Always Kiss the Corpse on Whidbey Island

288 Pages·2016·1.46 MB·English

by  Duncan Sandy Frances

Always Kiss the Corpse
ON WHIDBEY ISLAND
Sandy Frances Duncan & George Szanto
For June and Jerry Underwood

PROLOGUE
These people who pay their respect to the dead, who are they? What had these
ten—eleven now—mourners to do with Sandro?
The men and women in the room, likely they lived on this island. Why
Sandro had chosen to move here to Whidbey made no sense. The rest of the
family, the community—except poor Maria—we all live in Seattle. That’s where
Sandro should have come, home. Not onto an island, separated by time and
water from those who care the most.
Andrei again scanned the room. No Maria yet. The space, wood-paneled, was
decorated into nothing, two painless seascapes to the right, one flowered
landscape beside him, medium quality carpeting. Not even a crucifix. The all-
purpose chapel. No solace to soothe the soul.
Set against the long wall stood a table draped in white. On the table the
coffin, burnished oak, gave off a fine lustre. At the head and the foot, vases of
red roses. Yes, the funeral home had assured him, Sandro’s body would be laid
out according to custom.
At the far end of the room sat a young woman with green hair. How would
Sandro have met such a person? In the corner stood two women, one tall, dark-
haired, the other a blonde, animated, looked competent enough. The tall one,
attractive, seemed late twenties—slender, a straight dress too blue for the
occasion but full red lips and pretty eyes. The blonde, shorter, a few years older,
talked with a portly man in a double-breasted suit, either a man of substance or
trying to pass himself off as important, sucking in his belly to give an
appearance of a broader chest.
A small wiry man wearing a navy blazer over a shirt and tie caught Andrei’s
eye, walked over, reached out his hand and introduced himself; the name went
out of Andrei’s brain the instant it entered. “Friend of Sandro’s. You family?”
Andrei must stand out, different in this group. He gripped the man’s hand.
“Andrei Vasiliadis. Sandro’s uncle.”
“Terrible thing, just terrible. I liked Sandro a lot.”
Andrei nodded. “You were close friends.”
The man shrugged. “Not real close, no. We bowled together, same team.
Once a week. Had a beer after.”
“Ah.” Not close, but the man had come here this wet afternoon.
The man smiled. “We kinda carried the team. We were the best, both lefties.”
Andrei’s brow twitched. Had Sandro been political?
The man caught the confusion. “Left-handed.”
“Oh. I see.” The competent blonde and the portly man were approaching, and
Andrei felt an uneasiness. In one way, satisfaction; these people dealt him
respect. In another, failure; he had not, in the moment of arriving, taken on the
role of welcomer.
The blonde reached out her hand to Andrei. Another introduction, another
name gone. “I worked with Sandro at the hospital. We were good friends.” She
smiled, her eyes red. “And this is Dr. Jones.”
A doctor?
He too shook Andrei’s hand. “My deep sympathies.”
“Thank you.”
“So upsetting, so sad.” The doctor scowled.
The blonde agreed. “I just don’t understand.”
“No,” said Andrei, “neither do we.”
“He’d been in such a good mood lately, real upbeat.”
“I hadn’t seen Sandro for a couple of years.” Andrei dropped his head. “Not
since his father’s funeral. My brother.”
“That’s very sad too.” The blonde dabbed her eyes. “And for his mother.”
Andrei shook his head. “She and Sandro talked every week. He wasn’t sick,
he’d have told her. And she says the same about his mood, always up.”
“Will she be here this afternoon?”
“Yes. She wants to see Sandro a last time.”
The blonde and the doctor glanced over at the coffin. She said, “You mean
you’ll open the coffin?” She shivered a little.
“Yes. My sister-in-law requested it.”
“Won’t that be hard for her?” The doctor crunched his eyebrows.
“Of course.” Had it been up to him he’d have insisted the coffin stay closed,
despite custom. He’d prefer no repeat of Maria’s collapse when she’d viewed
her husband’s body. Since that funeral she’d taken his, Andrei’s, advice. Mostly.
Still, there’d been no arguing with her about an open coffin.
“I work at the hospital, I see how people die,” the blonde said. “The dead
should be allowed a final dignity. Away from the eyes of others.”
The doctor said, “I agree.”
“A mother has the right to kiss her son goodbye.” Andrei felt a need to
defend his brother’s widow: an open coffin was normal. Still—“Any relative, or
even a close friend, has that right. If they want to take it.”
Through the doorway came a woman in her early thirties, pale makeup, black
dress; behind her an older woman, also in black, on the arm of a tall man about
the first woman’s age, he in a dark jacket, slacks, no tie.
“Excuse me,” Andrei said, and joined the new arrivals. He kissed the older
woman on the cheek, embraced her for a moment, stood back. “Hello, Maria.”
She tried to speak. Words wouldn’t come. The tall man took her arm again,
led her to a chair, sat her down. The young woman took the seat beside Maria.
The man said to Andrei, “Mr. Vasiliadis, we met a long time ago.” He
mentioned his name. “I’m very sorry. I’ve known Sandro since fourth grade.”
Sandro’s old friend introduced his wife, who now held Maria’s hand. One by
one people introduced themselves to Maria, including the green-haired one.
Maria nodded thanks to each for coming.
A smooth-cheeked, tall, slim man in a black suit and blacker tie appeared
silently at Andrei’s side. “Sir, if you’re ready?”
Andrei glanced at his sister-in-law. Her face had taken on a quality of
uncertainty, as if she had forgotten where she was. Even, possibly, who she was;
what she had been she was no longer, not a wife, not a mother. Was she strong
enough to gaze at the face of a son whose soul now dwelled with both his earthly
father and his heavenly Father? “Maria? If you can’t do this, I’ll do it for you.”
Hearing the words brought Maria back to the room. She stood, stiff and
straight. “No. I must kiss Sandro.”
Andrei glanced at the funeral director, and nodded. The man, his black shoes
glowing with high polish, removed the roses from each end of the coffin, and
raised the lid. Red velvet lined the underside. The body had been wrapped in a
white shroud, proper for death. Andrei took Maria by the arm and led her across
the room.
When she reached the coffin, she slowly lowered her head and wiped her
eyes. When she opened them again her lips were inches from the body’s face.
She paused, then drew back, mouth agape. Shaky sound came from her throat.
Andrei put his arm around her waist. “What?”
She breathed harshly and stood straight, staring down. “That’s—” a hoarse
whisper, “that’s not Sandro!” She started to fall.
PART I