The room was everything it was built to be: Impersonal, cold, and enveloping. Darkly stained mahogany and walnut outlined the wainscoting along the walls, while high chair rails and stubby shelves supported imposing objects projecting downward stares, a reminder of your insignificance, your mortality.

The tiled marble floor was cold, serving as an obvious disconnect between the warmth of the outside world and the chill held within these walls. Candles upon brass and gilded metal frames adorned the corners, while large crosses hung on opposing walls, the Christian symbol of suffering and redemption.

It was everything a mortuary was supposed to be, life celebrated within walls sealed off by death. The ante room served as a sanctuary, a spot where grieving families could shelter themselves from well-wishers during more fragile moments. The chill of the stale air felt like the reaper himself was in the room. The three stained glass windows shone with the pale, fading glow of the outside sun. In a corner were three children, stealing a private moment while people outside spilled into pews of the eighty year-old monument to death, readying their moment to grieve and relive the passing of a friend, a co-worker, a neighbor, a relative, a husband, a father.

The door opened and Peter walked into the ante room, coat slung over his arm. Ordinarily he would have donned his Armani three-piece suit and Zegna shoes for opening day in court, a superstition he kept ever since winning his first piece of litigation. No opening court date since had gone without an appearance in his trademark suit, but today wasn’t about fashion. There would be no opening statements, no motions for dismissal, no grandstanding before the magistrate.

Peter approached the three children, kneeling down a bit to peer from their level. “Your parents are looking for you I’m sure. Why don’t you find them outside.”

One kid looked up. “It’s boring out there. It’s just a bunch of old people.”

“Ah, one day you’ll understand. Just go back out there, it will all be over soon enough.”

The children got up and shuffled out of the room as Alexis and I entered. I looked at them as they filtered out and saw in their faces the same look I remembered having the first time I went to a wake, my maternal grandfather’s. Why are we here? What does this all mean? Why is everybody so old, and so sad? Questions nobody seemed willing to answer at the time. Questions I’d have to find the answers to myself, just as these three would.

I closed the door and the three of us stood in the pale white room staring at each other. It was the first time since the three of us – just us – had been together since Peter’s high school graduation seventeen years ago.

“I saw Mrs. McEwen outside,” said Alexis. “I haven’t seen her since Mom and Dad moved to the country club.”

“I think she is hosting something after the wake,” I replied. I looked at the stained glass window of Saint Michael, his body clad in shining armor, fighting the demons of hell. His sword was a variation of an Armenian cross, his armor reminiscent of the crusades. I wasn’t fascinated with his dress or his deeds, however; it was his face, filled with sorrow and pain despite the nobleness of his actions that stirred my curiousity. He was a man in battle, but by the look on his face the demons he was trying to hold at bay were within him.

“Hey Reed, you there?” my brother asked, snapping my fingers. I must have filtered him out while staring at the window.

“Sorry, what did you say?”

“I asked you if that’s the Zegna suit you wore at graduation.”

I looked at my coat, black and hanging from my frame with a classic cut. My father’s word for it would have been dignified. The cuffs hung past the coat arm their traditional quarter inch, and I took a brief look at them before shoving my hands deep into the pockets of my slacks.

“Yeah, Zegna.” We weren’t here to discuss designers so I changed the topic. “Do you realize the last time just the three of us were together like this was Peter’s high school graduation in 1988?”

“My lord, has it really been that long?” asked Alexis.

“Couldn’t be,” replied Peter. “What about when I graduated from Cal?”

“No,” I said, “you had Marie with you. I remember her at the ceremony because different schools walked on different days. The last time was your high school graduation. The last time the three of us were together like this. You know, without wives or husbands, girlfriends and boyfriends. Just us, just like now.”

Peter took a seat at the first row of pews. “Well, not exactly like now.”

We stood there silently, staring alternately at each other and into the blank space of the room. For all the past experiences and memories we shared, for the blood ties that bound us together, we couldn’t find anything to adequately fill the air with, at least anything of consequence in this place and on this occasion.

