I
The twenty-two guests, having been treated to some very good wine and hors d’Oeuvres, were now cautiously descending the wide and elegant staircase of Imagone Funeral Home to the main parlor on the first floor. A spring snowstorm was fussing outside, with large flakes blowing every which way under an ambivalent late afternoon sky. Although the wine had tempered some of their misgivings about this whole strange ordeal, these people had come to Western New York unprepared to deal with the rude stranger who was now rattling the large windows of the home. While some made their complaints openly, others ducked behind attempts at cynical humor. It was clear that all were now wishing that this was over so that they could return to their more comfortable places in life.
In the low lamplight at the far end of the spacious parlor, two elegant ivory caskets seemed to float there among the tiers of bouquets—lilies, orchids, and white roses all donated by the Basilica. There was a hush among the crowd as Mr. Thomas Clarion, the mortician filling in for the absent director Roger Alkins, took his place between the two coffins, feeling more like a game show host than an undertaker. “Ladies and gentlemen, friends and family members,” he announced rather dramatically, “I have the very unusual, and I should add, very unorthodox task of reading to you the last will and testaments of Maria Alvarez and Harold Kinski.”
II
Father John Green stood among the crowd at the Buffalo Niagara Airport baggage claim wearing a Hawaiian shirt featuring large, loud parrots and holding a sign above his head that read SEEK AND YE SHALL FIND.
The colorful priest was a slight man, no more than 130 pounds, with receding brown hair and wide-open eyes that seemed not to blink often. He greeted me enthusiastically, taking my hand in both his, which were small and soft. Father Green was one of those men whose exuberance and playful demeanor make it difficult (and probably irrelevant) to try to pin an age on him.
“Mr. James,” he exclaimed. “You have found me. Welcome to Buffalo!”
It was a dim and grey Monday morning in April as Father Green drove from the airport to Lackawanna, home to the national shrine Our Lady of Victory Basilica. The priest, who was from Buffalo originally, was proud to have been assigned here at this mid-point in his life-service to God. He spoke with the authority of one who has traveled the world, claiming that Buffalo was a blessed place indeed—the notorious lake effect winter storms symbolizing mankind’s internal and external struggles, while the lush and peaceful summers and autumns remind us of Pope Pius V’s victory over the Ottomans, and of the strength and hope that can be achieved through prayer. He was a man of deep, unequivocal faith.
III
Flanked by copper topped twin spires, the great dome of Our Lady of Victory Basilica rose 120 feet into the sky. Four Great Angels, each eighteen feet tall, trumpeted from the dome’s rim. The adjunct colonnades boasted their own guardian angels, each tending to a group of children clamoring for enlightenment. Encased in a domed niche above the main entrance was the twelve-foot marble statue of the Lady herself. Among these giants, there was, in effect, an ambience of great mystery—the edifice seemed to emanate its own light from a source within, a light greater than that of leaden sky of South Buffalo on this early spring day.
As we walked across the parking lot toward the church, there was a shout from behind. “Father,” hollered a slightly hunched man with a Marine-style brush cut and wire-rim glasses as he pointed accusingly at the priest’s car. “If you leave it like that, with its rear end sticking out, someone will hit it. You know it’s happened before, and it will happen again.”
“Oh shit, what a pain” said the good priest under his breath, excusing himself to go and pull his car up several inches so that it was out of peril.
As we approached the front entrance to the basilica we were accosted by a quick and wiry little lady with blue hair. “Father John,” she pleaded. “I ask you again: can’t you find some way to quiet that child at the 10:00 mass. And I’m not the only one complaining. For God’s sake, we can’t even hear your homily above that din. It happens every week. And those parents, who are barely adults themselves, have no control over it.” Having cut us off from entry, she took more opportunity. “And don’t forget that there are many parishioners who are concerned about the bingo schedule changing. It has always been on Tuesdays.”
The priest took her by her mottled, knobby hands and explained apologetically and earnestly. “Milly, you know that God’s house is open to all comers, and I have neither the authority nor the heart to turn people away. And as for bingo, the bishop wants us to try Thursday. He feels that we might draw more people later in the week. But when I speak with him I will let him know of your concerns.”
The interior of the Basilica was even more magnificent than the exterior. A host of five-foot tall white marble angels stood like sentinels throughout the church, some holding fonts, some ushering in the aisles, others engaged in their guardianship of the innocent. Along the walls, the Stations of the Cross were also human-sized, and the drama of Christ’s Crucifixion, frozen in white, seemed as if it might breathe life at any moment.
