Through the Eyes of a Dead Man
To paraphrase Dickens, "to begin my tale with the beginning of my tale, I record that I am dead."
Yes, you read that right. I am dead, as dead as the proverbial doornail, old Jacob Marley and Charles Dickens himself. This realization came to me just moments after the last agonizing breath escaped my failing body.
With sight that originated in my brain and not my eyes, I looked down at my corpse, lying on the floor of my home, my face twisted with a hideous grimace. A shattered crystal wineglass lay beside my still form, its death-laced wine spilling onto the Persian carpet.
As a man who had the reputation of being cunning and ruthless, I did not go quietly into this goodnight. My mind fought like hell against the dying of the light as the poison spread throughout my body, but the end was inevitable. I, Thaddeus J. Peele, the founder and CEO of a multibillion-dollar electronics corporation, was dead.
My death occurred three days ago. I lay on the floor for nearly an hour before my butler discovered the body and phoned the police. My remains were then subjected to an examination that I would have found deeply humiliating had I still been breathing, and as for the autopsy—well, I'd rather not go into that! Still, all the postmortem nonsense was necessary; it was all aimed at discovering the identity of my murderer.
I—more than the police department and district attorney's office—want to learn who killed me. You would think my murderer's identity is something I, in my incorporeal state, would know, but I don't. Had I been shot or stabbed, I would most likely have seen the architect of my demise, but I was alone in the room when I poured a glass of my favorite wine and took that fatal swallow.
Honestly, I can't even hazard a guess as to who would want to kill me since the likely candidates are too numerous to count. Surely, there isn't a self-made man in the world who hasn't created enemies on the journey from rags to riches. But poison is usually the weapon of choice for cowards and women. Ah, women! What man hasn't alienated at least one woman? And rich men, well, we tend to have more scorned women in our family closets than our less wealthy brethren. Hell, I've had three wives, and I suppose all three of them had reason to wish me dead.
That brings us to the day of my funeral. My remains were dressed in my finest custom-tailored suit, what was left of my thinning hair was professionally styled and my pale, waxy face was beautified with makeup. The staff at Madame Tussauds could not have done a better job at bringing my lifeless image back to life. Appearances aside, though, I was still dead.
My consciousness—my soul, if you will—hovered above my casket, observing the new surroundings. Someone—most likely my male, Harvard-educated administrative assistant—did a fine job with the arrangements. My only complaint is that there were far too many flowers. And I would have preferred more uplifting music than Debussy's "Clair de Lune." Pachelbel's "Canon" would have been more to my liking. All in all. with the exception of the music and flowers, I was given a grand send-off.
With my inner eye, I saw the undertaker enter the funeral parlor. He looked at his watch, crossed the room and, solemn-faced, opened the double doors to let in the mourners.
Kristen, my current wife, was the first to enter. The black Chanel suit she wore was the only outward indication of her recent loss. There was no sign of tears or bereavement on her beautiful face, not that I had expected there to be. Kristen was, quite frankly, a trophy wife, more than forty years my junior. I married her because of her face and figure; she married me for my money. It's a common occurrence for men my age and in my income bracket.
Most people would think it in bad taste for Kristen to hold on to the arm of her personal trainer as she made her way to my casket. Eyebrows would lift, and people would exchange meaningful glances. What did it matter that I was not yet cold in my grave? Take it from me, the recently departed: life is too short to stand on ceremony. One should look for happiness when it's in reach and grab it with both hands.
As the beautiful Kristen stood over my mortal remains, I scrutinized her face. I was fairly certain the person who killed me would show up at my funeral to gloat over my dead body, so I was determined to examine the countenance of every man and woman there.
The look in my young widow's eyes held no hint of guilt. I wasn't surprised since I was generous to her while I was alive and had left her a substantial sum of money in my will so that she could live comfortably—with or without her personal trainer—for the rest of her life. No, I concluded, Kristen was not the one who poisoned my wine.
In the widow's wake came a steady stream of mourners, although I doubt there was anyone who really felt grief at my passing. Still, for the sake of my story, I will refer to the people who attended my funeral as mourners. My lawyer, accountant and administrative assistant were among the first to pay their respects. I never seriously considered any of the three to be my killer since they all stood to make more money with me alive than dead.
Nearly a hundred of my employees and other business associates passed by my casket before I saw a face I had never expected to see at the service: that of Elaine, my second wife. If ever there was a person with reason to murder me ....
False modesty aside, I was a handsome man in my younger days. When the unmarried chocolate heiress saw me in the prime of my manhood, she was instantly smitten although there was a gap of fifteen years in our ages, not to mention the fact that I was married with a child at the time. I was smitten, too, not with her looks or her personality but with her father's bank account.
