By Russ López
The more Melania thought about it, the more obvious it became that they would have to hold her funeral in the Cathedral. None of the neighborhood churches, especially those sad 1960s era ticky-tacky ones, were large enough to contain the multitudes that would come to pay her their last respects. Nor was any parish church sufficiently grand to honor her sense of style and beauty. If she had to die, and unfortunately, death comes for everyone, she wanted her funeral to be a celebration of her large life. Or at least that’s what she thought whenever she had time to think about these types of things.
Melania Suzette Perez, three-time employee of the month at the Pacific Dollar Store on Alum Rock Avenue, had always thought that dreams were the ultimate luxury. Certainly, they were rare goods well beyond her budget. When she was a girl, she imagined dreams were as expensive as yachts and as rare as snow in Chichen Itza. Melania had never been on a boat or visited the Yucatan, of course, but she used to walk by a travel agency that had a poster of the Mayan pyramids in the window. Melania had actually seen snow: once, on a bus trip to Tahoe to gamble and had never forgotten how cold and wet it was. Snow was one more exotic treat for rich people, not folks like her.
“Please, have another,” the tall, beautiful hostess would beckon her uniformed servants to pass another round of dreams. Wearing white gloves, they’d present her offerings on silver trays to her equally elegant guests so they could pick over the dreams as if they were special occasion chocolates. As she smoothed her flawless Parisian dress, the hostess would boast, “I pay extra for these exquisite dreams at a lovely boutique up in San Francisco. I have one every afternoon in that quiet time after I return home from Pilates.” Melania would have given anything to dream, but she simply didn’t have the time, space, or energy to afford one as family, work, and life itself demanded all her attention.
Melania had wanted to dream when she first met Carlitos. Her future husband had been a vision with his shaggy bowl cut, wide face, and stocky frame. But that same afternoon he walked her home, they ran into his sister Silvia who told Carlitos’ mother all about them. His family immediately decided Melania was too dark, too poor, and too much of an immigrant to be worth Carlitos’ time and forbade him to talk to her. They didn’t destroy their relationship, Carlitos and Melania married despite their objections, but it did wipe away Melania’s chance to have one of those where-will-this-love-lead-to dreams that other girls get to have by right. That was part of a pattern: every time she started to dream, some cosmic force would intervene.
Since she couldn’t dream about life, she decided to spend time imagining her death. The logistics of her large funeral would be daunting, she acknowledged, but she was positive the best minds of Silicon Valley, those people who brought you the internet and cell phones, would insist on volunteering their time to help arrange Melania’s final rites. The price of their assistance, alas, was that Melania would have to cede control to them. She knew they would demand that the front pews be occupied by the cream of society: the lords of smartwatches, self-driving cars, and grocery delivery apps on the right, venture capitalists and software developers on the left. Melania, of course, was much more democratic and if it was up to her, it would be first come, first choice of seats. She preferred a scramble with the doors of the church being thrown open like a starter’s pistol, launching a dozen little boys down the aisle to save seats for their families. She’d bet that Duncan, her nephew’s son, would be the first to reach the front pew. The wiry little guy, an imp who reminded her of herself when she was little, would throw himself down across a pew to save seats for his family of twelve. Melania smiled. As much as she wanted a race through the Cathedral, Melania knew she’d have to let the funeral planners prioritize dignity over entertainment. Melania rolled her eyes. There was no reason a funeral had to be a sad affair.
Melania hoped they’d let her coworkers sit close enough to get a good view of the service. She was particularly worried about Fina because she was too vain to wear glasses in public and too scared of dying to get her cataracts done. “It’s not heart surgery,” Melania had told her many times. “They don’t even put you to sleep. And I’ll be there with you the whole time.” But Fina wouldn’t budge. Now that Melania thought about it, the funeral couldn’t be on a Wednesday because that was her day to drive Fina to work. She made a note to die on a Thursday so they could hold her funeral on a Monday.
Several pews would be reserved for politicians and other dignitaries. The governor would be flanked by senators and surrounded by a cohort of minor office holders. This gave Melania pause. Which party would the governor belong to? Would his politics be respectable? She hoped her funeral wouldn’t be used to wash clean someone’s dirty reputation and she didn’t want a politician there if they were a wide-eyed socialist or a mad rightwing bigot. Appearances and moderation were everything to Melania.
