Ellen called a few weeks ago from her hospital bed, demanding a eulogy. How does one say “no” to such a request from a neighbor and fellow parishioner? Perhaps the most honorable way to perform these duties is to describe Ellen exactly the way those of us gathered here knew her. To be honest and forthright, for once.
Ellen was unwise and imprudent. She would form a thin opinion over coffee and a quick scan of The New York Times editorials, and by the time cocktail hour arrived, she would have taken that tiny thread and knitted it into an ornate tapestry, mostly from the stuff of her imagination, limited though it was. She’d needle you with a point, index finger in your shoulder, until you excused yourself to refresh your drink. She would have had no qualms telling the Pope that God didn’t exist (one of her favorite opinions). She’d whisper this to us joyfully when we turned in our pews to shake her hand at the passing of the peace.
She was absurdly rash. At restaurants, she’d make the waitstaff weep with imperial and repeated demands that they turn off the air conditioning or tell the people at the next table to lower their voices. She never sat down to a meal where she didn’t send something back to the kitchen with an insult for the chef. That includes the dinner parties we invited her to.
She was thoughtless, forgetting that your spouse just died, or not bothering to hold the door for those of us using walkers or wheelchairs. She was reckless, driving though she could only see peripherally, intentionally running the one stop sign in town because she objected to the council’s approval of the purchase of a new police car. She would gleefully tell you about someone’s infidelity while his wife was in earshot. She attended every church and community center fundraiser, where not only did she not give a dime, but she also ridiculed us for opening our checkbooks for the cause.
There was a special reason she retired to our quaint, peaceful town, a town we all affectionately call “God’s Waiting Room.” She came to haunt us.
Like most of us, she retired here after a lifetime clawing her way up the corporate ladder in the big city. She got farther up that ladder than any of us did because she held a knife in her teeth, expertly wounding for another rung up, becoming wealthy enough to buy the old McConnell house on the river. We expected she’d be just like us, respectful of the historical context and beauty of this town, this riverscape. Gleefully, she cut down every tree on the property to build that modern concrete bunker she called a house. The no trespassing signs and video cameras on her property let us know we were not welcome.
Her presence made us yearn for beauty and virtue. We ached for a glimpse of the river beyond her six-foot fence, for the monthly wonder of the full moon, now lost to the automatic klieg light on her three-car garage. We pined for the days when we could accept a cold drink from old man McConnell and watch our big black dogs swim in the river from his patio. She made these things vanish.
Like all good haunts, her presence was a mirror. In the face of her wild narcissism, we could plainly see our powerlessness. Bound by what we call etiquette, we could only shift sheeplike from one sensible shoe to the other as she delightedly inflicted psychic pain on a neighbor, our spouse, a small child at the ice cream shop. Our wisp thin conversation changers, our embarrassed smiles, would not distract Ellen from chewing the bones of our discomfort.
She reminded us time and again that we are trapped in our own mindless conformity. When we were alone, whispering the latest Ellen story, we covered our mouths in horror. Then we turned and invited her into our homes for bridge, even though we knew whoever was unlucky enough to be her partner would leave in tears after prolonged public humiliation.
Despite all this, not one of us is going to say “good riddance” as we leave this hallowed space today. You see, it just isn’t done.
Not one of us gathered here today confronted Ellen. There’s the question, really: Why are we gathered here today? Why did you put on your Easter bow tie, pull out your best dress? Admit it: we’re celebrating. It’s a “ding, dong the witch is dead” kind of moment, isn’t it?
No, no. It is mourning. When Ellen was alive, we had a chance to be brave, to be righteous, to live what we say we believe every Sunday. But no one here told her “no.” Everyone here lacked the moral fortitude to say, “this isn’t right.”
Yes, Ellen haunted us, but we are the ghosts: spineless, floating ectoplasms in the shape of older human beings.
God help Ellen. God help us.
Meg Artley‘s short stories have been or will be published in Flash Fiction Magazine, Free State Review, Black Fork Review and Whiskyblot. When she isn’t writing flash fiction, she’s working hard on completing a collection of short stories set in Harlan, Kentucky in the 1970s.
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