The Wake | Kevin Brennan

We aren’t expecting a FedEx delivery, and we go back and forth over who must have ordered something because here it is, and the dog’s going nuts like always when a FedEx man arrives, but none of us is copping to this thing. Must be a mistake. 

Without a package in his hand—just his tracking gizmo—the driver trots up to the door with the dog now baying from the bathroom. We meet the driver on the steps, and he says, “It’s kind of big. Sign here.” 

We tell him we didn’t order anything.

“Maybe it’s a gift then,” he says. “Sign here.” 

“Who’s it from?”

“I don’t know, but it’s kind of big. It’s on ice too. Like those food companies, right? Ice packs. A lot of ice packs.” 

He says he hates to ask but the box really is kind of big and he’s alone so could we help?

It turns out to be a styrofoam container about six feet long, couple of feet deep and wide. We get the thing into our foyer—it’s super heavy too—and the driver is out of there faster than Mercury. We’re wary about this. 

There’s a plastic packet taped to the top of the box. Our name is on it and the words “See Inside.” 

—

“Congratulations,” the nicely typed letter says. “I’ve chosen you at random to handle my final arrangements and took the liberty of having my remains shipped to your address. I ask, humbly, if you wouldn’t mind throwing me a proper wake (bio attached) and then, if you please, bury me at a cemetery of your choice, at the expense of my estate, of course (attorney info also attached). Don’t skimp on the headstone. Cheers!”

—

We’re not up for this. But after some phone calls and some futile arguments with FedEx, it becomes clear that we’re kind of responsible for this man’s final wishes, having unwittingly accepted delivery of his soul case. 

We make plans for his wake. 

Our friends are happy to come, if only for the buffet and drinks. Mr. Tasker, as the deceased’s name turns out to be, is footing the bill. His lawyer assures us the estate is flush. 

We chat. We eat the nice catered spread. The phyllo-wrapped brie bites with fig preserves and toasted walnuts are especially delicious. Then we say a few words about the man in the styrofoam casket, whose expiration date is looming, by the way, according to colorful labels on the box. 

By the end of it, we almost feel like we know him. He was quite a guy, it seems. 

—

Water under the bridge now, but it strikes us that the least you can do, when someone asks you to do something doable, and at minimal cost to yourself, is do it.

Kevin Brennan is the author of six novels, including Parts Unknown (William Morrow/HarperCollins), Yesterday Road, and, most recently, Eternity Began Tomorrow. His short fiction has appeared in the Berkeley Review, Mid-American Review, Every Day Fiction, and others. He's also the editor of The Disappointed Housewife, a literary magazine for writers of offbeat and idiosyncratic fiction, poetry, and essays. Kevin lives with his wife in California's Sierra foothills.