The Great Dome’s ceiling was painted with images of the Coronation, the Assumption, the twelve apostles and three archangels, along with Jesus in a scarlet red robe. A white dove of peace signaled His ascent to heaven.
Most mesmerizing to me were the sixteen stained glass windows that formed a ring around the dome’s mural. These portals of multi-colored light hovered there like an alignment of glowing planets, leaving the impression that what lies out there beyond this life is, at the same time, already right here before us and within reach.
The mahogany pews, with a seating capacity of 1,200, were mostly empty as we walked up the aisle toward the apse. Suddenly I noticed an elderly woman in one of the pews lying in a crumple heap, half her body on the seat, the other half on the floor! Father John seemed not to notice, so I exclaimed, “Father, that woman might be dead!”
The priest paused, regarding the woman with a tinge of impatience. Then he shook the pew rather harshly, after which the woman regained consciousness and, seeming at once both annoyed and desperate, began sputtering, “Jesus Mary, and Joseph! God take me, please.”
“Myrtle,” said the priest. “It is not your time yet. God will call when He’s ready for you.” Under his breath he said to me, “I’m not sure He will ever be ready for her.”
To the right of the altar a younger man stood waving one hand urgently at the priest while pointing the other at the confessional booth. As Father John approached, the man tried to speak, stuttering and stammering—something about the devil following him, making him do bad things. The Priest informed him that today was Monday, and confession was not until Saturday. He then reassured the nervous little man that this devil was indeed an impostor, without any powers, and that he shouldn’t worry.
A door by the apse led us down a set of stairs into the basement. Having some church business to attend to, Father Green allowed me some time to visit the museum there. At length I followed along a tunnel and up a staircase to meet him in his living quarters, an adjoining building that had at one time been part of the Our Lady of Victory Orphanage. We sat in the great living room of the rectory. “So, Mr. James, as you know these are strange waters we are navigating here. I am happy to help you in your investigation, but as I’m sure you are already aware, there are some places I can’t go—priestly duties, you know.”
IV
We were joined shortly by police officer Johnson, who had conducted the initial investigation. From him I learned that the incident in question occurred last Friday at Memory Lane, a home for seniors who are in the final stages of their particular brand of dementia. A man, Harold Kinski, and a woman, Maria Alvarez, both having turned 90 years old that very same day, were found dead in their respective beds on the third floor across the hall from each other. Aside from the birthday coincidence, there were two strange occurrences: Harold and Maria died almost simultaneously, their oxygen kits beeping within minutes. The night staff was apparently a bit slow getting there, but the nurse on duty reported having seen a quick figure slipping through the door to the stairway. She also described a smell that reminded her of a science lab. Most strange was the fact that their sheets had been pulled off them and their gowns removed, leaving their bodies in their “birthday suits.” Reluctantly, the officer added that they seemed to be smiling.
Not surprising was that most of their small possessions—those trivial yet symbolic items left by friends and family members on the night stands to adorn the otherwise empty and sterile environs of the hospital rooms—were missing. All that remained in the night stand drawers were cheap, abridged versions of the Bible (supplied by the facility), plastic rosary beads, church bookmarkers, and a handful of old black and white photographs that were either torn or stained and blurry. The items had been placed in separate bags. The officer assured me that his team had found no forensic evidence—no prints or hairs or anything useful in that regard.
Following our briefing session, Father Green showed me to my quarters at the far end of the rectory. The room was small and not well-lit, but it was quaint—the walls papered with green and gold leaves falling gently from graceful branches. Above my bed was a large portrait of Jesus praying in the Garden, red tears falling from his incredibly dark and forlorn eyes. This was a powerful image, one that conveyed profound sadness while at the same time offering hope and consolation. In the sanctity of this place, I need not fear the dreams that have haunted me.
V
That evening I visited Memory Lane, a bland, sprawling two-story structure built in the ’70s. Operated by Erie County, the home had been designed for end-of-life care, and apparently aesthetics was not a priority. The walls were white, the windows small and scarce, and overall there was an air of antiseptic and chloride that assaulted the nose. Nevertheless, the medical staff members were cooperative and, it seemed, excited to be of help as I questioned them thoroughly about the events of last Friday midnight.