I finally broke the silence. “I don’t understand why I’m the one who has to give the eulogy.” I turned to my brother. “It should be you. Or you,” I said, nodding at Alexis. “You’ve lived with him longer. You have more memories to draw upon.”

“It was in his will, it was what he wanted. We should respect that,” Peter answered. “I wish I had a more meaningful answer, but I don’t. I don’t know the reasoning behind it.”

“I don’t know if I can do it. I mean, what can I say? There will be a church full of people waiting for me to say something insightful, waiting to give some kind of meaning or relevance to his death. I don’t know if I can do that.”

Alexis put her hand on my shoulder. “I know it will be difficult. I’ll be honest with you, I wouldn’t want to trade places, but we have to honor his final requests. Search for a happy moment, something you’ll carry with you forever as an example of the kind of person he was. Let that be your guide.”

I sat down on a pedestal that looked like it used to hold oversized candles. I put my head down and locked my fingers behind my neck. I exhaled slowly. That nauseous feeling was starting to return.

Alexis tried to change the topic to happier matters. “How much do you think Dad's patents are going to total?” she asked.

Peter shot up from the pew. “He’s barely dead and already you are cutting up his assets? Alexis, that’s low.”

I looked up and caught Alexis looking sheepishly at Peter, giving him a shy schoolgirl’s I'm sorry gaze. “That’s not what I meant. I just wondered how much there was, is all.”

“What does it matter?” I joined in. “He worked very hard to develop those things and get them patented, and as a result we grew up having almost anything we wanted. We lived in a nice house, we had nice clothes, and we each got cars by the time we were out of high school.” I pointed at Peter. “And don’t forget, without that money you wouldn’t have been able to go to Cal and Stanford.” I turned and pointed at Alexis. “And you wouldn’t have been able to go to Georgetown and tool around Europe for a summer after graduation.”

“I wasn’t talking about that,” replied Alexis. “I’m aware of all that, and I’m thankful for every bit of it. What I’m talking about is inheritance. How much there is, how it’s going to be split up, how he partitioned it.”

“That’s not in the will?” asked Peter.

“No,” I replied rubbing my temples, “it’s in a separate financial will. It won’t be read until after the stateside burial.” They all looked at me in disbelief. “Hey, his request. All things being equal I hope Mom spends it all. I hope she goes around the world on cruises and enjoys the rest of her time. It’s hers before it’s ours. Besides, the whole point of going to good schools and getting into good careers was so that you wouldn’t need to live off their money. You’re a lawyer, Peter. You’re married to a doctor, Alexis. You have your own money.”

Alexis paced around the room. “You shouldn't bite the hand that feeds you Reed, you could benefit most of all from this. By the time it gets to you there will be enough that you’ll never have to work again, I figure.”

Peter interrupted. “That’s if you don’t mind money that was made on the backs of war victims and innocents.”

“Jesus Christ, Peter! How many times do I have to tell you that Dad didn’t build weapons?”

“Are you still in denial, Reed? Think about it: He worked for a defense contractor. He had a restricted clearance. He couldn’t talk to his family about anything he did at work. He was forbidden from traveling to certain countries throughout the 80s and 90s. You tell me what that means.”

I ran a hand through my hair and sat back down on the pedestal. “All it means is he built altimeters. And he built them so well that he patented two of the design specs he created. The royalties made from the mass-production of those altimeters over the course of almost thirty years has put you, and you, and me where we are today. Period. That's all it means.”

Alexis laughed. “You sound like you are trying to convince yourself more than us, baby brother.” She picked me up by the arm. “It’s okay, I have peace of mind about this whole thing. He didn’t drop the bombs and he didn’t build the detonators. He built one small component of a much larger thing.”

