Olive knew the deceased only slightly. He volunteered for years as a handyman at the local homeless shelter. Olive works in the administration office.
This mortuary smells pleasant in a church-y way. It’s warm. “I’m from the shelter?” Olive says. A curly-haired young woman smiles and waves her in, past the guest book and the fanned array of memorial cards. Which feature him, the handyman, glamorous as a Rat Packer, Tuscan hills as backdrop.
Boning up on the deceased, Olive has learned that he was a pretty big deal in his day, over in the City. That he, in fact, held a number of illustrious positions before he retired and began volunteering at the shelter.
Inside it is like a party. Not overloud, but unmistakably joyous. A daughter Olive’s age introduces herself. “I’m from the shelter?” Olive repeats.
The daughter remembers the shelter honoring her father at an event. This was before Olive’s day. The family members all came and cheered for him, the daughter says. “In his speech, he joked about fishing a wig out of the clogged toilet!” she says. Her bright bangles chime.
Her husband ambles up to be introduced. “Some of us thought you were a professional mourner,” he says, eyes crinkling with mirth. On his cheeks, gin blossoms fluoresce.
“Strictly a hobby,” Olive returns. The three of them laugh.
“Just like him to hire a crier!” the daughter finishes gaily, touching Olive’s arm before she and her husband move on. Olive registers the tang of Irish Spring soap in their wake.
The mood is genial. But once the program begins, each person – another daughter, the granddaughter, two nephews — breaks down as they read their tribute to the deceased. One of the nephews stands at the front, silently weeping, head bowed, beside his wife as she reads his tribute for him.
This family is not rich, although they are clearly richer than Olive’s. The armchair psychologist in her identifies the mourners’ disorders. An unemployable grandson. A great niece with a pill problem. Olive recognizes the signs from her own family.
The departed was a bon vivant! In the slideshow every other photo has him holding a glass of wine before a loaded plate. At the age of 87, he purchased a minivan so he could scoop up family members of every generation and whisk them off to mystery destinations. He always paid.
He and Olive hadn’t known each other well. But he’d brought a small bottle of Irish Cream by the office one evening while she was working late. She’d talked him into drinking it with her and tried to give him a kiss right there in her office. He extricated himself, kindly, and took the glasses away to the office kitchen to wash them before calling out he’d better be getting on home.
While Olive’s own father died alone in a Phoenix hospital. His death certificate listed severe malnutrition as one of his causes of death. He could no longer swallow. It was during Covid, but after the more severe lockdowns. Nothing to stop Olive and her brother from being with him at the hospital. And indeed, Olive and her brother saw him in turns the year before he died. When he knew one of his children was coming, Olive’s father would lay in sundae cups and cookies from Dollar General. Pull frozen country ribs and bottled bar-b-que sauce from the fridge. Olive would treat him to a nice kebab or butter chicken. Drive him to the Indian resort casino, where her father would bring snacks for the two of them.
And just five months before his final decline, her father fixed Olive a simple meal in his new dry fryer. He made them a breakfast drink in his Bullet. He was showing Olive that he could take care of himself. His doctor had instructed him to forget about the special diet for his kidneys; he just needed to eat. The more calories, the better.
Years before that, Olive overheard her father tell Olive’s son, then just 6, “I sometimes get lonely.” But it was so difficult to make the long trip to Arizona during the holidays. There was always a more pressing need at work, where many of the shelter residents had never even received a Christmas gift.
The handyman’s home was open to all! The holiday gifts piled up under the tree may have been simple, a grandson is saying, “but the feeling was not.” The guests would spend half the day at his long, long table. Course after course. Many slept over. “It was about being together.” Murmurs of agreement from everyone sitting in the pews, including Olive.
Who learns that the recently deceased, while in his 70s, taught them all to ski! Built bookshelves in their new apartments. Thrilled his grandchildren and later, their children, with backyard fireworks. Neighbors might come to complain but would soon come under the sway of his joie du vivre. He made his own limoncello!
When Olive’s father could no longer eat anything or swallow his pills, he knew it was time to go to the ER. By coincidence Olive called him. It was evening on Father’s Day. The sun was sinking, and she was a couple of G&Ts in. On the phone, her father sounded the way he always did. He’d tried to drive into town, but it hadn’t gone too well, he said with a laugh. The gravity of this was lost on Olive. Her father opined that Olive’s local cousin was likely in Flowing Wells, being feted by his kids. He’d wait until morning to call, he told Olive. Then he’d go to the hospital.
“Call,” Olive had said, already rising to fix another drink. “Maybe he’s back early.”
This service is going long. No matter. No one is waiting for Olive at home. In truth, no one is expecting her at work, either. She was fired that afternoon, “After all these years of faithful service,” her boss had said with genuine sorrow. A day’s donations had ended up in her personal account. And then all that toilet paper in her trunk. Her boss seemed to gather resolve as he witnessed Olive’s, as he said, “unremorseful response.”
The late handyman has a wife who awaits him in heaven! More than once, it is mentioned that he was ready for Jesus to call him home. He was excited for that, they say. He was ready. Olive’s is not a family of believers.
Now the gold-bangled daughter speaks, teetering on her heels. “I felt so bad about leaving Poppo after my last visit that I called him as soon as my plane touched down. I told him I’d come back. I was worried he was lonely,” she said. “He laughed, saying he had visitors all day.” They came and they called. His door was unlocked. He gave them limoncello. They sat with him and laughed about the good times. He died in his bed, comforted by his faith.
Olive’s father died in a hospital hallway in the dawn hours, waiting to be wheeled by the squeaky-shod professionals to another procedure.
The Catholic priest is next. He is wearing a sweater with his priest collar at the neck. He makes two jokes about the dead man’s thrift. Everyone laughs and laughs. “A life well lived,” the priest finishes, dabbing at the corners of his gimlet eyes.
And Olive’s body surprises her when it produces a small yelp. She is not ready to leave. Cannot. All Olive wants, she realizes, is to stay here with these people, in her slippery polished wood pew. She feels starved for more friendly nods, more of these marvelous speeches.