WHY WE BURIED UNCLE EBAN
Larry Tyler

[24 may 2002—proofed for #bookz]

I wasn't expecting Uncle Eban to die. I mean, not at that particular time. Aunt Shirley sent me a form letter. She penciled my name in after the word, "Dear" and told me Uncle Eban was hit with an aggressive form of cancer and went rather quickly. As she put it, the Lord took him at the age of seventy-two. She asked me to come to the funeral.
At the bottom of the letter, she penciled in another brief note, asking me to come a few days early and help her with the funeral arrangements. I wanted a good excuse not to, but I couldn't come up with one. Under the best of circumstances, the ten-hour drive from Manhattan to Western Massachusetts was difficult enough to make, but making the trip to attend a family funeral seemed overwhelming.
There was no way out of it though. Uncle Eban and Aunt Shirley had been generous and supportive to me ten years before when my folks were killed, so I felt like a swine for harboring even a moment of hesitation. I took a day to make arrangements at work, then drove to Cheshire to console Aunt Shirley and help her sort through the complexities of a funeral arrangement.
She thanked me a dozen or so times on the way to the funeral home in Pittsfield, and apologized another dozen or so times for my inconvenience and her inadequacies. "I'm so helpless with things like this," she said. "I get befuddled so easily. My mind starts to wander when things get complicated."
"It's perfectly understandable at a time like this," I told her.
She shrugged. "Maybe so, but Eban always took care of things like this for me."
When we reached the funeral home, a receptionist took us to the waiting room—though she didn't call it a waiting room, she called it the Lamentation Room—to wait for Mr. Daubert, the undertaker. She referred to him as the Service Director.
We hung out in the Lamentation Room where I saw a calendar on a desk with the funeral home's name on it. Apparently, you get a free calendar with every corpse you bring in. I flipped through it. The month of April displayed a picture of Franklin Delano Roosevelt with a quote: "I have a terrific headache." The calendar's theme was the last words of famous people.
After about ten minutes, Mr. Daubert swung into the room the way a ham actor makes a stage entrance. He shook my hand firmly, then gave Aunt Shirley's hand a tender pat. He grasped her by the shoulder and leaned back, giving her an empathetic, encouraging smile. "We're here to help you through this," he said. He took a full step back and clasped his hands together. He was in constant motion. "Now then, first things first," he proclaimed. He ushered us to another room to look at caskets. Two minutes into the discussion, Aunt Shirley was already lost. Daubert led her toward the high end of his displays. "Tell me," he said to her, "How much protection would you like for Eban?" His question had me perplexed until I realized he wanted her to tell him how long she'd like to have Uncle Eban stave off the worms. She began to balk at the prices we were looking at, and Daubert responded with the same empathetic, encouraging smile he gave her before. It was well rehearsed. "These are difficult decisions," he said. "But you must remember, this is the last thing you will be able to do for your husband."
I stepped in at that point. "Just a minute," I said. "Before you bleed her completely dry, I'd like a word with my aunt alone."
His smile wilted a moment, but came back soon enough. He brushed his hand out in the direction of the Lamentation Room. I led Aunt Shirley into the room and closed the door behind us. She sat down on the lamentation sofa, and I sat beside her. I could see her eyes were already glassed over. "I wish Eban were here to help me with this," she said.
"We both knew Uncle Eban very well," I told her. "And this guy Daubert didn't know him at all. Don't you think Uncle Eban would have scoffed at all this commotion and expense? He certainly wouldn't have wanted to put you through all this."
She shrugged.
"He would have wanted you to save your money for other things," I said.
"I suppose you're right," she said. "But—"
"I'm sure he would," I insisted. "Uncle Eban got too much of a kick out of life to expect you to throw all your money away on his funeral."
"Maybe."
"Didn't he talk to you about funeral arrangements when he first got sick, Aunt Shirley?"
She looked up and studied my face a long moment. She opened her mouth and started to say something, but nothing came out. She looked across the room and drew in a slow breath. "No, Robert," she said to me. "He didn't." She sighed. "He didn't have time to."
I shook my head sadly. "The cancer took him quickly," I said.
She reached her hand out and grabbed my arm. "Robert, it wasn't cancer that killed him," she said.
My head continued to shake, this time in the direction of no, and my expression changed from comforting to confused. "What do you mean?" I asked.
"He didn't die of cancer," Aunt Shirley said. "I killed him, Robert."
"No, no, Aunt Shirley. We all get overwhelmed by guilt at times like this ... "
"I drugged his cocoa and smothered him in his sleep," she said.