When presented with the prospect of marrying a woman of great wealth, I jumped at the opportunity. I left my wife and infant daughter and became Elaine's trophy husband. Mind you, I was no gigolo. I didn't sit beside the pool in a pair of Speedos, living off my wife's trust fund. No, I worked harder than ever. I put every cent my second wife gave me into my company, eventually building it up into one of the highest grossing corporations in the country, far exceeding the value of my father-in-law's candy company.
With wealth of my own, I saw no reason to stay married to an older, unattractive and possessive woman. So exit Elaine and enter Kristen.
As my second wife stood above my casket, there was a half smile on her face. She was glad I was dead. That was evident. But the fact that she had not been able to get the better of me before I died vexed her, hence only half a smile on her face.
Elaine was not my murderer either, I realized. I little doubt she would gladly have killed me if given the opportunity, but she would have wanted to watch me suffer in my final moments. She was no cowardly poisoner; she would have faced me and defiantly put a bullet or a blade in my chest.
With one last hate-filled glare down at my body, Elaine walked past my widow without a word of condolence. Then she walked to the back of the room and took a seat next to my accountant, an old college friend of hers.
More business associates passed by my coffin, people who came out of a sense of duty rather than affection. Then into the room walked the only woman I ever truly loved.
I'd known Rachel since high school. She was my date for the senior prom. It was a classic case of opposites attracting. Where I was vain, ambitious and self-centered, Rachel was humble, generous and compassionate. I don't know what she ever saw in me, but she loved me with her whole heart and soul. In my hunger for success and riches, I broke her heart. Damn me, for a fool! Even with all that had passed between us, she looked at me with only love in her eyes.
The woman beside the silver-haired beauty was my daughter and only child, Meredith. She looked like her mother around the eyes, but her chin and mouth were more like mine. While I was never much of a father to her, I had always been generous to both her and her mother. My daughter would naturally be a major beneficiary of my estate, but would she want to kill me to get her hands on her inheritance? I doubt it.
A third, much younger, woman, who I assumed was my granddaughter, joined them. She was in her early twenties and was the spitting image of my first wife.
Those dazzling blue eyes looked down at my lifeless form as she scornfully asked, "So that's the miserable old bastard?"
"Hush, now, Sage," Meredith chastised. "Mind your tongue. You're at a funeral."
"Don't pretend you give a damn about this old man because I know better."
"I know he wasn't much of a husband or father," Rachel interrupted, apologizing for me, "but I loved him."
Sage was instantly contrite.
"I'm sorry, Grandma. I didn't mean to upset you."
It was clear even to me—although I was often guilty of being oblivious to people's feelings—that Sage loved and respected Rachel, while she had nothing but contempt for me.
After saying a prayer over my dead body, Rachel walked over to Kristen, who was sitting in the place of honor, center stage in the front row of mourners, and offered her condolences to the widow. How like Rachel to be so magnanimous; she would have done the same had Elaine been my widow.
My daughter followed at her mother's heels, leaving only my granddaughter beside the casket. However, a beautiful woman, even at a funeral parlor, does not remain alone for any length of time. It was Cameron, my administrative assistant, who hurried to my granddaughter's side. The bookish young man surprised me. I didn't think he'd have the nerve to approach so desirable a female.
"Hell of a way to meet my grandfather, isn't it?" Sage commented acerbically.
"My late employer was a businessman, to the exclusion of everything else," Cameron replied, looking longingly at my granddaughter.
"He wasn't much to look at. Honestly, I don't know why my grandmother was so attracted to him."
"To hear him tell it, he was quite a heartthrob when he was younger. Didn't your mother or grandmother keep any photographs of him?"
Sage shrugged with indifference.
"They might have, but I never had any interest in seeing what my grandfather looked like. He never gave a damn about us, and I had no desire to know him."
For a moment her beautiful face was distorted with anger, but the look quickly passed and was replaced by a sassy smile.
"Of course, it didn't stop me from enjoying the money he gave my mother. Do you think that's awful of me?"
"No, not at all," Cameron answered. "Thaddeus Peele had more than enough money to please all the women in his life."
Sage's eyes narrowed and she shot a quick glance at Kristen.
"I'll bet she spent a lot of his cash."
"I've no doubt, but there's still plenty to go around."
I suddenly regretted naming the prissy college boy in my will. After I had paid him a six-figure salary, this was the kind of gratitude he showed me: not only trying to make a move on my granddaughter in plain sight of my dead body but also discussing the division of the spoils.
