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So, evidently, Jews didn't have open-casket funerals, and Roger thought that Mr. and Mrs. Cohen would get a divorce over the issue.

He heard the whole story from Joanne, even though he didn't really care.

"The poor woman is a wreck, all she wants is for her son to have a proper Jewish burial, but his father is just as insistent. I hate seeing grown men cry, and he was crying and screaming and…."

Roger listened only until he heard what would be happening: Mark would have an open casket.

Oh goodie.

"You have to, Roger."

"Why? I don't feel like it. Mark doesn't fucking care what I wear to his fucking funeral."

"It's respectful."

"Yeah, and since when has that sort of thing mattered? It's Mark. I've never dressed up to go see Mark before. I don't see why I should start now."

"I'm calling a cab for you right this second."

"I hate you."

Joanne, who had been reaching for the phone, paused a moment. Then picked it up.

"I do," Roger continued. "I hate you."

"Roger!"

It was Maureen. She came from the hall. Her eyes were really swollen. Roger ignored her.

"I hate you so much it makes me sick," he spat. "I hope you die next."

He felt sharp pain on his cheek as Maureen smacked him. It had been with an open palm, but when he shook off the shock of it and looked at her, she was pulling back her fist.

"Don't you EVER say anything like that!" she shouted furiously, her eyes burning like fire. "She's doing the best she can, you leave her alone!"

"I'd leave her alone if she'd leave me alone," Roger protested. "But no. She's all, 'take your medicine,' 'wash your hair,' 'get dolled up for Marky's funeral!' I WON'T!"
He stormed out of the room, hearing Joanne mutter, "Poor guy," under her breath to Maureen. It just made him angrier. He didn't want sympathy. He wanted to be left alone.

Roger went into Joanne and Maureen's bedroom. It really did look like what would happen if a Joanne Bomb and a Maureen Bomb hit each other and blew up inside of a room. It was impeccably neat, with almost a compulsive atmosphere, but the decorations were whimsical and bright. He snatched the phone off the bedside table, sprawling himself on the mattress. He realized that this was where Joanne and Maureen slept every night. Where they slept together.

He tried to imagine that but couldn't. It was too weird.

Mark had said that once. That he just couldn't see Joanne and Maureen having sex. Ever. That they were just too wrong for each other. He never really did get over Maureen. It was sad, because it was obvious that it always hurt him to even look at her, because he cared about her so much. Roger wondered if Maureen still loved him too and that was why she couldn't stop crying.

Not that it would matter since Mark would never love anybody again.

Roger turned onto his back and held the phone over his head, dialing the numbers that he still knew, after all this time of not using them.

"Hi, you've reached Alicia Davis. I'm not here right now, please leave a message after the beep."

"Um, hey, Mom," Roger said quietly into the phone, "it's me." He didn't know what to say now. He wasn't expecting an answering machine. "I just… I guess I thought you should know that Mark got sick and he died a few days ago. Call me if you wanna go to the funeral. Yeah, so, I guess that's it. Yeah. I love you. Bye."

When he hung up, Roger, for some reason, wished he had more people to tell. Saying it out loud gave him a weird feeling that he wanted to feel again. He didn't know why. It was a sick impulse. It still didn't feel real, maybe that was why he wanted to say it. Why he could say it with little problem. Mark is dead. Mark died. Nothing but grammatically incorrect sentences.

Nothing more.

Joanne won the dressing up battle to a certain extent. She went herself to the loft, where she grabbed a pair of black jeans, a black shirt, and a black jacket.

"You had messages on your answering machine," she told him as she handed him the clothes. "You mother said that she is devastated about Mark, but she can't get off time for the funeral."

The morning of the funeral, Roger took a shower, washing his dirty hair with the fruity, girlie shampoo in the shower. I smell like Angel, he thought as he stepped out of the steam and onto the tile floor. It was a big bathroom (the whole apartment was fairly big, because of Joanne's job). He glanced at his reflection. He was clean now, but his eyes had circles under them, and had an empty look inside of them. He didn't look like himself, not how he remembered he looked. But he didn't dwell on it. It didn't matter. He dried off quickly and put on the clothes that Joanne had brought him from the loft. Roger wore black a lot anyway, so he didn't feel like he was dressing up to see his best friend.

Roger jumped up onto the fake marble countertop and reached for the blue jeans that he had been wearing these past few days. He reached into one of the pockets and pulled them out. He'd taken them when he returned to the loft the day after it happened. He didn't know why, wasn't sure why it was so important to him to have them, but it was.

Mark's glasses.

When Mark looked at anything, he looked at them through these lenses and frames. He never looked quite right without them. They were a part of his face and whenever Roger saw Mark in his head, it was with these same glasses perched on his nose.

Roger slipped them onto his own face. Suddenly the whole world went insane, things going in and out of focus, one moment too clear, the next moment blurry. Was that what Mark saw when he didn't wear them? This disorienting mess? Probably not, because he only squinted when he didn't wear them, he didn't seem dizzy or like things were distorted. All Roger knew was that in the morning, Mark put these on and he could suddenly see.