She wanted the mayor to be seated in a choice pew, given that he will declare a day of mourning for her. Melania had never met him. She had once hoped he’d present her with a certificate of appreciation for teaching English to abuelos, like the one he had given to her sister. Of course, Melania hadn’t ever actually gotten around to volunteering at the Community Center like Talia did two nights a week. She had meant to, many times she had said she would do so, but Melania never had a free evening because first there were children to mind, then she cared for her grandchildren while their parents worked. Now after Carlito’s heart attack, the prospect of giving back to others seemed further beyond her grasp. At least the mayor was guaranteed a seat. Melania felt bad for the thousands who would have to be turned away because the church was full. Her remorse was indicative of the central problem of Melania’s life: even when she wanted to dream big, she found herself constrained by reality.
Melania’s family would be seated in the pews to the right and she prayed that no one would do anything to embarrass her. Carlitos had his one suit, a miracle that it still fit him after all these years. Melania smiled as she thought of how handsome he looked when all dressed up, and she marveled how in love she still was after all these years. They might bicker on occasion, neither was perfect, that was sure. But she hoped for a hundred thousand more nights together before it was time for her funeral.
Melania resigned herself to her husband finding a new wife within months of her death. It was for the best. Carlitos never could take care of himself, he needed someone to cook and clean for him. Melania smiled as she thought about all the little things she did for her husband. He needed to be told where he had left his glasses and reminded to plug in his phone when he went to bed. He had never mastered which drawer had socks and which held his underwear. He couldn’t even make his own lunch. Despite all that, he was a good catch, and though his face had wrinkled and hair turned white, women would swoop down on him like mice. Melania was particularly suspicious of Rosalba, the widow who lived on Eighteenth Street. She’d be the first to court Carlitos, seducing him with the wizardry of her cooking. Anyone who would cheat at bingo would have no respect for a decent mourning period.
Melania’s children worried her. Didn’t they always? By right, Chuckie should be the one to deliver her eulogy. He was their only son and an exact duplicate of his father, but Melania feared he wouldn’t be able to get through his testimonial without breaking down in tears, and she didn’t want to put him through that. Though he was almost forty, Melania still felt compelled to protect him. Bettie, her eldest daughter, was the best speaker and most likely to deliver a rousing tribute, but maybe she should have Ava up there. That would signal to everyone that Melania had forgiven her for all the troubles that girl had caused her. But would a public reconciliation between mother and daughter make any difference given all they had said to each other? Would the gesture finally get Ava to understand that Melania had only been trying to protect her? As she wondered whether even a funeral could bring closure, Melania decided to put the subject of the eulogy on her funeral’s to-do list.
Melania hoped that in her honor, the grandchildren would look respectable, but you never know with young people these days. In particular, she wanted Florentina to grow her hair out and not show up with a shaved head like she usually wears, while she found Daniel’s tattoos so frightening, she was going to have to insist that he cover them up at least until the party had gone on late enough that all the old people had left. Melania thought about posting a dress code, though she had no illusions that any of her extended family would wear black. She just hoped that none would show up in church wearing pajamas or flip flops. Melania was of the generation that always dressed to make people respect them even though most of the world looked down on her kind.
That reminded Melania of another issue: was it really a funeral if no one lost control of their emotions at the church and cemetery? She’d be mortified unless someone tried to throw themselves into her grave. She’d weep if no one wailed to the heavens. Melania remembered the epic funeral for her grandfather where Papá had to grab his mother with both hands to restrain her from jumping down on the casket at the cemetery. Two aunts fainted while a sister was so heavily sedated, she dozed through most of the ceremony. Those were the days, Melania sighed as she straightened a display of men’s socks.
Today, people are too hung up on what others think of them to fling themselves on the floor to wallow in grief. “We are not over-emotional immigrants,” Melania’s brother Ramón had told his children when Lupe, his mother-in-law, died. “In our family, funerals are conducted with dignity.” Ramón had outsourced his emotions, hiring lloronas to scream, cry, and roll on the ground in shock over the death of someone so young and pure while the family sat quietly on folding chairs at the rosary, fanning themselves in the heat. Melania found some comfort in that even if her family had turned into cold unemotional people, at least they weren’t cheap. Melania hoped her family would pay for at least a dozen criers; she wanted a whole chorus of wailing women.
