What Grew Inside Him

What Grew Inside Him
754 words

         Max, a small town funeral director, walked his funeral home several times each day looking to remove any speck of dust or spot of dirt. He bathed morning and night and groomed himself often, keeping hair slicked back, his mustache trimmed neat, his fingernails cut close, his suit without wrinkle, and his shoes buffed to a shine.

         Before each service, Max greeted all arrivals at his front door. To his great embarrassment, he could never remember their names. Hours after the service had ended, however, their faces and names would pop into his head. He tried silly mental tricks and read articles on how to remember names, but nothing worked for him.

         Max knew well the phase of his guests’ grief. Those in denial would seem as if they were heading into work for an eight-hour shift. He would direct them to view the body.

         If they were angry, their dress would not be neat and they would walk in straight lines, pounding each step. He would direct them to their friends and family.

         If they were bargaining for understanding, their dress would be immaculate and they would greet him too warmly for the occasion. Max would direct them to the chapel.

         If they were depressed, they meandered across his front lawn and held an unfocused gaze. He directed them to their seats.

         His position in the process meant that he never got to witness the peace of acceptance.

         Max may have known how someone else should grieve the loss a loved one, but he did not know how to cope with a worm that had found its way inside his body and made its home at the base of his brain.

         When his surgeon told him that the worm could not be removed, Max called the doctor a quack. He researched the internet for years and tried vitamins, magnets, deep-sea diving, and crystals. Sometimes, hours would pass when he believed the worm was no longer there, but then the worm would awake and twitch or scratch along the inside of his skull.

         With the worm’s growing girth, Max's fear began to overtake him. His reaction to such was to fling chairs across the funeral home, jam bodies into their caskets, and berate his employees for their dress.

         To villagers in poor countries and strangers in need, he promised his money, his labor, and his possessions if the worm would just leave. The worm did not care of such gifts and grew fatter and longer each day.

         To soothe his worm to sleep, Max shot tequila each night. If he were late on his delivery, the worm would thrash about slapping bone and brain.

         Late one night, Max held a half-drunk bottle of gold liquor in one hand and in the other, a pistol aimed at the worm that lived his head. He cocked his revolver, gritted his teeth, and prayed.

         “Please don’t shoot us,” the worm interrupted his prayer. “I know I twitch and thump and I’ve nearly driven you insane. I know I've gained too much weight and I know I need the drink and I know if you could, you’d pull me from your brain and cast me back to the dirt, but Max...we are the same.”

         “That is not true,” Max said. “I am man that comforts the grieving and you…you are…you are a life-sucking parasite.”

         “I cannot help the form I was given,” the worm said, “but we are the same.”

         “A worm is dirty, I am clean.”

         “I am not dirty for I am with you.” The worm rolled over and settled. “A worm’s purpose, as that of you, is to dispose of the dead.”

         “I do so with dignity, you do so with slime.”

         “The dead do not care how they are disposed,” the worm said. “We have grown used to each other and I feel we are one.”

         “But sometimes…sometimes, you move in ways that hurt me.”

         “That was the ignorance of my youth. I promise I won’t scratch or thrash or bump about anymore. I want to help you.”

         “You help me?”

         “I am very good at remembering people’s name,” the worm said. “I would never let you down. I can help you comfort the grieving.”

         Max thought about the dead for a moment, placed his pistol on his bedside table, and he and the worm fell into a deep, long sleep. For thirty more years they disposed of the dead together. Together they died and together they were buried under an oak.