Peter brushed some lint from his suit. “Small. Really? The self-leveling instrument on short and medium-range surface-to-air missiles? The piece that tells a missile how high it is off the ground and the distance to its target? That sounds like an integral part.”

“Look,” I said, “Lockheed made a lot of components for a lot of clients. They built stuff for the DC aircrafts. I remember the first time I flew to Greece to meet Mom’s family. I was nine. When we were somewhere over the Atlantic the stewardess invited me to go in the cabin so the captain and his crew could bullshit with me and make me feel important. I saw that same altimeter on their instrument cluster. It stood out like a sore thumb. So don’t tell me Dad was part of the war machine. I know what I saw.”

Peter glanced at Alexis and the two decided to drop it. The memories were more important, not the truth.
__________________________________________________________________________________

The wake was a traditional Scottish one. The casket was to remain open. The deceased wore a traditional kilt and black argyle jacket, complete with a sporran connected by a gold chain strap. A white bow tie was tied around his neck. He looked as I remembered him over the past ten years – dignified. He had always been the silent type, talking only when necessary, and when he did it carried such weight and gravity. When my father spoke you knew it was important.

People came one by one through the processional line, each paying their respects. Some wept softly, others tried to hide their tears. A few whispered muted things to my father as they passed, while others proudly declared things in front of God and his remains. “A good man, a good friend.”

My mother sat alone in the first row of pews, her Greek widow’s wrap held tightly around her shoulders. I wondered how she had found that traditional wardrobe piece so quickly, then realized at their age she knew it would happen eventually. Everything decays, no matter how well you try to preserve it.

I stood at the back of the hall, shaking hands with well-wishers and listening to stories about my father. Many told me they knew me since I was “this tall,” as they held their flattened palm to their knee or waist. One woman, a close friend of my parents for as long as I had been alive, wept and told me how it was a travesty the lord smites those so good of heart and pure in spirit. She cried and cried as I tried my best to comfort her. As my father had told me in hospital, I had to be strong for those who couldn’t be themselves.

My uncle, my father’s youngest brother, pulled me aside when he saw I was having more than I could handle of my father’s friends. He shooed me off with a white lie about the pastor needing to see me.

“How are you holding up?” he asked.

“I’ve been better,” I coldly replied.

“Ah, the Becker family sense of humor,” he pointed out, “it never disappears. I know you are trying to put on a brave face in public but it’s a natural thing to grieve, so if you feel the need to let loose with a good cry, or even vent, it’s okay. Shows your human like the whole lot of us.”

I looked at him. He’d always been a kind man, an optimist and a romantic at heart. When his wife ran off fifteen years ago with another man he always held out hope she’d come back. She never did, and he had to withstand fifteen years of people laughing and talking behind his back about what a dolt he was for thinking that way. I admired him, probably because he went through it that way and really believed she’d return. That is something I would never have been able to do.

He waited for me to do something. Cry, or scream, or fall to my knees. “I haven’t been feeling...well, anything. I just don’t feel. I’m disconnected I guess.” I shrugged.

“It’s okay. It will come in time. But when it does, don’t let yourself be consumed by it. Better men than you and I have fallen without being able to get back up.”

He patted me on the shoulder. I’d say he was the hundredth person to do that today. “I hear you are taking your father’s ashes to Monifieth.”

I nodded.

“He’d be proud. Very proud. Know that. It’s no easy task he’s asked of you.” He paused and rubbed his chin, a quizzical look on his face. “What have you been told about my grandfather? Your great-granfather, Wallace.”

I shook my head. “Wallace McFadyen? Not a word.” I knew a little about my great-grandfather, random stories my father passed down to me, and the occasional photo hidden away in a shoe box. In every photo he was an old man, in every story a shrewd patriach to be feared.

My uncle scratched his ear. “Why don’t we sit down,” he suggested, pointing at some seats in a private section of the hallway. We made our way to the seats, pausing briefly to nod and say hello to a few people.

“You and your great-grandfather share some uncanny facial features.”

“We do?”

