Funeral

Shortly after the pastor uttered a closing prayer, my father's soul floated free of its rubberized confine and entered my body through the top of my head.

The invasion was audacious and covert, hardly the action of a soul traceable to its begetter. I sensed immediately its desperate desire to escape detection, and apprehended a plan that would place it in a position of dominion, supplanting the subconscious mind in order to control behavior with me unawares. For some time it thought I was fooled, and I played along until I had fully grasped the situation, careful not to assert myself.

My wife, thinking I was swooning under the power of grief and sentimentality, touched my arm gently—like a feather on silk, I felt so incorporeal at that moment: "Are you alright, Eddy?"

"No, I don't feel alright at all, I feel like my father all of a sudden, like there's no more me left."

Of course, I couldn't tell her what I knew, that my father was in me, in the form of some formless entity—nor did she understand my actual words, which only hinted at the truth.

"Sean was a great man, Eddy," she said in a motherly, sympathetic—or just pathetic—tone. "He loved you very much, but you know he would have wanted you to live your own life."

"Maybe that's not possible," I whispered, my voice laced with irritation.

I felt a strange sense of purpose when I said that, and it grew stronger when my wife's face winced against the presumption of mysticism. Now is not the time was the message in her face, so heavily restrained by propriety. Oh, but it is! I thought. What better time than a funeral?—for I had something else, didn't I, a knowledge of a critical reality that everyone desperately searches out at these events. After all, I wasn't even sure of my own soul's existence, no more than anyone else in the room, but I was now absolutely sure of my father's. It was there, seeping through my system like a mold. I could feel it interlacing itself in the fibers of my body, turning my corporeality into something otherworldly. I was the unanchored host tethering a capricious, astral spirit, but one not my own.

I suppose if I hadn't both witnessed and felt the entity jump into my head, I might have written it off as the effect of shock, disorientation, even indigestion. But, like a sore that is ever painful once discovered, I was very conscious of it now; and the soul, reciprocally aware of my discovery, sought to make itself tangible, as if to befriend me. In one moment of clarity, I had uncovered the deep hiding places where wayward things normally establish their strongholds. My father's entity had now nowhere to retreat and so thought it best to seek a symbiotic relationship. Lacking, for now, the tools of language as a means of communication, it needed to show me that its purpose—as mysterious now as it had ever been—would be beneficial to both of us at this time and place.

I was now consigned to the great internal battle, fighting to keep myself from doing things that I didn't want to do, much like a man under the control of some wanton obsession. But this was not an unconscious "self" working its will upon me—the suddenness of the change would certainly disprove that theory—or even an easily feigned "other personality." Rather, it was it, an alien presence, and one not so alien, for it smacked of a most ubiquitous character, its humanity, which was, as is easily surmised, already somewhat familiar to me. The fact that an entity of humanity existed apart but within my own humanity made me aware, concretely, for the first time, of the reality of my own soul. I felt, in the truest sense, multifaceted.

The service had been held at the funeral home's little chapel, where the body now lay sculpted in a state of manikin-like dissimilitude. The face was puttied over to hide the shrinkage of skin, and the eyelids, sealed to conceal faux orbs, bulged horrifically in a poor attempt to play down the body-snatching efforts of science. The nose, once bulbous and misshapen, was now weirdly drawn to a symmetrically sharp point, and the chin had jutted strangely to match it in marked defiance. The body was dressed in its favorite pinstriped suit, loved and coddled only on special occasions during the years of animation, and it seemed glad to know that it was now so smartly adorned for eternity.

The whole scene of the corpse, truly lovely in its morbidity, the center of the room's collective philosophical bewilderment, became my—its—fascination. I—it—ignored decorum and procedure, started from my seat to stand before the casket, breaking off cold the final remarks of the pastor. The audience grew silent, rendering my wife's plea—"Honey!"—a singular, echoing moment of obvious social discomfort. As I walked—staggered, perhaps—toward the corpse, I could feel the newly harbored soul revisiting the crush of years that had brought it to this place, its former body surrendered to time's corruption in an exquisite, wooden box.