By all accounts, the two residents had been in limbo for quite a while. Like so many patients in this place, the tether tying them to this world had frayed to the finest last threads, and only the slightest gravity held them in place. As for the photographs, no one was able to identify any of the people posing, although one older nurse claimed the beach setting was Evangola State Park. No one except for the nurse on duty—the one who claimed to see a stranger in the hallway—could think of anything out of the ordinary over the past several weeks or months.
According to several employees, the only visitor to Alvarez and Kinski had been a man of cloth, so to speak—an unsociable sort who made the rounds reciting the Lord’s Prayer to the patients, undeterred by their apparent oblivion. Looking at the visitor sign-in register, I discovered the name Pastor Parker Hole, who apparently came once a week, usually on a Thursday. One of the nurses described him as a having long dark hair, a beard, and thick glasses.
Regarding the missing items from the night stands, none of the staff could remember exactly what those items were, nor could any recall the visitors who brought them there. Moreover, there were many discrepancies in their accounts of what the objects were. In the case of Ms. Alvarez, a nurse’s aide claimed that there was a white plastic horse, or maybe it was a unicorn, she wasn’t certain. Another aide seemed to recall a miniature statue of Jesus, the kind with a magnet used to adhere to a car dashboard, but then again maybe that belonged to the other woman who passed away a few weeks before… One nurse definitely recalled a Christmas snow globe that over time had begun to leak and was thrown out. As if by magic, the objects seemed to change on a regular basis, claimed one cleaning woman.
As for Mr. Kinski, there was a similar lack of consensus. A plastic hourglass (a gift that might be deemed a cruel joke in this place), a vase with fake roses, an old picture frame with a colored photo of a porch featuring someone whose age and gender were uncertain in the grainy-ness of it all.
Nonetheless, what all seemed to remember, and this with respect to both rooms, were pieces of cloth, often held in the hands of the patients, at least up until the last few months when the necessary motor skills had abandoned them. The cloth, in both cases was of a high quality—silk or satin, very smooth and shiny, like material from very expensive clothing. However, there was some contradiction regarding the colors of the two pieces of cloth. Though green and gold were most identified, in the end, no one was really sure.
VI
On Tuesday, I went to the office of public records. I learned that Mr. Kinski graduated from Lackawanna high school in 1934. He was a retired Bethlehem Steel worker. His pension was considerable, yet he chose to live in the neighborhood of Lackawanna, where he was born in 1915. He served as a cook in WWII, after which he never married. He had one brother, who died over twenty years ago leaving one daughter, who was a very successful realtor living in New York City. Kinski was a lifelong OLV parishioner, and a generous donor.
Ms. Alvarez, the daughter of migrant workers from Mexico, moved permanently to South Buffalo when her father got a job at Bethlehem Steel. She graduated from Lackawanna high school in 1935. She never married, and there was no record of children born to her. She was predeceased by a brother, whose son was a wealthy evangelist in Dallas, Texas. Her early career was sketchy, but she ended up working for New Era Hat Company and retired with a nice pension. She was a life-long parishioner at the Basilica.
Besides graduating from the same school and attending the same church, I discovered three other commonalities: Their bodies had been sent to the same mortuary; their last wills were written by the same lawyer during the same month of the same year; they were close neighbors, living in separate apartments of a duplex, which Kinski purchased thirty years ago. They lived in that duplex until last year, when they were both transferred to Memory Lane.
I returned to the rectory that night and, after sharing a bottle of fine wine with Father Green, retired to my room. There I took a closer look at the photos left in the night stand drawers. Most were too liquid-stained and blurry and generic to be of any use, yet I discovered two pictures, one from each person’s belongings, that were remarkable in that both featured three individuals—a man, woman, and child. It was unclear whether the child was a boy or girl. The picture from Mr. Kinski’s drawer was set at a beach in the summer; Ms. Alvarez’ in front of a Christmas tree.
VII
On Tuesday morning I visited the mortuary—Imagone Funeral Home—owned and operated by Roger Alkins, who had purchased the business several years ago. As I suppose is characteristic of many who have undertaken (no pun intended) this line of work, Mr. Alkins presented himself as the epitome of courtesy and formality. I suppose that projecting an air of such compassion and dignity serves to waylay the general public’s morbid preconceptions regarding morticians. Indeed, the kinds of chemicals necessary for the artful and artificial creations of morticians may affect their appearance and bearing as they grow older. And although they serve in the same brotherhood with priests and physicians—those in front of whom all men must lay down their arms—morticians are not so much revered; their relationship with the family members is tenuous, requiring a reluctant intimacy on both sides. I imagine they must sometimes feel like the red-headed stepchild of God.
