This is the Way the World Ends by James Morrow Read Free Book Online

part.
    Her acting teacher agreed.
    One bitter December morning, as George sat at his work table putting the final cuts in a stencil, he was enveloped by a sense of well-being. The feeling seemed to originate from outside his body. He turned.
    The specter stood in the middle of the shop, veil up, smiling. A handbag dangled from her black-shrouded arm. She glanced longingly at Design No. 7034, rendered in South African granite. The granite was blacker than her eyes, the blackest of the black, as Arthur Crippen called it.
    ‘My name is Nadine Covington,’ she said. How smooth her voice, how young.
    ‘Why have you been spying on me?’
    ‘Not spying. Appreciating. You are a good man, George Paxton, a saint in a business swarming with ghouls.’ Although she had no trace of a foreign accent, she spoke as if English were an unfamiliar language. ‘I am honored to meet you.’
    Sensations of peace and contentment continued to flow from the specter to George. ‘This is a service business,’ he said. ‘The product comes second. We must be as sensitive as any funeral parlor director – it’s amazing what people have on their minds when they come in here. The idea is to make the customer feel good about his choice, even if it’s the cheapest.’
    ‘You’re skillful at that.’ Nadine went to an electric heater and began massaging the winter out of her finger bones.
    ‘No memorial will take away grief, ma’am, but it can help.’ George had not drawn such pleasure from the sheer act of talking since he was three. ‘I’ll tell you what gets me upset, though. It’s when people buy, er, you know’ – what to call them? – ‘guilt stones.’ (That sounded right.) ‘I’m thinking of . . . well, I won’t say his name, but he treated that kid of his like junk. And then, after the boy drowns, what does this guy do? Has us order a four thousand dollar model of the Taj Mahal.’
    ‘I must give you your task,’ said Nadine. ‘An ordinary commission – not a guilt stone. I need an epitaph, and something to put it on.’
    ‘Is this a pre-need?’ he asked.
    ‘A what?’
    ‘Do you want the stone for yourself?’
    ‘No. Some people very close to me are dying . . . my parents.’
    ‘I’m sorry.’ Good God – how old were her parents?
    ‘The stone must endure,’ she said.
    ‘We carry the best bonded granites.’
    ‘I fancy this material.’ Nadine caressed the South African sample, which was polished to a mirror brilliance. ‘I can see my face in it.’
    ‘Our stones have extreme density – they can take the most detailed carving. Also low porosity – no moisture gets inside, ever. The guarantee is unconditional, valid to you, your heirs, and your assignees. If a crack appears, even a hairline, you get a new monument, free.’
    ‘I have no heirs or assignees. My real concern is the epitaph. I want . . . eloquence.’
    ‘Eloquence?’ said George lightly. ‘Really? But why, ma’am? I mean, it’s not like it’s going to be carved in stone or anything . . . That’s a little joke we have around here.’ He reached into the shelves above his work table and pulled out a plastic binder containing twenty sample epitaphs, typed, double spaced. It began with Number One, IN OUR HEARTS YOU LIVE FOREVER, followed by ASLEEP IN THE ARMS OF JESUS , then I AM THE RESURRECTION AND THE LIFE , all the way through Number Twenty, GOD IS LOVE . He handed the epitaphs to the old woman, who studied them with pursed lips.
    ‘No, no,’ she insisted, tapping the paper. ‘There’s no honesty here. I want you to write it.’
    ‘I don’t write epitaphs, ma’am, I inscribe them.’
    ‘Show me how,’ said Nadine, lifting the utility knife off the work table.
    As George took the knife from her, her thumb strayed across the blade. At first he thought she was unharmed – but no, her ancient flesh had split. Violently he sucked in a mouthful of air, and then she expirated with equal vigor. For several seconds they continued to