My jaw dangled open, waiting for my brain to find a gear. "Poor, dear Aunt Shirley," I said. "The pain of his cancer must have been unbearable for him. You did what you had to do."
"He didn't have cancer," she said.
"What did he have?" I asked.
"He had nothing. He just had me for a wife, and I killed him. Murdered him."
I flinched, and stood back several paces, gawking at her like she had turned into a cobra. "What—You what? No, no, Aunt Shirley."
"Yes, yes, Robert. I planned it and I did it. Killed him dead as a pickled herring."
"That can't be true."
"It is."
"But why? Why would you do that?"
"I murdered him for lying to me, Robert. You didn't really know your Uncle Eban very well," she said. "Nobody did, but me. He had a dark side that he kept from everyone."
"He used to beat you?"
"Oh, heavens no. But he was a terrible liar. Very gifted. Everyone knew him as a wonderful storyteller. But he used that same gift to con and manipulate people around him. Especially me."
I slumped back into a chair and brushed my hand over my hair, struggling to sort through her words. I tried to picture Aunt Shirley, the soul of innocence, throwing a pillow over Uncle Eban's drugged head and pressing down, a cigarette dangling out of her mouth, saying, "Take that, you old bastard." The image just didn't work.
"He had a mistress in Connecticut," Aunt Shirley told me. "I suspected something was going on for years, but Eban was so good at covering things up, I could never be certain. And, I guess I never really wanted to know for sure. Then, when Eban got sick, he said he was going to change his will and give everything to that woman. He was going to walk out on me and go live the last few days of his life with her. I couldn't let him do that, Robert."
There was a tap at the door and Daubert poked his head in. "Everything going along okay in here?" he asked.
Aunt Shirley looked up with a sweet smile. "Oh yes, thank you. Just fine. We'll only be another minute."
I was staring off at a far wall, trying to picture Uncle Eban as a lady's man. That image wasn't working either.
"Robert, we need to go back out now and make some decisions about Eban's funeral. Are you all right? You don't look very good. I need your help with all these plans, you know."
"Yes, I know," I said distantly. "You get befuddled."
"Yes, I do."
We stood up and went into the other room.
I remember telling Daubert we were willing to pay eight thousand dollars for the funeral, and not a penny more. I remember him looking haughty as he acquiesced. I remember riding back to Aunt Shirley's house and her asking me if I wanted a cup of cocoa. I remember saying no.
Throughout the rest of the evening, I tried to talk with Aunt Shirley about Uncle Eban's death, but she would only say, politely but firmly, she wasn't up to discussing it. "Perhaps after the funeral, Robert."
She made dinner, but I didn't eat any of it. I sat at the table thinking to myself: I'm the only one in the world who knows Aunt Shirley murdered her husband. I'm the only person who could testify against her. "Please have something to eat, Robert," she said. "I made this especially for you."
After a sleepless night, I decided we needed to talk, but Aunt Shirley still firmly refused to discuss the matter. She talked to me about where to put the pickle tray for the guests who were about to arrive, but said nothing at all about her homicidal rampage. And when the family began to show up during the day, she avoided me completely. On the other hand, I also began to avoid everyone. A couple hundred people had congregated around the tiny town of Cheshire, determined to pay their respects to kindly Uncle Eban and his kindly wife, Shirley, and the only thing that consumed me was a compelling urge to throw my hands up and shout, "Hey, everyone! I have a terrible announcement to make! I need to tell you the truth about why Uncle Eban died ... " So, by the time we were ready to attend the service, I was a complete wreck, wondering to myself, what do I do with this secret?
At the funeral home, Daubert stood inside the doorway, greeting people with his patented smile, beside a small table that displayed wallet-sized calendars with the funeral home's name and address printed on back. "Daubert, I need to talk to you," I said.
He looked at me with a pained expression. "About?"
"There's an awful injustice that has taken place."
The smile returned to his face. "Tell your aunt we were able to keep the expense well below eight thousand dollars. I think she will be quite pleased."
"I'm not talking about the funeral costs, you idiot. I'm talking about my uncle's death. You're a professional person. You've got ethics and stuff to guide you through these matters, so I figured I should tell you, this man did not die of cancer."
Daubert lowered his voice, and spoke out of the corner of his mouth. "I know that," he said.
"You do?"
"Of course I do," he said. "Your aunt told me."
"She did?"
"Yes, of course she did. She confided in me."
"She told you the whole thing?"
"Certainly."
"Well," I said, "What are you going to do about it?"
"These matters are always quite sensitive, but I am a professional, you know. I know we must be very discrete when it comes to suicide."
"Suicide?" My voice rose up several notches, then lowered to a whisper. "She told you this was a suicide?"
