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Iowa State University Capstones, Theses and Graduate Theses and Dissertations Dissertations 2013 The Obituary Writer Corrie Rhoda Byrne Iowa State University Follow this and additional works at: https://lib.dr.iastate.edu/etd Part of the Environmental Sciences Commons, and the Fine Arts Commons Recommended Citation Byrne, Corrie Rhoda, "The Obituary Writer" (2013). Graduate Theses and Dissertations. 13265. https://lib.dr.iastate.edu/etd/13265 This Thesis is brought to you for free and open access by the Iowa State University Capstones, Theses and Dissertations at Iowa State University Digital Repository. It has been accepted for inclusion in Graduate Theses and Dissertations by an authorized administrator of Iowa State University Digital Repository. For more information, please contact [email protected]. i The obituary writer by Corrie Rhoda Byrne A thesis submitted to the graduate faculty in partial fulfillment of the degree MASTER OF FINE ARTS Major: Creative Writing and the Environment Program of Study Committee: David Zimmerman, Major Professor Stephen Pett Linda Shenk Susan Stewart Iowa State University Ames, Iowa 2013 ii TABLE OF CONTENTS ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS.............................................................................................................ii ABSTRACT...................................................................................................................................iii TITLE PAGE..................................................................................................................................1 PART ONE.....................................................................................................................................2 PART TWO..................................................................................................................................54 PART THREE.............................................................................................................................157 EPILOGUE..................................................................................... ..........................................193 iii ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS With thanks to Megan, for walking with me in the graveyard, to David, for his guidance, good cheer, and the pickled okra, to Linda, for helping me open the gift of the science and structure of language, and to Ben, Dean, Deb, Steve and Susan for their feedback, craft, patience and good humor. “Because in the absence of a mindful creator and ultimate judge, there is no such thing as ‘morality.’ There is only pickling—and its consequences.” “Craig’s Artisanal Pickles Philosophy” by Lucas Klaus (originally published on McSweeneys) iv ABSTRACT Marian Zuckerman writes obituaries. The problem is that she doesn't write true obituaries. She writes her clients deaths how she thinks those clients would like to have died, or should have died, or how the client's family think they should have died. A heat attack on the toilet becomes an heroic dash into a burning building. One more drunk night behind the wheel becomes a tragic fall through the ice while ice skating. A garage full of gas fumes becomes a snack for an orca whale at the zoo. But not everyone is so understanding of Marian's view of life and death, and a law suit is waiting on her door step, along with several Bibles. Marian's life is thrown into chaos when her job as an Obituary writer is questioned, her home is threatened, and her mother comes back into her life. She moves to Maine where she meets a quirky cast of characters, some of whom will become closer to her than she ever expected. What starts as Marian's attempt to search for her deceased husband, escape her mother, and deal with the law suit in peace becomes, ultimately, a journey about piecing yourself back together, finding family even if they're not related by blood, and giving voice to people who don't have one--especially when that person is yourself. 1 THE OBITUARY WRITER 2 PART ONE When I call Gary Shamonski’s number I hear the crashing and bangings of a construction site in the background. I offer him my services. He takes his time responding and I keep my body very still, so still, as if a frothing raccoon were in my front yard during the day. He says he’s not sure. I say it can be a good thing; talking out an obit can help with closure. He tells me that if I’m so certain I can come to where he’s working and see for myself that he doesn’t need an obit. I don’t think he should be working, at a time like this, but everyone has different ways of handling grief. Some people pick off all their cuticles, or sleep for days, or stop showering. Some people get four autopsies. I say I’ll see him there. He hangs up. Penn Station in Baltimore is all white stone, magnificent mounted clocks, columns, arches and grand window panes that have been divided up so that they can be shuttered and put air conditioning units into from the inside. A perpetual row of taxis surrounds the bizarre 80’s era male/female statue that pulses neon from the tips of the fingers, and I wend my way around dais, around the taxis, through the doors and atriums, and let the high space swallow me up: the spotted marble floor, the high ceilings, the stained glass skylights with circles and square details. 