They were quiet for a moment, and Wallace was sure they were lost in their favorite memories of him. In a moment, they’d start to fondly reminisce, each of them in turn giving a little story about the man they’d known for half their lives and the effect he’d had upon them.
Maybe they’d even shed a tear or two. He hoped so.
“He was an asshole,” Moore said finally.
“Such an asshole,” Hernandez agreed.
“The biggest,” Worthington said.
They all laughed, though they tried to smother it to keep it from echoing. Wallace was shocked by two specific things. First, he wasn’t aware one was allowed to laugh in church, especially when one was attending a funeral. He thought it had to be illegal, somehow. It was true that he hadn’t been inside a church in decades, so it was possible the rules had changed. Second, where did they get off calling him an asshole? He was disappointed when they weren’t immediately struck down by lightning. “Smite them!” he yelled, glaring up at the ceiling. “Smite them right … now…” He stopped. Why wasn’t his voice echoing?
Moore, apparently having decided his grief had passed, said, “Did you guys catch the game last night? Man, Rodriguez was in rare form. Can’t believe they called that play.”
And then they were off, talking about sports as if their former partner wasn’t lying in a seven-thousand-dollar solid red cherrywood casket at the front of the church, arms folded across his chest, skin pale, eyes closed.
Wallace turned resolutely forward, jaw clenched. They’d gone to law school together, had decided to start their own firm right after graduation, much to the horror of their parents. He and the partners had started out as friends, each young and idealistic. But as the years had gone by, they’d become something more than friends: they’d become colleagues, which, to Wallace, was far more important. He didn’t have time for friends. He didn’t need them. He’d had his job on the thirtieth floor of the biggest skyscraper in the city, his imported office furniture, and a too-big apartment that he rarely spent any time in. He’d had it all, and now …
Well.
At least his casket was expensive, though he’d been avoiding looking at it since he arrived.
The fifth person in the church was someone he didn’t recognize. She was a young woman with messy black hair cut short. Her eyes were dark above a thin, upturned nose and the pale slash of her lips. She had her ears pierced, little studs that glittered in the sunlight filtering in through the windows. She was dressed in a smart pinstriped black suit, her tie bright red. A power tie if ever there was one. Wallace approved. All of his own ties were power ties. No, he wasn’t exactly wearing a power tie at this moment. Apparently when you died, you continued to wear the last thing you had on before you croaked. It was unfortunate, really, given that he’d apparently died in his office on a Sunday. He’d come in to prepare for the upcoming week, and had thrown on sweats, an old Rolling Stones shirt, and flip-flops, knowing the office would be empty.
Which is what he found himself wearing now, much to his dismay.
The woman glanced in his direction, as if she’d heard him. He didn’t know her, but he assumed he’d touched her life at some point if she was here. Perhaps she’d been a grateful client of his at one point. They all began to run together after a time, so that could be it too. He’d probably sued a large company on her behalf for hot coffee or harassment or something, and she’d gotten a massive settlement out of it. Of course she’d be grateful. Who wouldn’t be?
Moore, Hernandez, and Worthington seemed to graciously decide their wild sporting-event conversation could be put on hold, walking past Wallace without so much as a glance in his direction and moving toward the front of the church, each of them with a solemn look on his face. They ignored the young woman in the suit, instead stopping near Naomi, leaning over one by one to offer their condolences. She nodded. Wallace waited for the tears, sure it was a dam ready to burst.
The partners each took a moment to stand in front of the casket, their heads bowed low. That sense of unease that had filled Wallace since he’d blinked in front of the church grew stronger, discordant and awful. Here he was, sitting in the back of the church, staring at himself in the front of the church, lying in a casket. Wallace was under no impression he was a handsome man. He was too tall, too gangly, his cheekbones wicked sharp, leaving his pale face in a state of perpetual gauntness. Once, at a company Halloween party, a group of children had been delighted by his costume, one bold tween saying that he made an excellent Grim Reaper.
He hadn’t been wearing a costume.
He studied himself from his seat, catching glimpses of his body as the partners shuffled around him, the terrible feeling that something was off threatening to overtake him. The body had been dressed in one of his nicer suits, a Tom Ford sharkskin wool two-piece. It fit his thin frame well and made his green eyes pop. To be fair, it wasn’t exactly flattering now, given that his eyes were closed and his cheeks were covered with enough rouge to make him look as if he’d been a courtesan instead of a high-profile attorney. His forehead was strangely pale, his short dark hair slicked back and glistening wetly in the overhead lights.
Eventually, the partners sat in the pew opposite Naomi, their faces dry.
A door opened, and Wallace turned to see a priest (someone else he didn’t recognize, and he felt that discordance again like a weight on his chest, something off, something wrong) walk through the narthex, wearing robes as ridiculous as the church around them. The priest blinked a couple of times, as if he couldn’t believe how empty the church was. He pulled back the sleeve of his robe to look at his watch and shook his head before fixing a quiet smile on his face. He walked right by Wallace without acknowledging him. “That’s fine,” Wallace called after him. “I’m sure you think you’re important. It’s no wonder organized religion is in the shape it’s in.”
The priest stopped next to Naomi, taking her hand in his, speaking in soft platitudes, telling her how sorry he was for her loss, that the Lord worked in mysterious ways, and while we may not always understand his plan, rest assured there was one, and this was part of it.
Naomi said, “Oh, I don’t doubt that, Father. But let’s skip all the mumbo-jumbo and get this show on the road. He’s supposed to be buried in two hours, and I have a flight to catch this afternoon.”
Wallace rolled his eyes. “Christ, Naomi. How about showing a little respect? You’re in a church.” And I’m dead, he wanted to add, but didn’t, because that made it real, and none of this could be real. It couldn’t.
The priest nodded. “Of course.” He patted the back of her hand before moving to the opposite pews where the partners sat. “I’m sorry for your loss. The Lord works in mysterious—”
“Of course he does,” Moore said.
“So mysterious,” Hernandez agreed.
“Big man upstairs with his plans,” Worthington said.
The woman—the stranger he didn’t recognize—snorted, shaking her head.
Wallace glared at her.
The priest moved on, stopping in front of the casket, head bowed.
Before, there’d been pain in Wallace’s arm, a burning sensation in his chest, a savage little twist of nausea in his stomach. For a moment, he’d almost convinced himself that it’d been the leftover chili he’d eaten the night before. But then he was on the floor of his office, lying on the imported Persian rug he’d spent an exorbitant amount on, listening to the fountain in the lobby gurgle as he tried to catch his breath. “Goddamn chili,” he’d managed to gasp, his last words before he’d found himself standing above his own body, feeling like he was in two places at once, staring up at the ceiling while also staring down at himself. It took a moment before that division subsided, leaving him with mouth agape, the only sound crawling from his throat a thin squeak like a deflating balloon.