Madeline and Roderick

            “Paul, why don’t we go to the Halloween party as Madeline and Roderick Usher?”

           “Lily, that would be in poor taste. You know, because of your…your condition.”

           “No! That’s what would make it funny. I’ve had a few cataleptic seizures, just like Madeline, and you’re my brother. It’s perfect.”

           “You think seizures are funny?”

           “Frankly, Paul, I think almost everything is funny. You think everything is morbid.”

           “Yeah, being buried alive is a real hoot. Lily, I was a nervous wreck for a week after I read The Fall of the House of Usher.”

           “And I think it was one of Poe’s funniest stories. Come on, Roderick, start calling me Madeline, and start acting like you’re having hallucinations—you know—caused by your hypersensitivity to stimuli.”

           As October 31st drew near, Paul and Lily’s disagreement drifted further and further from resolution. Lily became increasingly giddy as Paul sank into a morose funk. Lily browsed antique stores for early 19th century costumes. She bought makeup online to make their complexions pallid. Paul wracked his brain for a plausible excuse to stay home.

           Then, on the afternoon of the Day of the Dead, Lily made the whole question moot by having a cataleptic seizure. Paul called their family doctor, who, remarkably, still made house calls. Dr. Goodman was much beloved in the community for his congenial bedside manner, warm smile, and twinkling eyes. He had a nicely shaped and tanned bald head and a perfectly trimmed small white moustache. People often suggested he retire and audition for doctor rolls in movies.

           The good doctor assured Paul that Lily would be fine when she regained consciousness and reminded him the she always woke up in a much happier state than before the seizure. They shook hands, and the kindly old physician squeezed Paul’s shoulder, picked up his black bag, and walked off to his office just down the hill.

           Paul sat beside his comatose sister through the night until he dozed off sometime in the small hours of morning. When he was awakened by the first light of dawn, he put a hand Lily’s brow and was convinced that her temperature had dropped. He called Dr. Goodman.

           When the doctor came back down from Lily’s room, Paul could read the sad news in his eyes. Lily was gone.

           Paul called all his relatives and close friends. He realized that he was in shock and acting irrationally, but he felt that the faster he got the funeral over with the sooner he could put his grief behind him. His plan was to have a brief ceremony at home the next morning, put Lily’s unembalmed body in a casket and carry her to the graveyard at the bottom of the hill. After she was interred, they would all come back for a wake. He ordered food and drink for the gathering, spending lavishly on the drink part. 

           The funeral was short and teary. Paul and a few others made brief remarks. They all said they would miss Lily’s sparkling sense of humor and repeated some of her favorite jokes. Paul closed with what he thought might have been her favorite joke:

           Guy walks into a bar with a dog on a leash. Bartender tells him no dogs allowed in the bar. Guy says, “It’s OK. It’s a seeing eye dog.” Bartender says, “Bullshit! It’s a chihuahua.” Guy says, “Those bastards! They gave me a chihuahua?!”

After everyone had filed past the coffin, the lid was lowered and Paul joined the other five pallbearers. They slowly carried Lily’s casket out the door and started down the hill toward the cemetery two blocks away.

           The cemetery was in a small valley at the lowest point in the neighborhood. It was a grim local joke to call the little hollow “The Valley of the Shadow of Death.” As usual Halloween pranksters had sprayed the cemetery wall with graffiti. This year it was, “Like, fear no evil, dawg.” 

           There had been an ice storm the night before, and the footing was treacherous. The pace of the bearers was even slower than the customary funereal pace. Matters were made worse by Paul’s choice of pallbearers. Guided by his belief in women’s rights, he had chosen three men and three women, who were all in heels. They had managed to cover half a block when the inevitable happened. The lead woman’s foot slipped on the ice, and she lurched to one side. This was enough to disrupt the precarious stability of the other five bearers, and they dropped the casket.

Before they could recover, the box that contained Lily slid away from them. A tragic-comic scene of desperation followed. The three men and three women all tried to run after the casket and fell, sprawling on the icy street. They tried again and again with the same result. The box accelerated to a speed that made them all accept defeat. They next tried screaming for someone, anyone to help.

The casket hit a bump as it crossed the intersection that marked the beginning of the second block. This caused the lid to pop open. People rushed out their front doors to see what all the ruckus was about. One of those doors was the entrance to the office of Doctor Goodman, who also appeared. Then they also started to scream when they saw that Lily had sat up.

She was smiling and laughing and trying to say something. And then—as she slid past Doctor Goodman. She gained control of her voice and shouted, “Hey, Doc, can you give me something to stop this coffin?”

“Thank God, Lily, you’re alive, Paul said.

“I am. I’ve never felt better. Is there a wake? You arranged for a wake, didn’t you? This is such a gas! I get to go to my own wake! And, by the way, Roderick, call me Madeline.”  

Then followed what must have been the happiest wake in the history of funerals. They ate and drank and danced and drank. Everyone called them Madeline and Roderick. She entertained them by recounting the dreams she had had while comatose. The one that drew the loudest applause was about being hit on by Edgar Allen Poe, who kept calling her Lenore.

While they were dancing, Doctor Goodman whispered in her ear, “Sorry about the misdiagnosis. I’ll try to make it up to you by trying to find a cure for catalepsy.”