Chapter 18

Moe died on Wednesday at 3:00 AM. I held his hand as he took his last breath. The reality of his death was emphasized by the smell that suddenly permeated the room. God's little joke on all of us is that we shit ourselves when we die. A doctor once explained to me that it's because our sphincter muscles suddenly relax. Whatever the reason, the reality is that it takes away whatever dignity death should have.

The nurse and the rabbi gently led me out of the room. If they hadn't, I'd probably have continued to sit there staring at the wall. It would take a while for the reality to soak in. I'd thought that I was prepared for this moment. I was not.

Rabbi Feldman went with me to the "quiet room." He'd been with me all day. I hoped he'd managed to get some sleep, but I doubted it. "Pat," he said gently, "we have to talk. The funeral arrangements have been made, thanks to you and Moe. We'll have the funeral this afternoon, if that's all right with you."

I heard his words and understood them. In a way, I was grateful for the intrusion of practical matters, but I couldn't comprehend the reality of Moe's funeral. I was far from ready to bid him a final farewell. I knew that Jewish tradition required that the funeral be held as soon after death as possible, but it all seemed terribly rushed, as though people couldn't wait to put Moe in the ground.

"Yes, Rabbi," I said.

"Herb," he said, "call me Herb."

"Thanks, Herb. You've been a rock. I don't know what Moe and I would have done without you."

He smiled gently, "It's my job. Besides Moe has been almost as much a father to me as he was to you. He was one of the finest men I've ever known. He'd have been a great rabbi, much better than I could ever hope to be."

"Herb, he was better than all of us. Better than any man I've ever known or could hope to know."

"Amen to that. Pat, I'm sorry that I have to talk about these things, but there are a few arrangements that must be made. Moe told me that he wanted you to say kaddish."

I sighed, "Yes. But I'm afraid that I don't read Hebrew."

"That's OK. Ours is a reform temple. You can recite it in English."

"If I can get through it, that is."

Herb smiled at me and patted me on the back. "You'll do just fine. Moe and I will help you."

Then the tears came. A flood of them. Herb held me close until I gained control. Now I knew why they had boxes of tissue in this room. I mopped up my face and smiled at Rabbi Feldman.

"Thanks, Herb."

"Like I said, it's my job. It's why they pay me the big money."

We both laughed. If Herb was in the rabbinate for the money, he was in the wrong business. I never met a rich rabbi. Or a rich priest for that matter.

"Pat, I think you should lie down for a little while. You're exhausted."

"OK, Herb. I'll do that."

I stretched out on the chesterfield in the quiet room. Rabbi Feldman left to do whatever he had to do. I closed my eyes.

I awoke with a start. A young black woman in a blue uniform was standing over me. "Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't know there was anyone in here," she said in a Jamaican accent. "I was just going to clean this room."

I looked at my watch. It was 8:00. I'd been asleep for about four hours.

"That's OK," I said, "I'm just leaving."

I put on my jacket and left the quiet room. As I passed the nurses' station, the head nurse called out to me. "Mr. Connolly, could you please come here for a moment?"

I dutifully went to her desk. She looked at me apologetically. "I'm very sorry, but, since we have you listed as next of kin, we must have your signature to release Mr. Casselman's effects."

Effects. Yes, the possessions that we leave behind us are called "effects."

I signed the papers and was given a bag of Moe's things. I was in no hurry to examine them.

I left the hospital as soon as possible. Outside, it looked like a beautiful morning. How could that be? Why wasn't nature rebelling at the passing of such a great man? Why was the sun shining brightly? Why was traffic passing? Why were the street vendors setting up shop as though nothing had happened?

I was reminded of my education at St. Michael's, of the words of the psalm: "What is man, that thou art mindful of him? or the son of man, that thou visitest him? Thou madest him a little lower than the angels; thou crownedst him with glory and honor, and didst set him over the works of thy hands..."

But then the psalmist says, "Thou takest away their breath, they die, and return to their dust..."

From the point of view of all those in the streets that morning, nothing much had happened. One man's breath had been taken away. He had returned to dust. Another day had begun.

I walked back to my hotel. It was a long walk, but a very therapeutic one.

When I arrived at the hotel, it was only 9:00. I laid out my black suit, a new white shirt and an appropriately subdued tie and then sat and thought for a moment. I had a choice about what to do next. I could try to get a little sleep, or I could do something that had been in the back of my mind for a long time. I chose the latter.

I made some coffee on the in-room machine and stepped into the shower. By the time I came out of the shower, the coffee was ready. I drank it as I shaved. Yes, I would do this thing that had been preying on my mind.

When I was dressed, I called a few people who would want to know about Moe. First on the list was Joe Dudich. He told me that he'd be at the funeral no matter what. I called a few more mutual friends. Then I called Robin Markoff. I told her to let Shauna know about Moe. I explained that one of Moe's last wishes was that he and Shauna could meet. I also asked Robin to tell her aunt, Adrienne. I thought that Adrienne would like to know, though I doubted that she'd attend the funeral.

