Jimmy Carrigan's Funeral

The undertaker and his assistant wheeled Jimmy's coffined body from the hearse to the open doors of the church and stopped abruptly, overwhelmed by the emptiness of space and the vacant pews before them. Even the candles that flickered in their holders did so soundlessly. The scent of melted candle wax and the lingering savor of yesterday's incense made the church seem even more empty as they were reminders that only recently people had been there. But there was no one there now. No one.

Father Foley, elderly pastor, half-robed for mass, looked out from the sacristy on the empty church and felt a flush of nausea. There is no way he would say a funeral Mass to an empty church! Bad enough that he had to say a funeral Mass for a man he did not know! With a hand gesture he signaled the undertaker to wait at the entrance of the church. Then he hurried out into the neighborhood to collect mourners. He knew which places housed retirees who would be home during the morning. He knocked at doors, pleaded, invited, ordered as he must. Within a half-hour he had collected four retired men who were willing to put on neckties and attend the funeral of a stranger.

As Father Foley said the mass and the four attendees said the responses, he knew what the subject of his sermon would be next Sunday.

At the cemetery only the undertaker, his assistant, and the parish deacon, Walter Boland, were there standing at the empty grave that yawned, waiting for Jimmy. Four cemetery employees lounged in the near distance, respectful, but impatient for the interment service to end so they could close the grave and be off to lunch. "May the angels lead you into paradise; may the martyrs come to welcome you and take you to the holy city, the new and eternal Jerusalem." Deacon Boland conducted the brief service, sprayed the coffin with holy water, and was gone. The workers operated the machine that pushed dirt onto the coffin, smoothed the surface of the earth above Jimmy, and were gone too. The grass would soon grow to cover the spot, and the undisturbed surface would look as if it had never been opened.

The local newspaper obituary for Jimmy objectively listed the meager details of his life and death. It was a short piece. It said he was 79 years old, born in Boston, the son of John and Mary Deegan Carrigan. It said there were no survivors. His mourners were four strangers randomly selected, though the obituary did not record that fact. His lifelong service to his only employer, Derwill's Garage, merited a short sentence. The time and place of his funeral were noted. A short piece. Tomorrow the journalists would write other short pieces.



Gerald Ashton, Jimmy's landlord, was not interested in the details. He had urgent matters to attend to. With Jimmy suddenly dead, the monthly rental income from the one-room apartment stopped. The place had to be cleaned out and rented to another tenant as soon as possible. Basic economics required that.

He turned the key in the lock, eased the door open tentatively, and stood staring at the room. It was silent and, despite the furnishings, seemed empty. Odd that he felt like an intruder even though he was the owner. He shook off his uneasiness and walked through the space, calculating what needed to be done to prepare it for renting to another tenant. There was not a lot of time since he wanted to show it to prospective tenants in two days.

The furniture came with the room, so no major moving was necessary. Leave everything where it was. The next tenant would make it his own.

The closet and bureau drawers had a few items of clothing. These would go to some charitable organization for redistribution to the needy. The Salvation Army or St. Vincent de Paul. Ashton had dealt with them before. They would come promptly for pickup because there were many needy. Personal items could be thrown away. He had brought large plastic trash bags with him for this purpose. It was all part of the routine of a landlord's life, and he was accustomed to the routine after thirty years in the business.

What did surprise him was a thin packet he found in the top bureau drawer, a packet held together by a flimsy rubber band. He fingered it before opening it, surprisingly hesitant to do so. The rubber band broke as he tried to ease it off. Eight old Christmas cards, each signed "Love, Margaret." No other message. No dates. No envelopes with return addresses. Only the signature, meticulously the same on each card.

The cards looked old, their style that of another time. Messages from the past. But what messages? Ashton sat on the edge of the bed as he held the cards in his hands and stared at them. He was not a man given to philosophical speculation and reflection. A landlord had no time for that. Nor did he have any such inclination. Yet, he wondered. He wondered. Already Jimmy was blurring in his mind. Ashton had rarely seen him, and when he did it was only in passing, an exchange of a word or two of greeting or comment on the weather. Jimmy had paid his rent regularly, but he left it in Ashton's mailbox each month. Personal contact was minimal.

How long did Ashton hold the cards? He was unsure. But he suddenly shook himself alert, stood up, and added the cards to the debris in the trash bag. He reminded himself that he had to have the room ready to show in two days.