“You’re the spitting image of him when he was your age, my boy! Now given the heightened emotions surrounding your being in Monifieth to begin with, there are some older relatives who will be even more emotional when they see you. They will be sad. They will be taken back. They will think they are seeing a ghost. Realize it’s not you. Wallace was a well-respected man there. He was a patriarch. He was well known, and for a long time he was the face of that town. Seeing you will bring back those memories, and it may feel uncomfortable at times. Just bear with it.” He adjusted his suit jacket and stood up.

“Somebody should have made you aware. Your father most of all.” He patted my shoulder and went to find my mother.

This trip was sounding better and better all the time.
___________________________________________________________________________________

I couldn’t sleep. My mother had sent me to my apartment, confident that between the ladies society of the country club looking in on her, and the various friends and relatives come to town for my father’s funeral, she was in good hands.

“Go home,” she told me, brushing some hair from over my ear, “you need your rest. You don’t look well, and the day after tomorrow will be a very big day.” Where Wednesday’s wake featured a casketed, fully intact body, Thursday would be spent cremating the body and placing the remains in a ceremonial urn for display during Friday’s funeral.

“I’m more concerned about you,” I said.

“I’ll be okay.” She paused, then added “would you do me a favor and leave Sophia with me, darling. After everybody has left it will be so quiet alone in the house. I’d like her company.”

“Keep her for as long as you want.” I hugged my mother and left. As I made my way down the walkway I could here Sophia whining, certain I’d abandoned her once again.

The apartment was dark and stuffy. Without the dog it felt a little less inviting, a little less like home. I had absolutely no idea what I was going to say in front of my father’s friends and colleagues, no hint of a topic or story, no anecdote or fond memory. I was drawing a blank. I needed sleep but I wasn’t tired. And when in this state I usually resorted to drink.

The first empty bottle of single malt sat on the counter, a testament to Monday night’s sleeplessness. The second represented Tuesday's. Tonight I had gone through half of the bottle, slowly nursing it as I sat on the sofa and watched old Charlie Chaplin movies. Charles knew about isolation and feeling alone; an entire nation had turned its back on him, and though my situation by no means compared, I felt as if he and I were kindred spirits alone in my living room.

Somewhere around 8am the next morning the phone rang.

“Hello?”

“It’s Carolyn. How are you holding up?”

What could I say? I couldn’t tell her I was fine, but I couldn’t worry her with my misery. She was thousands of miles away - what would she be able to do?

“I’m fine,” I flatly responded.

“If there is anything you need let me know. Anything. You need cheering up, then I’m your gal. Don’t let the distance bother you.”

I started to smile as I listened to her voice and thought about her touch, her face, her kindness. That immediately vanished once I remembered the three thousand miles separating us.

“I wish,” I started saying.

“Yes?”

I wanted to say I wished she wasn’t so far away, that there wasn’t that distance between us. I couldn’t.

“I wish...this all wasn’t happening.”

“I know, and I’m so sorry. I wish there was something more I could do.”

I begged off the call, too sad to go on. I went and laid in bed. I might have fallen asleep around 10:30, but I was awake by noon.
___________________________________________________________________________________

Westwood First Presbyterian church had been a place of worship for my parents for as long as I could remember. I stopped attending when I went off to college, when the parental chains of religion and faith were loosened and I was free to go as I pleased. They felt they had done their part as much as possible and instilled me with the morals of our faith to continue on my own. For all their hard work I’d gone to church a total of 10 times in the seven years since. Disappointment was becoming my specialty.

I walked inside and found my brother and his family waiting in a darkened hall. It was requested the family of the deceased come early to make sure all the arrangements were taken care of to their satisfaction. Alexis and Roger were directing the flower setup while Marie tried her best to keep her son Tyler in check as he tried wandering off into the cavernous body of the church.

“Peter,” Marie called, “would you keep an eye on Tyler? I’ve got my hands full with Lena.”