My granddaughter, on the other hand, was quite a woman. While I had loved Rachel in my youth, I always thought she lacked a backbone. The same could not be said of Sage. Physically, the girl might look like her grandmother, but her personality was more like mine. No one was going to wipe their boots on her!
With the line of mourners finally dwindling down from a steady flow to a sporadic trickle, the undertaker apparently decided it was time to start the show. He stepped up to the podium, cleared his throat and requested that everyone take a seat.
After a few words, the mortician introduced the minister. Why a man of God was asked to speak at my funeral is a mystery to me since I was not a believer. I suppose he was there to comfort the living, not that anyone in the room needed comforting over my passing. During the brief benediction, all eyes were dry except for Rachel's. I was touched by her show of emotion until I remembered how she cried when I unintentionally ran over a squirrel with my car.
When the minister was through, my lawyer stepped up to the podium to deliver the eulogy. His speech was full of praise for my business acumen, my contributions to modern technology and the impact I made on the lives of my employees. Understandably, there was not one mention of my charitable deeds, which, admittedly, were few. In the end, my eulogy sounded like an employment resume.
After my lawyer took a seat, my senior vice president rose to make a speech. He was a long-winded speaker who droned on in a soporific monotone. Bored by his words, I perused the room full of mourners. Rachel had stopped crying, Kristen was looking at her shoes and squeezing her personal trainer's hand and Elaine kept glancing at her watch.
Once all the speakers had gone up to the podium to have their say, the minister returned and gave his final blessing over my corpse. People rose from their seats and filed past me one last time, presumably to say their final goodbyes. More likely they were anxious to go to the country club where a post-service buffet, complete with open bar, was waiting.
Eventually, the undertaker excused himself, leaving only five people in the room: my widow, daughter, granddaughter, and two ex-wives. In a surrealistic moment, the three women to whom I was once married gathered around the casket.
"I'm glad this is almost over," Elaine announced, believing no one could overhear their conversation.
"Me, too. Are you sure the butler won't talk?" my widow asked nervously.
"Not if he's smart," my second wife replied. "Not only has he been paid well to keep his silence, but if he does open his mouth, I'll be sure to take him down with us as an accessory."
Rachel sniffled.
"Tad was such a handsome man, and I loved him so much."
"So did I," Elaine reluctantly admitted. "What about you?" she asked my widow. "Did you have any real feelings for him?"
"He was all right, I guess—for an old man."
I couldn't bear to hear any more; I felt so betrayed. Suddenly, I realized how badly I had treated the women in my life—with the exception of Kristen. I had broken their hearts, used them, and abandoned them. I was a cad—to use an old fashioned but apt term.
"Well, are you ladies ready for the party?" Sage asked.
"It's hardly a party," her mother corrected her.
"For us it is," Elaine laughed. "I don't know about you, but I've been waiting for this day for a long time. Now that the bastard is dead, I want to celebrate."
With one last contemptuous look at my remains, my second wife and her fellow conspirators walked away from the body of the man who had driven them all to murder.
As the undertaker reentered the room and neared the casket, I felt as though my disembodied soul was being forced back into my body. It was an unsettling experience. My senses were working, but I could not respond to them. My mind was as active as ever, but I could form no words with my mouth.
Then I heard the sound of the lid being closed on my coffin. This truly felt like death. I was alone, my soul captive in my body, inside a box, unaware of what was going on in the world around me. My mind screamed first in anger, then in fear. Although I was a man who had abandoned religion decades earlier, I prayed like a zealot.
Once I had sufficiently composed my inner being into some form of acceptance of my fate, I sensed that my casket was in motion. I was no doubt in a hearse being taken to the cemetery to be laid to rest. Perhaps when I was interred, I thought hopefully, my soul would be released and I would go on to the hereafter. Or maybe I was in purgatory and would have to serve a sentence before entering the gates of heaven. If so, I had no doubt that I could do the time. I had always been tough.
The velocity of the motion changed. I was no longer being driven; my casket was being carried, and none too gently, I might add! Finally, all movement stopped. Everything was quiet and peaceful around me, and then suddenly I heard the sound of a motor and I felt a slight movement once again. Was I being lowered into the ground? No. The movement was horizontal rather than vertical.
There was a light ahead of me so bright that even my sightless eyes could sense it. This is it! I am at the gates of heaven. I am in the presence of God!
What a fool I was! Within moments of thinking my sins would be forgiven and my soul redeemed, I felt the intense heat of flames lick at my body, and I realized I was not destined for the grave. My physical agony was matched only by my mental anguish, for I knew the flames of the crematorium would be no match for the fires of hell that awaited me.
Heaven as seen through the eyes of a black cat: a Godiva store.
