Sharon Rose - Who Needs Enemies

Sharon Rose

The dimly lit room had a claustrophobic feel to it. Not that it was so
small. It was just that everything pressed in on a person: the dark walls,
the heavy-scented flower arrangements, the dull monotone organ music…the
coffin. It was difficult to breath.
I studied the woman whose body was laid out in the white satin of the
casket, her final resting place. Final resting place. Why do we make it
sound so serene and almost welcoming? Perhaps it’s our way of coping with
our own mortality? No one ever uses the word ‘dead’, do they? They look at
the body and murmur, “My, doesn’t she look at peace”. I have yet to hear
someone say, “My, doesn’t she look dead.” But that’s the reality of it all,
isn’t it? There’s nothing peaceful about dying. It isn’t an enemy that we
welcome. The majority of us fight tooth and nail to avoid it. Although it
appears some use it as a means of escape.
I wanted to move but something held me there. This was exactly how I
remembered her: flawless skin, tanned and healthy. Cheeks, touched with just
the right amount of rouge. Lips, gleaming with soft coral lipstick and
gloss. There was even a subtle hint of gray shadow on her eyelids. Her hair;
medium blond, no sign of graying, cut and styled.
The mortician had been good. Good - but the trauma was still etched into
the face. No human hand could magically smooth that out of existence. The
small engraving above her head ‘Rest in Peace, Mary Lou’ seemed a mockery.
Why did I find it so disturbing? It wasn’t that I’d never gazed down at
a dead woman’s face before. In fact, over the years, I’ve seen too many.
But they were unknown faces; unreal faces. I’d never heard them laugh,
never saw them cry. Oh sure, in my mind, I knew she was someone’s child,
someone’s wife, perhaps someone’s lover, but I never let myself dwell on
that sort of information. If I had, somewhere along the way I would’ve lost
all perspective. I probably would have ended up burned out and blubbering
the rest of my life away in some sort of home for mad female ex-cops. Not
that I know of any such place, but perhaps there are some hidden away. If
not, there should be. It would undoubtedly be a lucrative business in which
to invest. Come to think of it, I might mention the idea to my neighbor, Sam
Gallaway. He really needed to find something productive to fill up his
empty days.
No, this time it was different. I was staring down at someone I’d known
many years ago; an old friend from the past that I hadn’t seen, since when?
How long had it been now? I’d moved away over thirty years ago. I’d
returned for brief visits. I’m not sure how many, but I’d say it must have
been, at least, three. Is there a certain time when a person decides to lose
touch? We’d never made a mutual farewell agreement: You go your way and
I’ll go mine and then we’ll get together in fifteen or twenty years.
Probably, my last words had been, “See you soon.” I’ve noticed I usually
say that. Maybe I just don’t like goodbyes.
Mary Lou and I started out in grade school together. There were the five
of us. We called ourselves the Fabulous Five. This was before any famous
people thought of calling themselves fabulous. Where one went, the other
four followed. And, it was usually Mary Lou who was leading the way. When
we were good, we were all good; if there was trouble, we were in it
together. We constantly frustrated the boys and drove the teachers insane.
The only ones thankful were our parents. They believed there was safety in
numbers. My dear sweet mother, bless her heart, was just thankful I’d found
friends who came from rich families. None of the girls seemed to mind that
I was the only underprivileged one. Least of all Mary Lou. All of us shared
and shared alike. I was the one who really came out on top. Second hand
clothes, jewelry and riding around in brand new sports cars suited me fine.
If I remember correctly, there were a few second-hand boyfriends thrown in
there, too.
It’s funny how things work out. Mary Lou and I were the only ones who’d
never married. I could understand no one being interested in me (at least,
not long term). Not that I’m a misfit or anything like that. I think I’ve
always been picky and maybe a little strong-minded and independent. Stubborn
and unyielding come to mind, too. Until I was thirty most men bored me.
Call it pride, but I refused to lower myself and grab on to any willing
sucker just to say I had someone. After thirty, I found a couple of very
interesting ones, but they somehow forgot to mention they were married -
with children, I might add. But Mary Lou? I’d say I was easy to look at,
some might even use the word interesting, but she was gorgeous. Of course,
there were other adjectives that a person could use: lovely, exquisite,
glamorous, ravishing, the list could go on and on. So, why was I the one
standing and she the one ‘resting’ in a white casket?
And, who had dressed her in that virginal white gown and placed white
daisies around her head? I might have forgotten a few things over the
years, but one thing I didn’t forget: Mary Lou hated white and she hated
daisies. I don’t care how many years go by, if you hate white, you hate
white. You might grow to tolerate daisies, but your love or hatred for
certain colors never changes. She also hated funerals. “Nobody’s going to
look at me stretched out in a box,” she’d said. Although I suppose as the
years go by we might change our viewpoint on that. It was obvious that she
had. Or, was she trying to make a point about something?
I looked down at the soft blond hair that framed her delicate face. Her
beauty was still so evident, even in death. I could imagine her dark azure
blue eyes staring up at me under thick black lashes; her lips parted in a
seductive hypnotic smile. It wasn’t difficult to put myself back in time.
So, if a woman is still attractive, looking more like thirty-five than
fifty-something and, I would imagine, still financially well-off, why would
she want to commit suicide? What possible reason could there be for wanting
to end your own life? Could she have been so lonely? The young woman I knew
had been self-reliant and full of life. There was no way she would have
tried to escape reality by ending everything. I’d never known her to back
down from anyone or anything.
Of course, there’s always the possibility she had become severely
depressed - perhaps manic depression. Having a big bank account doesn’t
seem to be the antidote for that. She had obviously not been suffering from
any type of terminal illness. Even now she looked the picture of health.
Perhaps, the other girls could fill me in. This must be very distressing for
them.
So far I hadn’t seen any of them, but I knew they’d be here. I was sure
they still kept in close contact. They probably lived within a few blocks
of each other. That’s one thing about family money: If you want it, you
have to stay close to it. Maybe I was the lucky one after all. There was
no way I could have stayed in a small place like Grandmont City. After a
few years I would have smothered to death. Is that what happened to Mary
Lou?
But something else puzzled me: Why had Mary Lou’s lawyer phoned to give
me the news? Why had he been so insistent that I come? How did he even know
who I was? Surely, one of my old friends could have dug up my phone number
and called.
The lady beside me politely coughed. I realized I’d been standing in
front of the coffin way too long. I looked back at the line of people.
There weren’t that many left, maybe ten. I couldn’t help but wonder how many
had come solely out of curiosity. People have this morbid interest in
suicide. Most gave me a sympathetic look mixed with annoyance. No one wants
to be forced to stand in line in front of a coffin any longer than
necessary, no matter what the motive is for standing there.
I walked back to the hard wooden benches and sat about half way down on
the left side. Mournful taped organ music continued to fill the stuffy
funeral chapel. People, sitting in small clumps around me, whispered
discreetly. Now and then someone would clear his or her throat. A man in a
black suit stood to one side of the coffin, his hands clasped behind him. I
assumed he was a clergyman or an employee of the Eternal Peace funeral home.
When the last person in the lineup took his seat, the gentleman in black
stood up to a small silver microphone that seemed to sprout out the top of a
dark wooden podium. The music gently faded away until the room was eerily
silent. For a moment he stood looking at us. I almost expected Mary Lou to
sit up and tell us it was all a joke. Didn’t we see the humor in it? That
was something she would have done, too. But, she didn’t move. No one in the
audience moved. I suddenly felt self-conscious even breathing.