Alkins had the precise and delicate carriage of a figure skater. Though probably middle-aged, he had the face of a young model, with light brown hair, sharp nose and chin, arched eyebrows and a gaze that was both compassionate and distant. But what was most remarkable about his appearance was the prominent scar on his lower jaw—a single slit extending from his chin to just below his ear. On this face, however, the scar was less a blemish than a distinguishing mark that added to his mysterious beauty.
The mortician was assertive as he engaged me in discussion about the two deceased individuals. He had, in fact, just completed preparing and preserving them for the church service, which was to be held Friday at the priest’s behest. He noted that the dressing of the bodies was not a difficult task, as it had been determined that both would be in closed caskets. He informed me that the caskets had already been sealed, and that, after having thoroughly inspected their corpses with the assistance of the coroner, there was nothing unnatural or suspicious about their deaths. It was a mere coincidence that they arrived at his home at the same time in the same ambulance. As we parted, he informed me that he was leaving on vacation the next morning and that his friend and fellow mortician, Thomas Clarion, would be in charge of the proceedings from here on.
I then phoned Attorney Debbie Valentine, of Valentine and Associates. She had inherited the practice from her father, Judge Frank Valentine—the man who sealed the wills of both clients over twenty years ago. She informed me over the phone that she visited the clients just two years ago, and that they were both of sound mind and were living unassisted in the duplex on Ridge Road. She had determined that there was no cause to question the wills. Ms. Valentine agreed to see me later that afternoon.
Debbie Valentine, who stood a little over five feet tall, had short blond hair, full lips, and bright eyes that seemed excited to see me.
“I’ve been waiting for this one,” she said, leading me into her office. It was apparent that, as she turned to her file cabinets, she was not timid about displaying her well-rounded figure—her short, tight fitting black skirt inching up one shapely leg as she leaned on the other. “I’m sorry to hear that they have passed, but obviously they lived a full life. My father was their lawyer and their friend,” she explained. “He helped them write the will—must have been over twenty years ago, not long before he died. But I remember it well because he often talked about it, in vague terms of course. It was something very interesting to him and seemed to amuse him. He also hinted that there was a lot of money involved.” She paused and looked at me, her eyes widening playfully. “And that always makes things more interesting, don’t you agree?”
Sitting down at her desk with the two files, she leaned forward, her purple flowered blouse revealing a marvelous depth of cleavage. “So Mr. James,” she teased, “shall we have a look-see?”
The first file—that of Mr. Kinski—contained a sealed envelope, which the lawyer opened to reveal a second sealed envelope and an open letter providing specific instructions regarding the reading of the will. On the second envelope was written DO NOT OPEN UNTIL AFTER THE FUNERAL SERVICE.
Ms. Valentine and I looked incredulously at each other from across the table. Then, inviting me to come behind the desk where we could both read, she pulled Ms. Alvarez’ file, which contained almost the exact same information and directives!
To summarize, the letters made it clear that 1) all assets will have been liquidated, 2) the inheritance would be divided fairly among family members, the church, and an anonymous executor (whose identity was known only to the lawyer and would be revealed in the second envelope), and 3) all family members will be notified immediately and invited to come to the funeral. This would be initiated through contact with the oldest blood relatives of each party: For Kinski it was the realtor/niece. For Alvarez, the Texas evangelist. Moreover, a $12,000 fund had been established for airline tickets on a first come, first serve basis until that money was exhausted.
“You know what is so odd?” said Debbie Valentine. “Neither Maria nor Harold had ever even met the niece and nephew.”
VIII
It was time to have another talk with Father Green, who seemed to have anticipated my visit when I returned late that night. “Well, then,” he said with a sigh. “I suppose it’s time you learned more about Harold and Maria.”
“They were always friends, even in high school. Never lovers, no. Neither Harold nor Maria were driven that way. They were odd ducks, for certain, and in those days, being odd was tantamount to being queer. They were mocked by classmates in high school, and even their own families regarded them with a measure of contempt. Eventually, both were, for all intents and purposes, disowned by their respective families.
“Of course, as birds of a feather, Harold and Maria flew together. As their companionship developed in an unorthodox manner, so did their sense of humor. It is hard for a priest to laugh, but those two might have caused even Jesus Christ Himself to crack a smile. Sometimes I was afraid how far they might push the envelope, but their indiscretions were always slight, and their delivery was so gently naïve.