Peter didn’t answer. The finality of the day had hit him. Alexis said he had been in a daze all morning. Alexis seemed to be taking the day in stride. Maybe she had prepared herself properly for this day. I still felt disconnected from everything. I watched as Peter paced the hall, eyes focused firmly on the floor.

“I’ll watch after him Marie,” I offered. I walked over to where Tyler was. He was wearing the Ralph Lauren suit I’d spotted months ago in his closet back home in Carpenteria.

“Nice suit,” I told him as I approached his side. “You look dapper.”

Tyler didn’t say anything. In front of him was a portrait of Mary with the Christ child at her bosom. It was a baroque oil painting. Its gilded ornate ash frame probably cost more than my entire outfit.

“Mom says you are going to give a speech today.”

“It’s called a euology, Tyler.”

“What’s it going to be about?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” I replied.

“Don’t you have to write it out like a speech?”

I turned away from the portrait. I had never been one for religious icons. “No, I guess I’m going to just say whatever pops into my head.” I leaned in towards Tyler. “Can I tell you a secret?”

He looked up at me. “What is it?” he whispered back.

“I have no idea what I’m doing. I don’t know what I’m going to say. I don’t even know if I can get up in front of all of your grandfather’s friends and talk.”

He looked at me and smiled. “One time we had to do show and tell at school and I didn’t want to do it because I didn’t want to talk in front of everybody. I didn’t like it when they all looked at me and I had to do all the talking, but one time when I did it I told a funny joke and everybody laughed, even Mrs. Sommerwaugh. She’s my teacher. And then when I started talking I didn’t feel bad, because it felt like when we hang out at lunch recess. And I didn’t mind getting up and talking to the class after that.”

Tyler started walking back towards where his father was. Peter still looked lost. Tyler took his hand and hugged Peter around the waist. Alexis and Roger finished with the floral arrangements and went to comfort my mother. This morning I had steered clear of my mother; I knew she’d be inconsolable, and I left it to braver people like Alexis. I still needed to focus and find something memorable and important to say during the ceremony.

I sat in a pew at the rear of the church and tried to think of an important story or memory I had of the man. Something I felt a need to share, something that served as an indelible stamp of who my father was. The problem was that between the lack of sleep and the growing fear I had of addressing the crowd, I was coming up with nothing.

“Reed. How are you my son? I haven’t seen you in some time! I just wish it was happier circumstances.”

I looked up and Reverend Orr, the church’s lead pastor for the past thirty-five years, stood over me. We shook hands and he took a seat beside me.

“Your mother told me your father wanted you to give his eulogy today. A fine choice. And he’d be proud knowing you've respected his wishes.”

He laid out the ground rules. “We’ll do a processional, I’ll lead the congregation in some prayers, and then I’ll say some words. As per the arrangements, there will be a bagpipe-led hymnal and then I will bring you up. You can take as long as you want,” he said, and raised his eyebrows to add, “but seeing as most of your parents’ friends and myself are no longer spring chickens, you’ll want to keep it in the five-to-ten minute range so as not to lose anybody’s attention.”

He stood up and patted me on the shoulder. “Everybody has their own way of grieving – it’s a very personal thing – but the best thing you can do for yourself and your family is be there for them. Be that shoulder to cry on, be that set of ears to listen and say ‘I understand.’ It is a very powerful phrase. It's a way of saying that this too will pass, son.”

I started feeling sick again. The funeral was due to start less than thirty minutes from now and still I had nothing meaningful to share with those who would be here. I sat down and tried breathing slowly to hold the nausea at bay. When I realized it was a futile attempt and my throat was going to become exit only, I bolted for the bathroom.

“Reed! What is it?” asked Roger as I darted past him, waving wildly at him as if to say later, another time.