Only the calendar hanging on the wall next to the bureau slowed his swift purpose. It was dated 1953, and it showed the first page, January, as if it had never been used. Still, time, light, and dust had faded it, giving the impression of usage even if there had been none. It had a picture of the US Capitol in Washington, DC, its white dome pressing upward to a strikingly blue and cloudless sky.

Ashton did wonder. His sudden intake of breath made him conscious of that. Was it the picture that Jimmy liked, some decoration that made the room more personally his own? Or did the year 1953 have a meaning in Jimmy's life that it had to be preserved forever in his sight as well as in his memory? Ashton was not used to having such thoughts. His was a world of tenants, both paying and non-paying, and cleaning the hallways, a world measured by monthly rental collections and bill payments, a world where private satisfaction meant a quick meal, a drink with friends, viewing sporting events on television. He removed the calendar from the wall, held it in his hand, and thought for a quick moment of keeping it himself. Then, abruptly, he shoved it into the trash bag. Removing the calendar had exposed a rectangular patch of a different shade of color, showing how much the wall had faded over the years. Ashton cursed. Would he have to paint the walls before renting the room? That would mean he could not rent the place in two days!

On Sunday Father Foley delivered his sermon. He had worked on it throughout the week, writing the words carefully, changing them often, occasionally waking during the night to its cadences. He reserved High Mass for it, the proper setting of music, incense, and chanting for a message that was to be profound, basic, and necessary. In the sacristy, robing himself for Mass in the alb, surplice, and chasuble that summarized the long liturgical history of the Church, he felt like a young priest again. He might at last give a sermon to which the faithful would give more than their usual casual attention. How to reach the unfaithful was a different problem, of course, one he would think about later. You had to preach to those who came.

Father Foly was excited by the feeling of the Mass. The music never seemed so beautiful as the organ and choir blended into sounds he was sure the old church had never heard before. The rich liturgical language of the Mass never seemed so elegant to him as it did this day. The congregation never seemed to participate in the Mass so fully.

He read the gospel. Then he was ready to deliver his sermon. He had notes, but he would not read the sermon. He wanted to speak from the heart, moved by the spirit of Jimmy Carrigan's funeral. The congregation focused quietly and attentively on him, as if aware of the import of his message even before hearing it. No sound was heard. Even the candles flickered silently.

Without naming the deceased, he told of Jimmy's funeral. A funeral attended by no mourners. How strangers had to be recruited to pray for the deceased. He praised the Christian charity of those strangers. Then he reached the point of his sermon, oddly aware of a passion and eloquence he had never known he had before. He noticed that some
parishioners had tears in their eyes. He reminded everyone that one of the commandments of the Church was to visit the sick and bury the dead. Fundamental. Catechism fundamental. He lamented that this commandment lay so neglected in today's world, undermining both faith and morals. How can society function this way and still be called a society? He said that attendance at funerals was a basic Christian obligation. He ended by asking everyone to pray for the dead.

Outside the church after Mass, Father Foley greeted the parishioners. Beyond the ritualistic handshakes and trading of words that followed after Masses on other Sundays, the exchange between pastor and parishioners this day seemed more personal, more reverent. He had touched something that people felt, and they wanted to communicate that to him, though they did not know fully how to do so. It was a feeling, and feelings are difficult to formulate. A handshake more lingering than usual, a look more grateful than ever shown before had to be formulations enough.

The sacristy seemed oddly empty after the greeting of the congregation. Father Foley looked at its emptiness as he started to remove the robes. He felt its emptiness. He hung the garments in the wardrobe on the wooden hangers that had held them for so many years, indeed had held them for pastors who preceded him in this assignment. He straightened the alb and chasuble on their hangers, smoothing the creases and folds with his fragile hands, fleshless and blue-veined.

He stared at the empty garments. He felt afresh the flush of nausea that he had suffered on that morning last week in the empty church. His pulse raced, his breathing turned from rhythmic to fitful. Suddenly, stabbingly, he knew! His sermon was all wrong! He had misunderstood the meaning of Jimmy Carrigan's funeral!

Biography

American-born of a County Waterford family, William Brazill pursued a career researching and writing in the social sciences, including two books, until he finally realized that truth lies in fiction. He now lives and writes fiction in Old Town, Alexandria, Virginia, USA.