I woke up late and hungover today, and Nat called me and asked if I could come to the funeral home to meet Ettore’s family. So, I went. He was there at the door and said the family was inside, and so was Ettore. I was glad he warned me, because I’d never been to a funeral home or seen a body laid out before. I was sure there was some sort of set of rules or a protocol but I didn’t know it, so I just walked in and looked over at him and at the people sitting around the room staring blankly at their hands or the floor or the ceiling. He was there at the front. That is, his body was there; he wasn’t exactly there. They’d shaved his face, and he looked gaunt and incredibly sad. His family was sitting opposite the body, and then his friends were seated along the wall.
I wasn’t sure what to say to the family, but I guess they wouldn’t have understood it anyway, since they don’t speak much English, so I just shook their hands and mumbled. Later, Tim Ney showed up he went up to the body first and kneeled before it and crossed himself and then went to the family and said he was very sad for their loss, and so I guess I was pretty close to the expected action.
People kept getting up and going outside to smoke, and the room got cold, waht with the door being open and shut so much. Some people looked blank, or nervous, or awkward, but mostly people looked defeated. Larry looked absolutely shattered. I can’t imagine I looked great either, sniffling and wiping my nose on my scarf. I would have expected a funeral home to have more tissues around, but there was just one box, and it was in the far corner, and it was empty. In the parlor there was a picture of a young man who I guessed was the funeral home owner’s son, labeled with his name and the years 1960-1980. The picture looked like a high-school portrait. I wondered if his death had been a factor in their starting the business, or if they’d already been in the funeral business beforehand. There was a dish of individually wrapped mints with the name of the funeral home printed on them, and I thought about the HBO show “Six Feet Under” and about how mints were probably pretty useful to have around, because there would be a lot of hugging, and people would want to make sure their breath would smell OK.
The funeral director spoke with Nat and David Patrick and Ettore’s family about arranging to send the body back to Italy, and getting in touch with the consulate, and what would have to be done for that. They arranged to meet up tomorrow, with a translator, to go over the paperwork. At about that point I figured it was almost time to head out.
The sky got greyer and greyer and then it started snowing. I got up and went up to the body and said goodbye to Ettore and nearly started crying again. I felt that if I stayed I’d get more upset so I said goodbye to everyone and went down the street to the Town Diner and had jonny cakes and coffee. It was warm in the diner and despite the sign saying “Best Coffee In Town” the coffee was bitter. I went outside to take the 71 bus back to Harvard. It was cold and so I started walking to keep warm, and I figured I’d walk along Mt. Auburn St. until the bus caught up with me, but I ended up walking all the way back to Harvard Square, where I bought some yellow lillies.
I’m going to miss him, but I don’t feel angry at him any more, and I am beginning to understand that he’s gone– for the most part I’ve stopped wanting to warn him, or ask him the odd software or Italian cooking question, and I’ve stopped expecting to see him at work Monday.
I still think Faggas Funeral Home is an awful name.
Secretly Ironic 