3 The people, sitting on high backed brown wooden pews that are often covered in spilled soda or puke, wait with heads down, keeping their luggage close to them. I know Gary Shamonski won’t be here, he’ll be down on one of the tracks under construction. I spot a mother daughter duo, obvious for the distance they have apart from each other and also their identical baggage. Linda and Lydia Lamson died by spontaneous tornado damage yesterday in a downtown Baltimore neighborhood. They were the only casualties of this freak weather occurrence; bystanders report that the two were argu-walking (as opposed to dance- walking, the fitness sensation that’s sweeping the nation) disrupting this once peaceful area with their accusations. They are survived by Lars Lamson, Linda’s husband and Lydia’s father, as well as Luke Lamson, Lydia’s younger brother, both of whom seem to be doing well in the face of such a tragic loss. Neither Lars nor Luke are up for talking or making many comments, and seem to be taking the time to catch up on their fly fishing. Family and friends are directed to send donations to the Mini Rex Rabbit preservation society of New Jersey, of which both women were active members. Several independent clusters of teenagers dot all over the atrium, most of them wrapped around each other in various ways: heads in laps, hands in hands, sitting in laps, massaging of backs, playing with hair. The business men are marked for their thin and heavily pressed pants as well as their cell phones. Raphael, a regular here, is making his way in between the aisles, holding out his hand, his dread locks hanging down his back, his legs and too-large-pants dragging across the floor as he asks for anything anyone can spare. I’ve give him money before; Richard gave him money first, talked to him first, and then I did, after Richard died. Raphael Gavroche passed this Thursday last, in Sinai Hospital in Baltimore, due to complications from Pneumonia. Raphael frequented many locations in the Baltimore area, and those who took the time to speak to him found that he had an extensive knowledge of banjo playing, tin can shooting, and Alien Probe Conspiracy Theories. Residing almost exclusively in homeless shelters around Baltimore, Raphael was said to be a friend to most, and a pest to many, but part of Baltimore none the less. He will be sorely missed. Please donate to Nehemiah House, 410.882.2217 in his honor. I give Raphael a couple dollars, and let him tell me about the new song he’s learned—a song maligning short people, how they have tiny hands, tiny voices, need to be picked up to say 4 hello and that no one loves them. He says he can sing it because he’s short. He is, actually; I stand several inches above him even in flats. I tell him to sing what his heart commands. Then I head left, down some stairs, through to a part of the station that’s under repair. There are no people down here; I have to slip under one of those yellow ticker tapes in order to get through, and then through a stiff plastic curtain. The noise of banging and sawing gets louder. I ask a man to my right for Gary Shamonski and he gives me a hard hat and points the down to the train track Gary’s working on. I step along the train tracks and spot a man on a ladder, with half his body stuck up in the ceiling. I approach the ladder and stare up at him, call out for him a couple times. Over the noise of what I think is a buzz saw a little way down he doesn’t respond at first. When he does hear me he stiffens, drops down a couple steps, and I ask if he’s Gary Shamonski. Yes, he says, he is. I introduce myself, and he nods. He gestures to his tool box and the ceiling. I tell him a little bit about what kind of piece I would write. I can see him nodding, half hidden, but he’s only hmming and huhing. My cell phone buzzes in my bag. I fish it out. It’s Irene, my boss from the newspaper. I silence it; she can wait. Finally I ask how Todd passed. Gary stops, again, drops down a couple rungs of the ladder. When I can see him I can see that he’s showing several Signs of Grieving—blinking, staring into nowhere, unconsciously crying (small tears leaking out the corners of his eyes, as if he’d been in a heavy wind.) I suspect he hasn’t been sleeping. I’m willing to wait for him because I know what he needs. I put my hand on the ladder, and he just sits there.

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