farewell, and start planning for tomorrow, for my lectures, for my research. For the rest of my life. I start tidying the house, an insurmountable task as long as all this food remains here. Ellen would have brought the leftovers to the homeless shelter, I’m sure. I consider this but ultimately decide the effects would be minimal and fleeting at best. Poverty will be no less prevalent if I don’t show up with a carload of leftovers. Cash donations, which I give every year, are much more effective. Garbage pickup is the day after tomorrow; I’ll put everything out tomorrow night. My night is unexpectedly productive. My lectures are set, a new research proposal written. I watch the evening news until I can’t support my eyelids anymore. Turning off the lights in the dining room, I notice that the Forever Candle has burned out. I glance at the box of new candles the gray-haired woman left for me. I consider the matches in the drawer by the stove. Then I decide sleep is more important so I turn into bed. The elevator doors slide open and I step gingerly onto the tiled floor of the department hallway. Gingerly as if the tiles had recently been set and the mortar hasn’t fully hardened, is still pliable, weak. My colleagues greet me with a mixture of pleasure at seeing me return to work, some residual sympathy, and, or course, a touch of awkwardness having to confront the guy whose wife was just buried. I graciously accept their amalgamated reactions, while at the same time, and in no subtle way, make my intentions clear: it’s over, let’s restore the mundane, promptly. At my desk I take extra care--extra time, mental focus--to neaten my work space, something that anyone who knows me well enough would pinpoint as an aberration. But that’s the beauty of things here at school-nobody knows me well. Computer on, email logged into, I delete the warning message stating my mailbox is overloaded. Scrolling down I see a myriad of subjects with various words of sympathy. Yes, I am sure I want to delete all messages. Click. Internet up, news site loaded, I commence my morning ritual of checking the headlines. Kathleen jumps off the screen. Not the Kathleen, a Kathleen. A woman down South claiming a much sought-after, astronomical jackpot. Of course now the Kathleen starts flirting with my awareness. My soles compressed against the floor, I slowly extend my legs, sending my squeaking chair rolling toward the door. One arm extended, I gently close the heavy wooden door, watching and listening for the turn and click of the knob mechanism. A quick thrust and I’m back at the computer, search engine up. As I type her name I see it, with my mind’s eye, in beautiful cursive, as it appears in the book. The immense number of "hits" doesn’t surprise me. She’s well published, well established in her career. Ever practical, I winnow down the results to only the most recent. Now that’s better; much more manageable. I scroll and click, read and read, my eyes wide, my body still. Granite still. It’s her, irrefutably, the picture confirms that. After a few minutes, unable to bear the words and images any longer, I "X" out of everything, I shut the whole thing down. Slowly I recline, as far back as the chair allows, and stare at the obscure fluorescent light above. How could it be? The same day as Ellen. And breast caner, nonetheless. What are the odds? And how in the world…? After sitting catatonically still for I cannot tell you how long, I stand, grab my coat, and exit my office, door open, light on. "I’m canceling my classes today," I tell the secretary. "Please post signs outside the rooms." She agrees to do so in a gentle, perfunctory voice, but concern stiffens her face as she seems to suppress the urge to inquire further. Out of the building, into my car, I progress haltingly through the crowded city streets until I merge onto the highway and increase my speed rapidly, like an atomic particle accelerating into unspeakable fission. Then I drive. I drive, and I drive, and I drive. Up the cost, through Maine, into New Hampshire. Hours pass as I advance with no conscious destination, no logical progression. I double-track, retrace my steps, my path forming polygons of irregular design. While I drive I let my mind follow its whim. Not reflecting, contemplating, or pondering, but analyzing, dissecting, and inducing. And concluding, of course. Yes, concluding, the essence of the scientific method. I stop when I need to, for gas, food or drink, and finally, well into the morning, I pull into a rest stop, somewhere near Mt. Washington, and recline for some sleep. At dawn I awake, start driving once again. This time with a destination: Boston. Back to our condo. Back to our home. When I arrive I shower, then start dressing for work. No rush, work can wait. For several minutes, only half-dressed, I stand before our wall of pictures. My eyes well up, then tears roll down my face. I think of her, I talk to her--how I’ll miss her, forever, how I’ll love her, forevermore. Drying my face I do to the closet, pull out the suit I wore at the wake. From deep within the inside pocket I extract the small relic, and walk it into the bedroom, holding it reverently by its twine. I carefully place it onto our bedpost, and stroke the soft leather before leaving the room. Next to the kitchen, to the drawer beside the stove. A match, which I strike, to light a new candle from the box. "Forever," I say out loud. Forever it will burn. Then I drive across town, my car packed with rations. At the shelter they are grateful beyond words, and cry once again as they remember Ellen. How she had such a positive effect in so many ways. "Please tell me," I say softly, earnestly. "Tell me about the effects. All of them." Back in the car, my afternoon classes only minutes away, I return to the department. Ready to teach. Ready to learn.
Copyright © 2005 Kevin Costello |