“Anyway, they were queer, I suppose, though not in the modern sense of the word. There was no question in their minds about their sex, so there was really no “closet” to be in or out of. Regardless of how they were treated growing up, they became such kind-hearted and generous people. Whenever there was a person in need at our parish, they were the first in line to help in whatever way they could. They did all the food and clothing drives. They worked the homeless shelters tirelessly. Even in their seventies they managed to shovel snow during blizzards.
“30 years ago, when they were 60 years old, they went through a lengthy and personally invasive process in an attempt adopt a child. A social worker was ruthless in her attempts to discredit Harold and Maria, citing age and issues of sexuality as evidence against them. That woman, along with the fact that they weren’t married, pretty much ruled them out. Well, that’s when I came in, trying to return an ounce for the buckets of kindness they had poured into our church. Oh, I should give some credit to old Judge Frank Valentine, bless his agnostic heart, who participated in our scheme. To make the long story short, we provided the documents attesting to their marriage and served as witnesses to their worthiness.
“They adopted a 10-year old boy from an orphanage upstate. Before the home took him in, the boy had been mentally and physically abused by his parents, and he still bears the scars that prove it. For the first few years it was a terrible struggle. The boy was an emotional wreck, lashing out at whatever he could, trying to run away back to his friends at the orphanage. But Harold and Maria stuck with him, always forgiving, always finding ways to get through the next episode. Then as he entered high school, there was a remarkable change. During his sophomore year, he grew more reserved, more respectful, more thoughtful, and more fun—it seemed he adopted some of his foster parents’ sense of humor. And he also bloomed as a physical specimen. By the time he was 16, despite his scars, he had offers from major fashion magazines in New York City to work as model.
“The most remarkable thing of all, Mr. James, was that the boy turned down the call to fame and glory in favor of staying right here with his parents. He loved them so deeply. And after they lost their ability to function and he had to put them in that home, he broke down to me. It was so hard for him to see them still alive when he knew their souls had already flown away.
“Anyway, I believe you met him this morning. Remarkable, isn’t he? And now, forgive me, Mr. James, but I must retire…for the night, I mean. I have a sermon to write before Friday, and, as this is one close to my heart, it will not be an easy task.”
IX
The weather forecast promised a mixed bag, typical of Western New York in April. Because snow was included in the possibilities, it was decided by the mortician-in-charge, Thomas Clarion, that the caskets should remain in the Home (contrary to Catholic custom of bringing them to the church) until after the service, after which they would be delivered to the Holy Cross Cemetery for a brief burial ceremony.
Among the fifty-odd parishioners who attended the funeral of Harold Kinski and Maria Alvarez, twenty-two had flown into Buffalo on the last-minute free-ticket deal with hopes of getting something. Very few knew each other. Some were not even family members, but rather there by proxy as representatives of extended family members. Before the service there was much chatter about the inheritance, some cautiously optimistic, some highly skeptical, some downright cynical but not above taking a freebie whenever they could get one. One couple agreed that God had shown them the way here from Texas. Many jokes were made at the expense of Buffalo’s reputation for losing sports teams and foul weather. There was one, however, who remained quiet throughout. He wore a beard and glasses, always standing apart from the rest.
Father Green wore a magnificent teal and gold stole adorned with images of the cross as he stood by the alter. All was bathed in the magical light coming down from the stained glass windows of the Great Dome. Despite the modest and mostly non-Catholic turnout, he delivered an eloquent and passionate homily. These two people were not just parishioners; they had been close friends of the Father for over twenty years since he arrived at the Basilica. Both Harold and Maria possessed great vitality, faith, and spirit, along with unique senses of humor. It was obvious that the Father had loved these two individuals, and when the choir began the Communion song, “Miracle of Grace” it seemed that he would break into tears at any moment. Only a handful of people received communion, and the Mass ended quickly. In conclusion, Father Green made an important announcement. “At the behest of the deceased, there will be a gathering back at the funeral home for members of the family.”
X
I stood there in the parlor with Father Green and Debbie Valentine behind the twenty-two relatives of Harold Kinski and Maria Alvarez. Mortician Thomas Clarion, standing in for Roger Alkin, opened the first envelope, from Mr. Kinski: I have instructed our Mortician to, upon dressing me for the last show, place hidden upon my person and within the coffin a specific item of considerable value. When all is said and done, this item will be taken out and revealed to you, my dear cousins.