Daubert's face blanched. He began to twitch nervously, and excused himself to go rearrange flowers. I looked for Aunt Shirley.
"What did you tell Daubert?" I hissed at her.
"What did I tell him?" she asked.
"Yes. Don't act so innocent. I know what you told him. You told him Uncle Eban committed suicide, didn't you."
"Oh, Robert. I asked you not to discuss this now. You'll ruin everything. Wait until after the service. Please, Robert."
"How could you lie to him like that? You're only going to make things worse for yourself, you know."
She looked around, then said in a hushed voice, "Let's go outside and discuss this in private, Robert." We went outdoors.
She led us around to the side of the building and immediately began fishing around in her purse. She seemed perfectly oblivious to her surroundings. I decided to plead to her common sense anyway. "Aunt Shirley, you have to put a stop to this horrible charade. If nothing else, you should think about the effect it will have on all your friends and family when the truth finally comes out, and you know it will eventually. Consider the emotional roller coaster you'll be putting them on. Believe me I know. The past couple days I've been on one crazy ride because of this. You do know that we'll all stand behind you no matter what, don't you? Would you please stop pawing around in your goddamned purse and look at me?"
She looked up and smiled. "I'm looking for something, dear." She turned her attention back to her purse, then produced a packet of papers, carefully folded. It was Uncle Eban's will. "Read this," she said.
"Aunt Shirley, I remember what you told me about Uncle Eban wanting to change his will. Believe me, I remember that very well. And I don't doubt you. It was a terrible thing he planned to do."
"Please just read it, Robert."
I glanced at the first page. "This copy says he plans to leave everything to you."
"Continue reading it," she said.
I skipped over to the other pages, written in Uncle Eban's handwriting. Each page was a short, grizzly narrative. Each page described a bizarre form of death. I didn't know Uncle Eban's imagination was so macabre. I shook my head and handed the packet back to Aunt Shirley. "I don't understand," I said.
"That's because you didn't read all of the first page," she told me. She glanced at the will and sighed. "Eban always did know how to take care of me," she said.
"Aunt Shirley, you've stopped making any sense at all," I told her.
"Eban knew how difficult this would be for me. All the arrangements and commotion around his funeral. He wanted to make it easy for me."
"So you smothered him?"
"No, of course not. He laid everything out here in the will for me." She flipped through the pages. "Here. This one is you," she said. "The drugged and smothered story." She shuffled through a few more pages. "And this one is for the undertaker, the suicide one. Accidental death during an autoerotic experience. You see? Eban decided to keep me very busy telling everyone these stories, to get me through the funeral. He came up with a different story for everyone in there. Cousin Jack believes Eban is the victim of a Mafia hit, you know."
I looked through the papers again. "Why would he do this?" I asked.
"Because he knew how hard I would have to work to pull this off," she said. "This was very hard work, Robert. But he knew it would carry me through the service in one piece. And he—well, he was your Uncle Eban, Robert—he always loved a good story, and this was his going-away present to everybody here."
I walked around the corner and peeked into the front room where the mourners were congregating. All of them looked a little shell-shocked, like they were hanging onto a terrible secret they must not reveal to anyone else, for Aunt Shirley's sake. "What made Uncle Eban think everyone would believe these stories?" I asked.
"You did, didn't you?"
She had me there.
"It all worked because it was me telling the story. No one ever thought for a moment I had the imagination to make this up. You certainly didn't think I was that clever, did you?"
I blushed and shrugged. "But, look at this one. The FBI thinks he was abducted by aliens. How could you get that story past anyone?"
She glanced at the paper and smiled. "That was for his brother-in-law, Walter. It was especially easy convincing him. He'll believe anything that sounds like a government cover-up."
The service was starting. Daubert came out in a tizzy and urged us in. "Do me a favor," I said to Aunt Shirley. "I know you'll tell everyone the truth after this is over."
She nodded.
"But don't tell Daubert. Tell everyone but him."
"Certainly, Robert. If you like."
We took our place in the front row, and Uncle Eban's minister conducted the eulogy. He did a fine job, for someone who was convinced Uncle Eban died of alcohol poisoning in a brothel. Everyone in the room sat still as a statue, too stunned to display any outward signs of grief. I patted Aunt Shirley on the leg. "Uncle Eban must be very proud of you for this," I said.
She lowered her head, and then nodded her head slightly.
"You did it. You really pulled this one off for him."
She lifted her head, and I could see a tear starting to fill her eye. She turned and looked at me, and smiled. She drew a short, quavering breath and said, "Yes, I really did, didn't I."

* * *
Larry Tyler lives in central Maine where he works as a therapist and writer of journal articles and short stories.