Of course, there was that other reason no relatives cried at Lupe’s funeral: nobody liked the departed. Melania had tried many times to be nice to that woman but had given up after Lupe declared Melania’s cooking inedible after she had spent an entire day making her mole. “Don’t be so stingy with the salt, pendeja.” Lupe made a dramatic gesture with her left hand. “Just because you have high blood pressure doesn’t mean the rest of us have to eat bland food.”
As Melania checked her text messages, she decided the bishop must preside over her mass. Melania insisted his robes be cream colored with a miter that sparkled even more than the rings on his fingers. He should hold his head high out of respect for Melania’s much-admired faith and well-known devotion to the rosary. Even when she was busy in the stockroom, Melania spent a lot of time thinking about the miracles she would perform after her death. She knew the rules: so many miracles to be beautified, so many for canonization. She wanted to be a great saint, one with a major feast day. Or at least, she hoped, she might be among the first of the lesser saints of Silicon Valley as they marched into heaven. Healing the sick seemed rather pedestrian these days and most of the good diseases had been taken. There was no way she would accept the moniker of “The Patron Saint of Hammer Toes” or some other petty illness. Melania wanted her miracles to be over the top, garish even. Maybe an appearance of a massed chorus of angels over a prayer rally held in a baseball stadium, or perhaps a devotion to her would result in your cable bill being cut in half. If that wasn’t possible, she could be the one you prayed to when you couldn’t remember your login password. Melania liked to help people in practical ways.
Melania had yet to decide on the music for her funeral. At first, she wanted a rousing Mariachi band. Let’s have them dancing in the pews, she thought, like they had for Alejandro Escobar when he died last spring. Start the celebration at 10:00 a.m. sharp and have the fiesta continue until midnight in honor of her love of a good party. Didn’t she and Carlitos dance up a storm when they were young? Then Melania decided that she wanted a more dignified affair and penciled in religious music, at least for the service itself. This would require a choir two hundred and fifty strong to fill the chancel as they sung of the glories of the resurrection. Melania wasn’t sure if the Cathedral was big enough to accommodate a choir that large, she hadn’t been there since she was eight and had spent more time pulling Talia’s pig tails than paying attention to the mass. “Never again,” their mother had vowed.
She paused to admit that except for weddings and funerals, she hadn’t been to mass since she had been confirmed. But that wasn’t important. She showed her devotion to the Sacred Heart by her daily living. Wasn’t she the one who everyone in the neighborhood depended on? Well, she would gladly help during emergencies, if people only would ask her to do something. But no one considered her reliable in a crisis just because she fainted at the first sight of blood.
When a customer interrupted Melania to ask which aisle the canned tomatoes were in, she almost shouted, “You see! The moment I start dreaming, someone interrupts me.” But instead, she smiled and said, “Aisle six.” Melania was not one to raise her voice.
Melania had hoped to dream during her break, but there were a dozen HR forms that needed attention. She didn’t bother to read any of them before signing. What difference would it make? It wasn’t until she was mopping up a spill in aisle ten that she finally had time to get back to her funeral. The procession into the church should be led by an acolyte swinging a chain that ended in a metal box filled with burning incense. She wanted someone who would look like a painting of St. Jerome: an ancient thin as a wire man with eyes moist with wisdom and a life inspired by faith. Melania would have to check if such a person could be engaged for free, it would be easier if her plans weren’t held up by copyright issues or union rules. If the lawyers permitted his presence, the acolyte’s face would be creased with grief over Melania’s demise, even his gray beard would sag with sadness. Following him would be a phalanx of little children scattering rose petals. Melania had wanted lots of flowers at her wedding, but that was forbidden at the courthouse. Yes, she knew rose petals were not a funeral thing, but it was her death, and she would have it her way.