A murmur went through the crowd—whispers about the closed casket, about this being a joke of some sort, about being too freaking weird…
Clarion continued, opening the second envelope, this one from the will of Maria. Raising his eyebrows, he read with a voice that was almost musical: Ditto.
Someone representing the Evangelist Church hollered out in his Texas drawl, “What in God’s name is going on here. These coffins are closed, the good lord tells us not to defile those who are at peace. There must be some other way, some copy of the documents somewhere.”
“That’s right,” yelled one of the female delegates from New York City. “The lawyers must have a copy in their possession. They need to step up and take care of this now,” she asserted, looking over at Debbie and me.
Mr. Clarion then interjected, saying that there was more in the note from Ms. Alvarez: P.S. In the event that we have been “closed” from regular viewing, then by all means, open us up and come and get what’s there. Otherwise, it gets buried with us. There are no copies.
And so Mr. Clarion proceeded to unhitch the several hidden latches surrounding the cover and open the first coffin. Despite the powerful aroma of formaldehyde, the crowd leaned in cautiously, some covering their mouths with tissues. Then there was a collective gasp as they beheld the object of their morbid curiosity. There lying upon a rich purple satin fabric and dressed in a satin teal-colored tutu with pink leggings was the figure of a man, smiling, thumbs pointed straight in the air, his face painted like a clown’s! The mortician, after a brief inspection, removed an envelope from the under the pillow. Inside was a check. His voice rose above the cries of disgust and protest.
“A check made out to the executor for the amount of $200,000.00 has been signed and turned over as a donation to Catholic Charities.” This news received unfavorable reviews from the audience, who were growing more and more impatient in anticipation of what was hidden in the other coffin.
Thomas Clarion, seeming to take his role very seriously, strode to the other box. There, like a magician on a stage, he slowly opened the lid to reveal the figure of a woman, splendidly outfitted in a cowboy suit, replete with boots, spurs, chaps, jacket, vest, hat (which was a bit crumpled) and even a lone star sheriff’s badge on her breast. The material of her suit was a plush gold velvet, and in her hands she held two shiny plastic pistols pointed straight up. Clarion then reached down below her boots and removed a burlap bag—the kind you see in robbery scenes in the old Westerns—filled and tied at the brim. There was a note attached: For the Families to Divide among Themselves.
“That’s cash money,” yelled one of the Texans. The crowd, which had kept a safe distance, now moved closer again. As one of the larger men stepped toward Thomas Clarion, another got in his way, preventing him from taking the bag. Thomas Clarion sensed the urgency of the moment and, closing the caskets, proposed that three representatives from each family follow him into the back room, where they would assess the contents of the bag and distribute fairly.
In fact, it was cash money, over a thousand bills. However, what was grossly disappointing to the extended family members was that they were all one-dollar bills. This set off a fresh round of complaints, the most acute of which demanded to know who the executor was. And after Clarion told them that it was the owner of Imagone Funeral Home—Mr. Roger Alkins, adopted son of Maria and Harold—the crowd became very hostile. A New York representative then threatened a huge law suit, claiming that they all had been deceived, emotionally abused, and that she would get to the bottom of the underhanded, unethical lawyering going on in this podunk town.
XI
In the meantime, the snow had given up, the sky had turned Egyptian blue, and a scarlet red sun receded lazily toward Lake Erie. After packing my bags, I took a last walk into the basilica, where I found Father Green sitting in the front pew. “I understand that Ms. Valentine will be taking you to the airport.” he said. “Is there anything else I can help you with.”
There was, I told him. First, I wanted to know who the relative with black beard and glasses was. The priest told me simply that he does not check everyone’s ID who comes to his church.
Then I asked him why he did not go to the cemetery for the burial. After a long awkward silence, the priest sighed deeply, then confessed to me it was all farce. Harold and Maria had been buried days before, and the bodies in the caskets at the home were mannequins.
Finally, I wanted to know what he thought was the exact cause of death of the old couple.
“Mr. James, I am not a coroner. I am a priest, and as such, I cannot tell a lie.” Smiling sadly, he walked away past the altar of Our Lady of Victory. Then pausing beneath the statue of Mary and her Son, he turned back to me. “By the way, Mr. James, do you think what you wear here, in this life, is more or less important than what you wear when you are gone?”
***
Pete Howard works as an English teacher, a musician, a writer, and a house painter.
