As the body bag on the gurney was wheeled down the steps, one of the well-dressed men slipped slightly on the chipped concrete causing the black cocoon to jiggle briefly emphasizing the outline of my neighbor’s gut. He was a big man.
My bag of cigars was at my side as I poked my head out the front door window staying slightly back so I wouldn’t feel like Mrs. Kravitz – the busybody from the 60s TV show Bewitched. Whatever prep that needed to be done seemed to take very little time from when the transporter hearse first pulled into the driveway.
My phone signaled me that I had received a text. I signed in and read the note. It was a question about shipping charges. Yeah, shipping. Ironic. The trip down the steps was now smooth and the dull-shaded gray plastic bag was no doubt being sprinkled with the light rain that was falling.
Two women stood in the doorway. It was only a few feet to the rear of the car. My neighbor’s wife was tall and thin. The other figure, maybe the daughter or daughter-in-law, was much shorter. As the men grappled with the gurney, I saw both women just standing there. I couldn’t see any trembling, or hugging, or closeness between the two.
Placing the body and the fold-up stretcher into the oversized rear of the car was taken care of quickly. Both women watched and just stood there behind the open doors that had been propped open by the hydraulic mechanism. It would be the last time my neighbor would ever leave his house.
Once the transfer was completed, the rear door of the black car was gently closed. The younger woman waved as the car simply drove away as if it had just delivered flowers. It was only then that the doors to the house were closed. First the winter storm door, and then the wooden one. The shades were drawn.
I looked at my bag of cigars and the briefcase. I just stood there imagining that I could hear the silence in the house across the street even though the sounds of a landscaper’s lawn mower continued to whirr despite the cold mist. I know that feeling of silence. Its deafening memory will never be stilled. Even after the grieving process, that black, dark void will never leave the mind’s consciousness.
It was getting late – for me. I had an appointment. I hoisted my briefcase and grasped the handles of my cigar bag. I was going to smoke a cigar on the way to my first stop, but – now, I just didn’t feel like it.
When I walked to my car, the stillness I imagined continued to pierce my eardrums. My eyes couldn’t avoid looking at the house, as if I were guilty in some way. My eyes. Looked up. Looked down. Looked up. Looked down. The dull brown, aluminum-sided house. In all the years we’ve been here, the occupants never updated the aluminum siding on the outside. But today, dramatic differences were indeed on the inside.
I entered my car and turned the key to the ignition – slowly drove down the driveway, unavoidably staring at the house and made my usual turn – trying desperately to keep my mind on my first stop. But it just didn’t seem important.
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IrvCigarBroker 