Abe didn’t know why he was sitting up. By all accounts he should have been lying in his casket. He had heard the doctor pronounce him dead at the hospital. But Abe also recalled not wanting to lie there and play the dead game. He still felt too alive. He remembered his wife Alma crying by his bedside after the doctor told her he was gone. Abe spoke to her, but she didn’t hear him.
How he got from the hospital to attending his own funeral he couldn’t remember. He gazed at his sister Mildred sitting in the front row of the congregation and realized he must have been dead about three days. Mildred lived in Florida and it would take her at least that long to arrange for a cat sitter and a flight to L.A. Yet it had seemed only moments earlier that the doctor had pronounced him dead. So that’s what being dead was like. No sense of time.
Abe looked down at himself. He could still see his body, though he couldn’t make out if he were clothed or naked. He couldn’t raise his arms, flex his fingers, or move his legs. But somehow he had managed to prop himself onto the casket. He just didn’t remember how.
Even though dead, Abe still had the ability to feel happiness, and he beamed with pride when his son Marty, who would turn thirty next week, came to the pulpit. Marty was a fine young man. He looked even finer today in his black suit.
“We are here to celebrate the life of Abraham Isaac Rothman, beloved husband, father, grandfather, and friend,” Marty began. Then tears flooded his eyes and he couldn’t speak for a while.
Abe wished he could comfort Marty. At the same time he also wondered if Alma had instructed the mortician to put him in his blue suit. He could see what Marty and the rest of the people wore, but not himself.
“We know that wherever my father is, he is at peace,” Marty continued. “He was a good man, so I know he must be in––heaven.” Marty looked uncertain. “Do Jews believe in heaven?” he asked the rabbi.
The rabbi, who had never met Abe nor anyone at the funeral before today, suddenly had a coughing spell and had to excuse himself from the room. Again Marty asked, “Does anyone know? Do Jews believe in heaven?” People murmured. They shrugged and murmured some more. No one seemed to know.
Abe didn’t know either. In fact, he was surprised they had a rabbi at his funeral. Abe had never been religious, though every year they celebrated Chanukah, but Christmas as well. The kids loved it. Why not? They got double presents. Alma would wink and say, “Doesn’t hurt to be on the safe side.”
“Well, wherever he is,” Marty said, “we will all miss him.”
Abe wondered if that’s why he was still hanging around. Jews didn’t believe in hell, but heaven really wasn’t talked about––unless maybe if you were orthodox, but Abe wouldn’t know about that. He didn’t know anyone who was orthodox. Maybe he should have made that trip to Israel like Alma wanted. Maybe then he would know what he believed in. He would know how to act dead.
Abe got so wrapped up in figuring out what he should or could believe in that he missed most of the ceremony, and that included the laudatory speeches his family, friends and business associates gave about him. When Abe listened in again, Marty was back at the pulpit.
“The service continues at the gravesite,” Marty announced. “After which, you are all invited to the Rothman home for refreshments. Maps will be available at counter by the door.”
Abe sat on his casket as the people filed past him. They looked sad, especially Alma who was first in line, but also peaceful, as though the ceremony had given them hope that all was well and life was everlasting. Maybe they were right. After all, he was still here, or at least somewhere in between.
Marty and five cousins lifted Abe and the casket into the hearse. The ride was short, just down the hill to the grave waiting for Abe. When the funeral workers took the casket out of the hearse, Abe knew he wanted no part of this. Before they lowered the casket into the hole, Abe bent forward and slid off, landing feet first on the grass.
Although no one knew it, Abe stood among his family and friends as everyone said a last prayer to him and, as in the Jewish custom, took turns shoveling dirt onto his casket. When the last person finished shoveling dirt, people lingered for a while, talking about Abe, their kids and what a lovely place this was. During this time Abe tried using his legs. He couldn’t exactly walk, but he managed a shuffle. He didn’t want to hang around after everyone left. So he did what he had done for the past thirty-two years whenever he was out with his wife. He followed her to their car. Only this time he would not be opening the door for her.
Abe had to admit he enjoyed the after-party more than his funeral, though he wished he could have eaten something. His niece Karen, a caterer, had made a great spread of breads, cheeses, fruits and salads. People brought cakes and wine. Everyone noted that in Abe’s sixty-three years he had made many friends and no enemies. They told stories about him, laughed and carried on like there was no tomorrow. But as the sun set, people said their goodbyes.
The next few days were miserable for Abe. Seeing his wife and family so grief-stricken made him uncomfortable. He kept trying to tell them he was still here. To his daughter Leah, he said, “Don’t cry. Your father would never desert you. I’m standing next to you.” To Alma, he whispered, as she lay crying in their bed, “Alma. I love you. I’m here. Come on. Did you think I could ever leave you?” No one could hear him or sense his presence.