I glanced around the room, not of my own volition, but for my father's soul, which locked onto the sight of the ushers, who happened to be his former employers—my own employers now—the Brothers Larsen, with the rotund Jake at the main door to direct well-wishers, and Jarrod and John at front, on opposite sides. My head joggled oddly in the direction of each in turn, the eyes taking them into my mind and affixing fault to my memory. Nebulous impressions filtered through my head, fed like poison, of a life largely unknown to me, the life of a father who spoke little of his work, but faced each day as part of a sentence adjudged by these gracious brothers. The father I had known, a darkly brooding man who never expressed love or affection, but who had shown me the way of responsibility and commitment to purpose, was being opened up in waves of fiery remembrance. The soul glared again at the brothers, who wriggled uncomfortably and sought asylum in the eyes of the muted audience. The vision of each was consumed by the hungry soul, which used it to ignite my insides, as if opening valves to years of containment.

At the casket I felt my body weakening, not from grief, but for another reason that begs further investigation: I became acutely aware during the attempt to stay upright in front of the crowd that the human house is designed for only one spirit, and that the incursion of another creates in the body a maniacal effervescence, like a bottle filled with carbonated liquid and freshly shaken. My legs began to wobble, my torso jerked from side to side violently; I held tightly to a coffin handle as the father within forced my head to its own lying mound. The tears that flowed were tears of tension, pressed from my eyes as the souls struggled for footholds of cell and blood and bone!

But to the audience, it was a moving scene of filial piety.

John Larsen might have guessed that grief was not at play here, for he had seen firsthand the loveless and tumultuous bond once shared between me and my father, and had become somewhat of a confidante in my youth. His face revealed an awareness that something had changed in me, but he was unfazed by my uncharacteristic display of soulful sobbing. Assuming the role of the perfect usher, he steadied me at the shoulder and arm, and whispered, "Hang in there, Eddy, it's gonna be okay." The pastor drew in to my side and gripped my left hand. I confess that I have always found comical the disparity between perception and reality: the whole scene forced an abrupt round of laughter from my lips that could only have emanated from my own soul. The suddenness of humor, a salve during times of misery, is always a disruption to the practical man: my father's soul disapproved, lost the ground it had gained, and reacted by pressing out wildly at the walls of my body. My laughter stopped as I tried to control a shudder that nearly broke my grip from the handle as it lifted me off the floor. The well-meaning usher and audience gasped in unison as the fighting souls threw my spasmodic body upon the corpse.

John's brother, Jarrod, rushed from the side of the chapel to help him pull me off, and Jake, the eldest, substituted a barked "Help him!" for any effort he might have entertained to move his immense form from the rear of the chapel to the front. The invasive soul, recognizing the voice of the old "tormentor," as my father once facetiously called him, was suddenly giddy with a mix of self-satisfaction and rage, like the heart of a general who realizes his battle plans are coming together. My thoughts, mostly the normal emanations of sensory processing, became interwoven with the memories of a lifetime of toil and struggle, the life of my father, the life of a man sobered by the mind-numbing force of "making ends meet." The brothers are the spark of this, I thought. The excitement is for the brothers.

These were clear thoughts, flying somehow above the jumble of dual-souled expressions in my head, as if I had said them aloud in order to free them. I suddenly felt the urge to speak, to let the brothers know that my father was in me and was warmly thinking of them. I had no intention of visiting upon them the strange emotions that must accompany death, but hoped only for the positive, culminating in an offering of my father's gratitude for their presence in his life. He had stayed with them for over forty years, a roofer by trade, had been the only laborer who had seen their humble start, helped them to build the business by being their front man, by controlling the fluctuating workforce, by working hard to make Larsen Brothers Ltd. what it is today. The memories of all those years rushed about, and the odd mix of anger and excitement grew. I felt the soul flying up in my body, as if blown by an impetuous wind, until the whole of my father filled my splintered brain. I swung about, freeing myself from the grip of the John and the Jarrod, and opened my mouth to the audience:

"Larsen! "

It was a singular, explosive sound, almost one syllable in its slurred deliverance, but still recognizable by the brothers who sensed it as an insinuation of joint culpability—not my sound at all, to be sure, not even close to the expression of goodwill that I had sought to utter. My father's soul now ruled my tongue. The chapel's attendees were riveted in a position of shock, and the fat Jake took a decisive step to the rear door, the reeling of his own mind splayed across his deep-set eyes and trembling lips.

