The Brothers' Lot - Kevin Holohan [83]
There was a collective sigh of relief as Lynch moved to sit down. Most of them really just wanted this over with. They had put him in the box and that was more than enough to deal with.
Brian Egan stood up suddenly, as if compelled by some invisible force. He walked slowly and deliberately up the aisle. Lynch stared at him questioningly as they passed each other. Egan ignored him and walked on. He stopped beside the head of the coffin and stood uncertainly. He seemed to be collecting his thoughts from somewhere deep inside himself.
“Well, have a nice time in Hell, ye fucker! How about a smoke before ye go? Can’t do ye any harm now, cos ye’re DEAD!”
Egan reached into his pocket and withdrew a crumpled cigarette. The silence was now thick with disbelief and colored bright red around its edges with something unnameable. Egan took the cigarette and forced it between the dead man’s lips.
“Want a light?” he asked, and moved Brother Kennedy’s head roughly in a grotesque parody of an enthusiastic nod. “Well ye can’t have one, ye slimy bastard!” Egan whipped the cigarette from the cold lips and put it back in his pocket. He hawked deep in his throat and drew up a big mouthful of phlegm. The silence colored to a fiery red.
“Sketch!” hissed Scully from the door where he was keeping watch. In a flash Egan was back in place in his pew. He leaned down and spat loudly on the carpet.
When Mr. Pollock entered, he noticed the silence but failed to detect any of its coloring. He took it to be the usual silence concealing prior moments of messing and telling jokes. He walked to the coffin and again blessed himself. One quick “Hail Holy Queen” directed to the Irish-speaking Blessed Virgin Mary, and then it was done. Mr. Pollock walked to the door, opened it theatrically just as the bell for small break rang, and congratulated himself on his perfect timing.
29
Brendan Kennedy sat in the late-night gloom of Brother Loughlin’s office and impatiently tapped his good tweed cap on his arthritic left knee. He was tired after his bus and train journey from Knockpaltry-on-Fergus. He had never been east of the River Shannon in his life and though he would have been quite happy to keep it that way, he felt he owed it to his only brother to attend his funeral despite the fact that they had not spoken in over forty years.
The office door opened and Brother Loughlin entered, his face now even more solicitous than when he had met Brendan at Kingsbridge Station.
“We’re ready now,” he said softly.
Brendan Kennedy glanced at his watch and shook his head in disbelief. There was something really unnatural and unwholesome about conducting a funeral in the middle of the night. He followed Brother Loughlin across the dark yard, up the monastery stairs, and into the oratory.
The Brothers were already in their pews sucking on the mouthfuls of ashes prescribed by tradition. These were the last ashes from the pyre of the late Brother Bell’s possessions, so it was fortunate that they would now get to replenish their supply. It had over the years become a belief of the Brother General Superior that it was a good practice for the Brothers to savor some ashes at the passing of a confrere as both a tribute and a memento mori. The Brothers did their best to ignore the scaffolding and the gaping hole in the ceiling that loomed above them in the candlelight, an ugly beacon of mockery and menace.
Brother Loughlin motioned Brendan Kennedy to a straight-backed chair in the center aisle. The latter sat down and peered about him in the surrounding gloom. The only light came from the four tall candles at the corners of his brother’s coffin where it still rested on the trolley. Barely discernible against the altar railings stood the plain lid of the coffin, the light reflecting dully off the lead plaque that bore the name