When I was dressed, I went downstairs and hailed one of the cabs waiting at the front of the hotel. I told the cabby to take me to St. Michael's Cathedral.

When I entered the cathedral, it was obvious that a morning mass had just finished. There were still a few people milling about and a few more kneeling in prayer. There were several priests around. The priest at the door, obviously the celebrant, was shaking the hands of those leaving the church. I crossed myself and genuflected to the host on the altar. Then I knelt and tried to pray.

Nothing came. I felt that there was no one to listen. If God existed, I certainly couldn't talk to him. But there might be some one to whom I could talk. There was a line of confessional booths against the wall. The light on one of them was lit. I walked over, opened the door and sat down. I closed the door, made the sign of the cross and bowed my head.

"Bless me father, for I have sinned. It has been twenty-two years since my last confession."

At the priest's gentle bidding, I proceeded to recount a litany of sins that I felt would surely curl the hair of a saint. The priest interrupted me occasionally for clarification. Fortunately, his voice seemed that of a mature man. I was glad of that, since I had seen several very young priests in the cathedral.

When I finished my story, there was a moment's silence. Then the priest assigned my penance. It seemed very little, considering the tale I'd just told. I expressed my astonishment.

"My son, this is not a one-for-one deal," the priest said, "Your penance will not save you, no matter how gentle or harsh it may seem. The most important thing is your own attitude and your behaviour in the future. When a confessor says, "Go and sin no more, ' that is exactly what he means. I believe that you deeply want to change, and I think that change is within your grasp. You told me how unworthy you felt of the love of your friend Moe and of your girlfriend Shauna. If these truly good people have loved you, they have seen something in you worthy of that love. Take that kernel and nourish it. Make it the centre of your life. If you do, I'm sure that I'll never again have to hear such stories from you."

I thanked him and accepted absolution.

When I left the confessional, the light was turned off. The priest had left. I wondered if he was one of the people I could see in the church. I suspected not. If I'd been that priest, I'd no doubt have been on my way to get a stiff drink, in spite of the early hour.

I remained praying for a while. It didn't seem to matter as much now whether I truly believed if God were listening or not. The act itself was comforting.

When I returned to the hotel, the message light on the phone was blinking. The message was from Adrienne.

"Pat," she said, "Robbie has filled me in on what's happened in your life recently. I feel really terrible about it. Believe it or not, you're a genuinely nice guy. Is there anything I can do? In any case call me. If you don't mind, I'd like to go to the funeral. Please let me know if that's OK."

I called Adrienne and told her that yes, of course she should come to the funeral if she wanted. I also assured her that I would definitely let her know if there were anything she could do. After we hung up, I sat on the bed for a moment thinking. Adrienne was one of the nicest people I'd ever met. We'd also been very compatible sexually. A guy could do so much worse than to have a woman like her. If only the spark had been there. But it wasn't. Why can't we make rational decisions about love? Why can't we chose the people we love, rather than having no choice at all in the matter?

The phone rang. It was the front desk. There was a package for me. I asked them to send it up.

The package turned out to be a large envelope from Temple Bnai Israel. I opened it. The envelope contained a photocopy of the kaddish prayer and a note from Rabbi Feldman. The note said, "Pat, I thought that you'd like a chance to go through this before the funeral. Moe once told me that you always insisted on reading your scripts five times before going on the air. The funeral will begin at 3:00. Please meet me in my office at 2:30 just to go through a few things." The note was simply signed "Herb."

I looked at the envelope again. For some reason, the name of the temple reminded me of an old Second City comedy sketch. It was supposed to be the religious programme at the sign-off of the fictitious SCTV network. I believe that it was Rick Moranis who, in orthodox garb and full beard, would portray the rabbi of Temple Bnai Hill, a most unsubtle reference to the English comedian Benny Hill. The irony, of course, was that Hill was known for his off-colour humour and the scantily-clad women on his TV show. For some reason, I found this very funny. I laughed until my sides hurt. Then I cried.

When the attack of hysteria was over, I splashed some cold water on my face. I sat at the desk and read the prayer. Herb Feldman had been wise to send it to me. I broke down the first two times through. The next five times went much better. I began to gain some confidence. For the first time, I felt that I'd be able to get through the funeral.

I set the alarm and lay down.

I awoke feeling incredibly bleary. I felt as though I had the world's worst hangover, which was ironic since I'd not had a drink for several days. After a shower, I felt a bit more alert. I dressed and went to the hotel lobby, intending to take a cab. To my surprise, Adrienne was there. She was dressed in a black suit with a matching hat. She came up to me and kissed my cheek.

"Hi there, pal. Need a lift?"

"Yes, my friend, in many ways."

"My car is out front. The doorman is my buddy, so he lets me leave it there without being towed away. Let's go."

Adrienne's car was a recent model Hyundai. There was a child booster seat in the back. I recalled that Adrienne had a young daughter. I felt badly that I couldn't remember the little girl's name. Perhaps it was unimportant at the moment, but I should have remembered.