The Hanging Words

Dead as a Dores

I don't like to think of my sister as dead, but that can't be helped.

She's there now at the foot of the altar, resting peacefully as if nothing's happened at all. They made her look different—she didn't use to wear makeup before, and now she's so fucking caked in it that they might as well have put a mask on her. The lower half of her coffin's closed—why do they always do that?—and with her hands gloved and laid across her stomach, you can't see any markings.

"Felix, if you're not going up there, you should take a seat." The voice is Aunt Evora's. She comes up behind me, placing a comforting but firm hand on my back to push me toward the pews. I guess I've been standing in the aisle for too long. For a moment, I tell myself I can go to the casket to see the body up close, but that confidence turns to shit almost immediately. I choose one of the pews on the left.

"So far back?" she asks. "You should be in the front with us."

"I don't think I can get that close," I say, which is the truth. Every time I look up at my sister's immobile form—even the smallest, most accidental glance—I feel a surge of despair. It feels wrong not to be up there, but I couldn't spend the entire funeral planted directly in front of her. Besides, I can see the heads of two people who might object to me joining the up-front crew. "This is where I always sit."

"Be an adult, Felix."

"I am," I insist, "but that's my sister. If you don't want me to make a scene, you'll let me sit back here."

Knowing how much my aunt hates anything that "makes a scene," I enter my preferred row of pews. Aunt Evora purses her lips, but that she doesn't say anything is a sign she's bestowed her reluctant approval.

"Genuflect!" she hisses, before turning away and striding toward the altar.

Obediently, I step back out into the aisle, kneel, and cross myself—feeling vaguely embarrassed for having forgotten. Despite finding myself here every goddamn (sorry) weekend, I've fallen out of practice with a few of the motions. Some old habits die hard, while others leave you for dead.

That expression might've been a bit distasteful seeing as I'm at—well.

I catch another glimpse of my sister and there's a pain in my throat. Quickly, I lift my gaze to the Jesus figure hovering over the altar. When I was younger, the wooden carving of the Son of God used to terrify the shit out of me, not only because—true to classic Catholic morbidity—he was depicted nailed to a cross with painted blood dripping from the wounds in his hands, feet, and torso, but because I thought the statue was actually flying above the priest's head. If at any moment I wasn't praying hard enough or obeying the commandments, he looked poised to soar out over the congregation to strike me down. Only later would I figure out the statue was hung from the ceiling with cables. Children have ludicrous imaginations.

Movement at the podium.

My brother-in-law has taken the stand. Brian looks like he hasn't slept well in several days, though he smiles politely at everyone gathered in the church. When they don't see him waiting patiently, he speaks into the microphone. His voice is deep and soothing.

"Hello, everybody. I would like to thank you all for making the effort to be here today for Dores. I know she would have appreciated it, as do I. If you wouldn't mind finding your seats, we're going to begin shortly." He rejoins his family in the front row. I can just see the top of Mariana's head poking over the back of the pew, and I wonder if she understands that her mother is the one on display. I imagine she knows but doesn't truly grasp what the lifeless body means. Again, I feel a pain rising in my throat and I have to avert my gaze. Mariana is so young. I hope this doesn't steal that joyful part of her personality. She doesn't deserve to lose her mother.