I was still holding on to the coffin handle, my right hand twisted behind my back. The being of my father held it, too, for I could feel both energy sources enabling the grip of my muscles. They were so tight that the metal almost seemed pliable. Suddenly the rage of the invader, once subdued by glee, surged like an electrical storm. The father felt the superhuman strength of the two and ordered me to help it pull the handle free. I fought it—how I fought it!—and I was sure that our—my!—bones would break long before the metal was released.

Had it not been for the horrific nature of my vibrating body, compounded by a terrible tension that filled the room, the scene that followed would have been the stuff of a good comedy. I must have looked quite the wiggling fool up there, hanging on to that casket for dear life, as I struggled desperately to speak internally to my father. I started the conference in hopes of releasing it from the violent streak that I had never known in the living man. But the more I reasoned—all vague words, mere impressions from one soul to the other, yet communicative somehow—the more the father bombarded me with memories of horrible times: of scraping by while the brothers lived well; of being put down, left out, pushed over, and trampled under; of stinginess amidst plenty, of mercilessness amidst blessing; of cheating, dealing, and outright stealing; and finally, of being contemned by the very men whom he had helped to enrich, a panorama of the manipulations that painted the fatherly soul as a bumbler who was better off in early retirement.

When the impressions were over, I appreciated, for the first time, the leveled spirit of my father. I seemed to be in control of the body now and gulped down a huge load of air. The memories of the abused became my own, for had not these things affected every decision of my life? I saw clearly that the source of contention between my father and me had always been his enslavement. It is food at the master's table that eats away every opportunity of the working man. My father, now in me, showed me how so much like him I really was, how I too had followed a path of enslavement, was reliving his years all over again and, now working for the brothers myself, could expect no less than scorn and disrespect in the end.

Rage among disparate minds is powerless, but such was no longer the case here. The living and the dead became one as our souls joined point-to-point. The air that now filled me began to rise, and I felt the power of the father rise with it. I didn't fight it anymore, but focused all our anger on our three virtuous ushers. The voice that arose was my father's, but in a much higher pitch, more of a shout, with a slight cave-like reverberation, and garbled, as if coming through water. The indwelling soul, replete in supernal eloquence, but barely in control of the body, slowed down its delivery in order to render its meaning clear:

"Wipe the sweat from your engorged face, Jake, and prepare your well-fed body, because the death that lies before you will soon be in you, and the worms that feast at your gravesite have many fat years ahead! No priestly rite or reverent elegy will save you from your torment any more than it has saved mine. I have come to usher you, Jake, and you, Jarrod and John, to pits far darker and deeper than my own, pits dug by your own hand with every act of heartlessness and greed. My own mire is closer to the light, yet lets no light in, my sad fate for years of bitterness and disbelief; but you!—imagine the depth of your blackened hole!"

Suddenly the coffin handle succumbed to the power of the doubly drenched hand. We snatched it free and held it menacingly before our face. As it glimmered in the colored lights of the chapel, we realized how well-fitted it was for the business of death. It was made of brass, cut and buffed in a pleasant design to mold to the hand, but sharp on the ends where the curled metal held the hinge. At the back, ripped from its mahogany case, were two long screws, still tightly bound to the handle by fragments of wood.

The souls, in complete agreement, said, "Rush!" and the body obeyed. A part of me still struggled to deny the fomented spirits within, but the mind followed the call of the brass. We bolted up the aisles, souls glaring through the flashing eyes, targeting the poor Jake, who struggled to pull his huge body far enough from the door to open it. The advantage was ours. We lunged at him with a hellish shout, wielding the severed handle like a knife and dug into his fleshy face with the screws. His legs buckled and he fell like a tree, and as he tumbled we pulled the bloodied handle from his face and struck again. His throat took the brunt this time, and blood gushed onto the chapel floor, an offering for the masses.