An inventory issue kept her from planning her funeral for most of the next hour; she didn’t get back to it until after lunch. There must be a spectacular coffin, she decided. It would be the finest mahogany unless that was an endangered species from the Amazon in which case she’d allow pine. She wanted it decorated with gold leaf and sparkling diamonds, sapphires, and rubies. When they dug it up three thousand years from now, archeologists would wonder who was the special woman that had commanded so much luxury even in death. Was she real? Or just a myth? La Melania, they would label her. To accompany the traveling exhibit of her funeral artifacts, the program booklet would speculate on how extensive her cult of devotion had been. Was it universal? Or did only certain classes consider her divine? She smiled as she thought about what it would be like to be the King Tut of the year 5022.
The coffin had to be accompanied by an honor guard of marines including that handsome nephew of her neighbor, Tito. His mother was always bragging about how good looking he was. The pall bearers would all be perfect young men; one will have to be replaced at the last minute when a final inspection reveals a small blemish on the left side of his nose. “Everything had to be just right for the funeral of Melania Perez,” would be the official statement from the Chairmen of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.
Because everyone expected she would look ravishing when they opened the casket at the foot of the altar, she spent a lot of time thinking of what she should wear to her grave. She had been a beauty in life, Melania thought, though she knew no one else would agree. Therefore, the glory of death would have to transform her into an iconic image, one that signified her time and place. To facilitate her aesthetic appeal in the underworld, she planned to die of a perfect disease. It would be twelve months of inevitable decline remarkably free of pain and discomfort that would mar her looks. If hers were a common funeral, there would be no need for any cosmetic touch ups. But the bright television lights would make even Melania’s flawless dark skin look a bit pale to the viewers at home and so she required a boost. Melania stopped to think, pay-per-view or free over the air programming? Pay-per-view, she decided. Carlitos needed the money.
Melania would be laid out in the silk dress she had bought for a trip to Las Vegas that she never took because at the last minute, her son needed a new car and there wasn’t enough money for both. That was the story of her life, she thought without sadness. The one time she and Carlitos had a little spare cash to spend on themselves, their kids needed help. With its gauzy pattern of cerulean blue and Provencal rose, the dress would flatter her figure so much that every woman in the church would be jealous. That prompted another addition on Melania’s to-do list: lose ten pounds. Maybe twenty-five or thirty. She couldn’t rely on a mysterious made-up illness to flatten her stomach; she’d have to start a diet now. She blamed her excess weight on the conchas and coffee she had shared with Carlitos every morning since they had wed. She smiled as she savored their quiet breakfasts, then frowned when she thought what it did to her waistline. Perhaps in death she would achieve the slim figure that had always been out of reach in life.
How, exactly, should she die? There were a lot of reasons to stick with her plan of a long illness. She’d have a shiny new motorized hospital bed set up in her living room complete with a guest book for visitors to sign. A long slow illness would also provide plenty of time for her to admire the handsome priest anointing her as part of the last rites. Maybe, she thought, she could livestream her death to people around the world. There could be cameo goodbyes by K-pop groups, world famous heart surgeons, and professional quarterbacks. The highlights could be collected in a documentary that might win a prize in Cannes. That is, if they still have prizes for documentaries there. Melania had no idea.
No. That was too much fuss. It would be much easier to die suddenly from a heart attack. “Do you remember where you were when you heard the news about Melania?” people would ask decades later. “That Melania,” they’d chuckle. “She’s the only one who could fall over dead without warning and have a house that was immaculately clean.” Maybe not. That was too far even for Melania’s fantasies. Her house was never neat between the grandkids running in and out and all the other demands on her time. She’d have to settle for being found with clean underwear.
She ultimately decided on the quick death scenario, but that still meant she needed pithy last words to reverberate around the world. Something from Shakespeare? The Bible? Just make sure, she determined, that it is better than Uncle Rafael’s final words. “No. I don’t smell gas. I’m sure I hooked up the stove properly.”
Russ López is the author of six nonfiction books including The Hub of the Gay Universe: An LGBTQ History of Boston, Provincetown, and Beyond. He is the editor of LatineLit, an online magazine that publishes short fiction by and about Latinx people, and his work has appeared in Somos en escrito, The Gay and Lesbian Review, The Journal of the American Medical Association (JAMA), and elsewhere. Originally from California, he lives in Boston and Provincetown.