Tom

“You’ll be able to say goodbye shortly,” the funeral director says.

“But he’s still alive,” she says.

The man checks his watch. “That doesn’t change the schedule.”

The funeral director strides on, hurried. His face is greyer than that of his average client. Deep grooves in his forehead. Drooping corners of the mouth. But that may be occupational deformation. In his line of work, there is no laughter. His profession is solemn. Oppressive. He has adjusted his character accordingly. Like an owner who slowly starts to resemble his dog, he is starting to resemble a corpse. He smirks inwardly at the thought. Resembling corpses. Being paid to resemble them. A man who spends his life among the dead eventually starts to look the part.

He is flooded with the dead, corpses, bodies.

And with Tom. But Tom is not dead. Merely misregistered. He staggers briefly and grabs the doorframe. How much reputational damage will this cause? What if complaints are filed—or worse, an internal investigation? Damp patches bloom beneath his arms. Not long ago, something almost identical went catastrophically wrong. He cannot risk that.

The thought of the chaos that erupts when something goes wrong already makes him short of breath. He finds that worse than the question of guilt.

Doubt is for people with too much free time. He does not have that luxury. He shakes it off like a wet duck, three sharp shakes, and he is dry.

She is holding the death certificate while Tom calmly drinks a cup of lukewarm, watery coffee beside his coffin.

The details on the certificate are correct. All but the date of birth. That date belongs to Tom’s father. Since the father has been dead and buried for years, this death certificate can only be legally valid in one way.

Tom simply looks very young for his age. Problem solved.

The situation adapts. Always. Even Tom finds this the only workable solution. The certificate cannot be ignored. It does not belong to the father, because the death certificate is brand new. Expelled by the system three days ago. From that moment on, the death certificate is treated as new, and the most corpse-like person is selected. Him, of course. Who else?

Everything is ready and prepared for his impending cremation.

Bouquets of lilies, symbols of transience. Beside them white roses, which in Eastern cultures signify deep reverence for the deceased. Tom is an adopted Chinese man. Purple signifies mourning.

His chosen playlist is already queued in the room where farewell is taken of a very much living Tom.

The place is packed with mourners. They sense that something is wrong. More than that: they know what is happening. Everyone knows.

An aunt touches Tom’s hand and startles at the warmth. She pulls her hand back and smiles.

“My goodness,” she says softly, “what a tense day.”

A volunteer notices that Tom is breathing. Chest rising. Falling. He looks away. Adrenaline, he tells himself.

Someone opens their mouth. Closes it again. This is not the moment.

Politeness wins. Always.

Everything has been organized down to the last detail. Nothing must go wrong. One mistake and the entire logistics collapse. The aluminum tray with its stingy slices of cake has been standing ready for hours, sighing as the cake dries out.

The cremation proceeds as planned. Period. With or without a body. If even paperwork can no longer be trusted, what can one still steer by?

The only thing missing from Tom’s cremation is Tom. An uninteresting detail. Not important enough to cancel the whole affair. The only question that receives no answer—only collective silence—is this: do we put Tom in the coffin or not?

Tom protests. Being burned alive because of an incorrect form? The system is always leading. But this goes too far, even for him. The funeral director becomes furious.

“No mock cremations under my roof. The day empty coffins enter the furnace is my death day. And not a day sooner.”

The protocol is unambiguous. No room for interpretation.

“The person listed on the death certificate is the person who, at the appointed time, is placed in the coffin and into the cremation oven.”

Tom, then. No doubt about it.

She walks to the room where a dead Tom should be laid out. Instead, he stands there very much alive, nervous. Red blotches creeping up his neck. Rapid breathing.

A bit excessive, she thinks. Rules exist to be executed. No discussion. He is not the first and certainly won’t be the last.

“If we’re doing this, do it now.” His voice is steady and clear.

From her shopping bag she takes a pillow. Her face is expressionless. No grief, no loss, no anger, no powerlessness. Nothing. Why would there be? It wouldn’t change anything.

Tom has put on his burial clothes. To give the system a small, teasing nudge, he is wearing a clown suit.

“What do you think of my outfit? Appropriate for the occasion, right?”

She turns away and bursts out laughing. There is no protocol governing clothing choice. The pallbearers would be in stitches.

He lies down in his coffin.

They feel caught when a volunteer enters. He briefly places his hand on Tom’s. A gesture of comfort. Tom’s hand is warm. The volunteer knows why.

She wants to say something. Ask if he’s sure. Say she’ll miss him. But the silence doesn’t allow it.

“I’ve never been good with forms,” Tom says. “Let’s just leave it at that.”

Even at the last moment, he keeps his humor.

“Humor is the best medicine. If I resisted now, it would only hurt more.”

She hesitates for a moment. A brief flicker of doubt. But the alternative is worse.

All she has to do is press the pillow firmly against his face for a minimum of five minutes.

She acts efficiently, quickly, professionally. With sufficient force and the right timing. It would seem cold and calculated, if you didn’t know that this is the most humane thing she can do for him.

After five minutes, the situation aligns with the paperwork again. She has prevented Tom from being burned alive. That is a humane act. A dead Tom in the coffin. As it should be.

Everyone exhales in relief.

The funeral director is surprised when he sees that Tom is dead. He hadn’t expected that. Better. What follows now is slightly less morally reprehensible.

After the cremation, she is handed an urn of ashes. His name is spelled incorrectly.

An incorrect death certificate can kill you.

But an incorrect name on an urn doesn’t matter.

She walks past the building toward her car and hears someone say that it was handled neatly.

For the system, perhaps.