THE LAST I saw of my brother Mike alive, he was being kept alive by a number of machines: oxygen through a small green piece of plastic tubing under his nostrils, an I.V. in his arm, a catheter in his penis to collect his urine in a small bag that hung next to the bed, electrodes taped to his chest so that we could see his heartbeat blipping on a small screen. He never came out from under the anesthesia after his operation. The burst appendix was only a sign. The doctor told us that his pH balance was so acidic that there was little or no chance of correcting it, although they were trying. So of course we all believed in that one chance; I remember fixing on the image of a small boat at sea, almost capsized, tipping over, but maybe…
In the middle of the night the phone rang. I answered it. The nurse said we could come in the morning.
I went upstairs, where my parents were sitting on the edge of their bed, sobbing. I stood in the doorway, numb, and looked at them. Then I thought of Bob. He must have heard the phone and understood.
He was in his room downstairs, in his bed. I went in, turned on the lamp, sat down on the bed, and took his hand. He was not crying; he was shaking. I started to tell him that it was just that Mike’s appendix had burst before they had a chance to remove it, and that, and that…and he looked at me and said, “Cut the shit, Dick,” and kept shaking. Then we both cried hard. I started sobbing, and he cried quietly, lying on his back, the tears running down into his ears.
When we went to the hospital the next morning, there were no more tubes, no more electrodes, catheters, hookups; just Mike lying there, looking calm, in a horrible parody of sleep.
I WENT WITH my father to pick out a casket. It was like buying a car. A showroom of empty caskets with silk pillows, silk linings: mahogany caskets with brass pipes around them; rose-colored caskets of steel with handles, three to a side and one on each end; dull nickel-colored ones with powder-blue silk linings, and so forth. I despised the small man who showed us around and walked with little shuffling steps, bent over, holding his hands together as he spoke very quietly, making little bows as we stopped in front of each casket and rubbing his hands together like a fly. You had to ask how much they were, because he did not talk money, saying only, “Now for a little more we have this to offer, very nice, very tasteful…and of course if you prefer less of an expense we offer this one, also very nice, very nice.” And when we asked him how much, he would turn over a little card on the pillow, and the price would be written there. He would make his half-bow again, hands together, and wait. When we walked on, he would turn the card facedown again. My father’s stoicism was, I knew, an effort, and he made a selection by saying, “This will do,” touching one of them quickly and turning away.
“And a crucifix?” the man said. “You’ll find them in this case over here,” and he began to lead us, but I saw my father begin shaking his head, the tears welling up in his eyes again, and I said to the man, “We’re going now,” steering my father to the door. “Pick something nice; it doesn’t matter.”
“Yes, yes, I’m sorry, I understand, I understand.”
WHEN BOB DIED we called the man and told him we wanted exactly the same thing.