John Larsen was in a state of shock and had not moved from the casket lid where he had so lovingly steadied our racked body. The pastor was in a similar state, but mouthed a continual prayer, unheard for the roar of the screaming crowd. Jarrod had overcome himself and ran toward us. He was stopped by our shout:

"You are the next to go, evil man! How many here, in this very room, have suffered under the falseness of your words? Poor Mrs. Ackerman, right over there, hardly able to eat properly for the money that you forked greedily from her plate! And Jason Kellers, with so many mouths to feed and one always ill—no amount of pleading for his cause stirred up a cup of mercy from your black heart! Find your rest with me, disbeliever!"

Another shout and a cocked arm, hardly felt anymore, just moving with us, soul upon soul, father upon son, the violent heart driven by the madness of the simple injustices of life: the handle flew from the fingertips with the strength of a gunshot, the forces of darkness guiding it to its goal, and it buried itself in the forehead of the old brother Jarrod. He dropped like a rock, the back of his head bashing into the thinly carpeted floor, the handle upright as if awaiting the pallbearer.

John, clutching the lid of the coffin and the robed arm of the pastor, began to suck air harshly, his skin white with terror. Yet his mind, so close to the pit, had been enlightened. He was critically aware now of what he faced, and he pleaded with the father's soul directly, much to the bewilderment and wonder of a shocked crowd:

"Think about what you're doing, Sean, think about your own reward! You were a good man for us, like a brother—but we just couldn't keep you working any longer!"

"How foolish you must have thought me," we said. "How stupid I must have seemed! I am stupid no more. Do I have something to fear in carrying out these executions? I have already seen my home. There's no more harm in taking on this final horrid deed! I sentence you to darkness, young John, for the scheme of my demise, for the signature of your cruelty that crushed the hopes and dreams of my family. Now, come live with me in my humble apartment!"

Our body sprinted up the aisle, leapt over the fallen Jarrod, and rushed the younger John like a ram. We felt our souls swirling in the body as the head lowered and slammed like a train into the belly of the man. We heard the cleansing of wind as he fell into the coffin; we heard his damned spirit fly out of his back and descend through the lower corpse to its fated destination.

The pastor was in a sort of trance now, for he had risen to a new level of meditation. Pleading loudly for courage and mercy, he reached out to seize us forcibly. But it was not necessary—he sensed it right away and stayed his hand—for my father had fulfilled himself and was ready to leave. His rage died as fast as he had lived. Like a man facing the gallows, he began to say his goodbyes and separate himself from the rest of humanity. I started to feel my soul again as he tore his own away, and then I watched my father fall from my feet as a sort of undulating puddle, and he slid quietly into his cold house and began the process of seeping into oblivion.

I, of course, had no choice but to believe in all that I had seen and felt, and to give myself up to it, even after my own soul became as before, locked away in the cells, borne off to the hiding places of the body. I now was only me again, not in parts, but just a man; and I must admit that, at times, especially when I found myself in solitary confinement, the event seemed only dream. But then clarity came, and with it belief, and contentment in my state of perpetual dormancy, which had the effect of bringing peace and rest to my tired mind, and hope of a better fate than my father's at the time of release.

READING: Atlas Shrugged, by Ayn Rand

LISTENING: Vampire Weekend

STUDYING: World War I

VIEWING: Sister Wendy

READING: He That Cometh, by Sigmund Mowinkel

VIEWING: Sons of Anarchy

WRITING: Sheol

VIEWING: Sons of Anarchy

WRITING: The Year of Mythical Living

LISTENING: Mendelssohn

FRIENDS OF SIRIANO ...

DESCENDRE

EVENTIZED

LARRY PRUITT

THE SIGNIFIERS

CONNOR ROSS