I tore into the bathroom. The vomit and bile were coming; it was past the point of no return. I felt my throat muscles begin to spasm and realized I wasn’t going to make it into a stall. I turned sharply and leaned over the sink. The first heave emptied a fair amount into the sink, with some splashing against the wall behind the faucet. My body involuntarily kicked and thrashed as I held the sides of the sink and let loose with another hurl, then a third and a forth. I gasped for air as my throat muscles burned from the stomach acid. I remained hovering over the sink until I was certain nothing else was going to come up.

I had filled the sink pretty good, and the stench of stomach acid and undigested food was pretty potent. I grabbed a fistful of paper towels and cleaned off my face while the liquid portion of the sink slowly drained. I took the remaining towels and scooped up the solids, cleaning the sink as best I could. The entire room reeked.

Once the sink was clean I moved to the other sink and washed my face and neck, then leaned forward and force-fed myself water so I could gargle and wash out my mouth. When I stood up I felt woozy and when I looked at myself in the mirror I had double vision. I held the sink edge for balance and closed my eyes.

“Reeds don’t break, reeds don’t break,” I softly murmured under my breath.

“What are you saying?” the voice said.

My eyes shot open. Roger was standing next to me.

“How long have you been there?” I asked.

“Just came in. You were like hell on wheels coming in here.” He turned and looked at the other sink, mostly clean but still with traces of residue from what had happened earlier.

“It is rank in here,” Roger said, kicking the door open and hold it ajar with a trash can. “How long has this been going on?” he asked.

I wasn’t going to lie to Roger. He was a nice guy, a patient guy. He put up with a lot and had made 80 mile treks one-way so Alexis could be with Dad. He never complained. He never got angry. He had a good way of keeping it all together.

”About a week,” I said.

“Daily?”

I nodded. He took my pulse on my neck and felt behind my ears. I don’t know what the doctor was looking for.

“It’s likely nerves. But it’s also made you dehydrated. I bet you haven’t been eating much either.”

I nodded again.

“Very well. In another five minutes or so sip a little water. If you still feel queasy go to the rectory and ask for some ice chips to suck on.” He turned to leave, but as he reached the door he paused. “What were saying just then when I walked in?”

“It’s nothing. It’s...uh...just something my father once said to me.”

“Well then...maybe it’s something after all.”
___________________________________________________________________________________

I stood behind the screen separating the raised altar from the pastor’s room in the back of the church and watched people funnel into the pews. Some faces I recognized were a little older, a little more wrinkled than I last remembered. Other faces were new, a sign my parents had continued making friends well into the oft-mentioned ‘golden years’ of senior life. Some were family – aunts, uncles, and cousins from both sides of the family – while others were old working buddies and members of the country club where my father played golf. A few wore ceremonial kilts and the full accompanying regalia, an homage to their heritage and my father’s.

I looked at their faces and the sadness they all shared. I started thinking about why they had come and what my father meant to them. I started thinking about what I could possibly say to tie it all together. I saw people embracing people, people who after today I'd likely never see again. My father’s death set into effect a diaspora among his friends. There was one less tie to bind, one less road to travel. They were free to pick up with new people, free to move on to new friends.

As I watched from behind the veiled screen I saw my mother among those consoling and being consoled. It was then that it hit me, why there were all there. They all wanted the same thing. It wasn’t that they had come today to pay their respects to a friend or family member so much as they had come for consolation and closure. They needed desperately to hear that everything was going to be okay, that this wasn’t the end. They needed somebody to stand before them and be brave. They needed somebody to pick them up. They needed somebody to be strong for them when they couldn’t. Because this too would all pass. Because reeds don’t break.

It was why they had come today. It’s why we all had come. I didn’t know what I was going to say. I didn’t know what great moment would suddenly hit me once I reached the pulpit. It didn’t matter. I needed to be brave and show them the way, even if I felt no braver than the bunch. That was what they needed from me. That’s what was expected of me. And finally I understood the reasoning behind my father’s decision.

I felt a hand on my shoulder and turned to see the pastor. “We’re about to get started. Are you ready?”