Mortuary Confidential

He stared at me for a long time. I stared right back. Finally, he broke the silence. “You’re lucky.”

Yes, I am.

CHAPTER 34 Believe in the Butterfly Contributed by a Young Republican

A founder of St. Patrick’s Church, Connor McLeod, died. He was 103.

St. Patrick’s Roman Catholic Church is a beacon on a desolate urban landscape, only illuminated once a year, the date of the death of the patron saint of Ireland. On that one day it becomes the epicenter of the city’s focus, but when the green beer has dried up it’s just another neo-Gothic structure in the neo-ghetto.

There was a time when St. Pat’s was more than just a holiday icon, a time before the ethnic lines of delineation blurred and it was an all-Irish neighborhood. It was the time of Connor McLeod when the congregation was a thousand plus strong. The families of the original congregation have moved to the suburbs and the repentant souls that fill the pews on Sundays have shrunk to a pittance.

But when there is a death in the suburbs, the families want to return to their roots in the city, as in the case of Connor McLeod.

Connor’s mother and father emigrated from Ireland in the late 19th century; Connor was born six months after their arrival, a product of their pilgrimage. He grew up in the all-Irish neighborhood and lived there for most of his life until his health forced him to relocate to a suburban rest home. Though he loved St. Patrick’s, in his older years he had resorted to attending daily mass at a local parish. But upon his death, Connor’s family wanted him to be buried from the place of his youth, his home, St. Patrick’s.

Connor decided to die during one of the biggest heat waves the region could remember. Even my father, a fixture in the community, was commenting how he couldn’t remember the heat ever being so bad. The elderly were urged to stay indoors, and the power companies rejoiced at the bonanza. Of course, St. Pat’s was built before air conditioning, and the dwindling congregation’s coffers couldn’t afford to retrofit the building with it. On the day of Connor’s Mass of Christian Burial every window and door to the massive old church was thrown open. Somebody from the church even resurrected a box of old reed fans, printed with the logo Dumphy and Sons, Inc—something my grandfather had provided the church, no doubt.

The humid air hung heavy, stagnant, caught in the vaulted ceiling. The mass proceeded quickly as the congregation sat vigorously fanning themselves. The priest, a monsignor, and friend of Connor’s, celebrated the mass and prepared a special homily for the day. I think the funeral analogy people are most familiar with is likening our lives to the seasons—it seems to be a favorite of the clergy—but on this day the Reverend Monsignor James Shannon likened Connor’s life to the life of a butterfly. He described Connor’s life as a caterpillar, his death as the cocoon, and his rebirth into new life as a beautiful butterfly. It was a touching homily about Connor’s life and his faith.

Just as Monsignor Shannon was wrapping up his homily, a giant blue butterfly flew in through one of the open windows. It sailed down a shaft of light and perched on the pall of the casket. The butterfly gently flapped its wings a couple of times before taking off. It floated lazily over the altar for a few seconds;

Monsignor’s gaze fixed upon it and he faltered. As Monsignor collected himself and finished, the butterfly took off out the window.

It wasn’t a big dramatic event. Even so, I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t been sitting in the rear of the church and had witnessed it for myself.

My father nudged me. “Liam, did you see that?” he murmured.

“Yeah,” I replied uneasily. “Freaky.”

My father smiled at me in a knowing way.

I puzzled over the event as the mass wrapped up, and we processed to the cemetery, lowered Connor into his final resting place, and dropped the family off at their reception hall. What had happened?

There was no doubt in my mind if it had happened. It had happened. Everyone in the congregation, as well as the priest and my father, had witnessed the butterfly. What I was trying to make sense of was what had happened.

Was it a coincidence that Monsignor Shannon was talking about Connor’s rebirth as a butterfly at the exact same moment a butterfly settled on Connor’s casket? I don’t put much stock in coincidences, but I saw the butterfly, and it moved me in a way I can’t explain. I’ve come to the conclusion that the butterfly had nothing to do with coincidence, superstition, or religion. The butterfly was a sign of faith.

Though I’m not an overwhelmingly religious man, I do consider myself a deeply spiritual man—and spirituality is the root of all religions. What transcends religious borders and cultures is the belief, the faith, in the everlasting soul. The butterfly was affirming that faith. It was Connor saying to his family, “Though I’m dead, I live on.”

And it wasn’t hard to see how he lived on. His beautiful family sat in the first three pews in the church he helped found, and his undying faith in his God had allowed him the chance to say one last farewell.

I believe that how you, as a reader, accept this story will say a lot about your individual faith.

Whether you’re Christian, Muslim, Hindu, agnostic, or an atheist, if you haven’t had the chance yet in your life, or are too scared, I urge you to take that first step. It’s only the tiniest of steps.

Believe in the butterfly.

CHAPTER 35 Continuum Contributed by an actor

There’s a beautiful old cemetery in my area that reminds me of a scene in a movie. Every time I drive through the gates of Manhattan Heights Cemetery, I think of Rain Man. I’m sure everybody has seen that movie. It stars Tom Cruise and Dustin Hoffman and won the Oscar for best picture in 1988.

In the scene where Cruise’s character goes to meet his brother in the institution for the first time, the camera pans the oak-lined driveway. This is how Manhattan Heights is; roadways lined with giant old oaks stand like timeless sentinels, flanked by rolling fields where grave markers nestle in the perfectly trimmed grass. The cemetery is a lovely, tranquil place.

When I was just starting my apprenticeship, I was given the task of going out to Manhattan Heights to do a headstone rubbing. It was a clear, sunny, spring day. Everything was green, and the leaves on the trees were full, causing the sunlight to fall onto the cemetery drive in intermittent pools. I cruised through the gates slowly, enjoying the weather and the solitude. As I crested the hill, I saw an old woman standing over a fresh mound. The funeral flowers piled on the mound weren’t wilted yet, so I knew the grave was only a day or two old.

The woman was alone, and I assumed she was the wife of the deceased. Despite the warmth of the afternoon, she wore a heavy wool skirt and sweater. She held one withered hand to her forehead as though she had a headache, motionless as she looked at the patch of freshly disturbed earth.

A woman pushing a baby emerged from an intersecting drive and turned towards the elderly woman. The mother was young looking, twenty-seven or twenty-eight would be my guess, and based on her pace, was simply out for a leisurely stroll. She wasn’t visiting anyone today. The baby was swaddled in a pink cotton blanket. I thought it strange for a woman to be walking her child in a cemetery, but I guess it’s a better place than most. It’s quiet, usually clean, and there isn’t much traffic.

As the mother and daughter passed the elderly woman, neither party seemed to notice the other. But, I, in my car, saw the continuum of life. Grandmother. Mother. Daughter.

At one point in time, not in the too distant past, the grandmotherly woman had been that little girl being