Could he see now? In heaven or wherever Mark was, were his eyes fixed? For some reason, in Roger's mind, he could not picture angel-Mark without glasses. So maybe he still needed them.

Or maybe there was no heaven and he was nowhere he was just gone and would never see anything again.

Roger took the glasses off because he was starting to get a headache. He slipped them into his pocket and jumped down off the counter to tell Joanne and Maureen that he was ready to go to calling hours when they were.

Joanne and Maureen walked into the room, holding each other's hands tightly. Roger followed behind them, his hands in his pockets and his head down. There were a lot of really uncomfortable-looking foldout chairs. Not many people were sitting in them. A lady who looked like she was probably Mark's grandmother sat on the edge of one, like a younger, more able family member had told her to stay put until someone was ready to take her up to see her grandson.

At the end of the room, flanked by little tables with sickly-sweet flowers on them, was the casket. It was very nice, far nicer than any of his other friends had been able to afford. But Mark's parents had a lot of money, so Mark would have a nice funeral. It was a sham, it was such a fucking lie. Mark had lived his whole adult life in poverty, trying to be an artist. He had not asked for any money from his parents since the time several years ago that he desperately needed a computer for his editing. And now this fancy funeral? He wouldn't want it, not after the things he had seen. He wouldn't want this elaborate, oak, bronze-trimmed casket when he had seen Mimi lain in what was essentially a wooden box. He would not see the point in buying him new clothes to be buried in when Angel had been so horribly thin when he died that he couldn't even be buried in his favorite dress. And shipping in family from all over the country? Most of Collins's extended family refused to even attend his funeral after finding out that he wanted to be buried beside his gay lover.

No. Mark wouldn't want all of this. Not that he didn't deserve it, because Roger could not think of anyone who deserved it more. But Mark wouldn't want it.

Roger watched as Mark's mom walked over to the casket, holding a tissue up to her mouth and sobbing silently as she looked at him. Roger saw her shoulders shaking. Her husband, Mark's father, came over and put a loving arm around her and they both looked inside the box. And then he started crying too. Mark's father, his fucking father, was crying unabashedly.

Suddenly Roger felt fear grip him from the inside. He remembered that morning, when he had been so happy to feel Mark's skin as cold. He hadn't understood, and then he realized it and immediately he had wondered how he could ever have thought there was life inside of there. Mark's essence was so obviously gone, it was like a sick sort of statue of him and Roger did not want to see that again.

He had to avoid that casket at all costs.

He started to turn around. He could just wait outside for Maureen and Joanne right? But Joanne grabbed his arm just as he started to walk away. She knew what he was doing, and wouldn't let him walk out.

"Let go of me," he whispered frantically. "I gotta get outta here. I gotta get outta here…."

I gotta get outta here its like I'm being tied to the hood of a yellow rental truck being packed in with fertilizer and fuel oil being pushed over a cliff by a suicidal Mickey Mouse.

I gotta get outta here.

Let me outta here.

Please.

"Let me go," he pleaded, sounding like a scared child.

"You'll regret it if you don't, Roger," Joanne said kindly, sadly. "I swear to you, you will regret it the rest of your life if you don't get to look at Mark one last time."

"That's not Mark in there!" he breathed tearfully. "It's not, it's a shell, I don't care about the shell, I want Mark! I want to talk to Mark!"

Which made Maureen start crying again.

"Honeybear," Joanne whispered, letting go of Roger and returning to her partner, drying tears, holding hands. Roger hugged himself, staring at the casket like a mortal enemy. A mortal enemy who had to be conquered, if Roger was brave enough.

One step. Another step. Slow and unsure. Faltering. There is nothing to be scared about, he told himself. Absolutely nothing. Another step. He was getting awfully close, but it was taking an awfully long time. Mark's parents had already retreated to a corner, where Mrs. Cohen was trying to recompose herself (and failing). Joanne and Maureen were at the casket and it looked as though Maureen could barely even support herself, but wasn't crying anymore. Roger continued inching closer, touching the cold metal of each chair as he passed them.

He was only feet away now. Joanne looked at him, and with a little nod, led Maureen (who was not looking at Mark anymore anyway, but had her head on Joanne's shoulder) away. Roger swallowed hard, then took the final few steps.

What he saw did not scare him as badly as he thought it would. Mark lay in the casket on lavender satin. Roger snorted quietly, because Mark hated lavender. He was dressed in a grey shirt and black dress pants. They must have bought him new glasses, because he was wearing them and Roger knew that he didn't have an extra pair and Roger had the originals. His hands were on his stomach, beneath them lay a tape.

So at least they did something right.

Roger wondered if there was anything on it. Probably not, but at least someone had thought to do that. It meant a lot.

It was so obviously not Mark. He didn't look asleep. He didn't look dead. He looked fake. There was makeup on his face, covering the rash he had died with and all other imperfections. He looked like a mannequin of Mark. It was a little creepy, but didn't bother Roger much.

Having never taken his hands out of his pockets, Roger slouched toward the door. He could wait outside now. Not even Joanne tried to stop him. He went out to the parking lot of the funeral home and sat on the curb. He put his head in his hands and sighed, feeling more alone than he had ever felt in his life.

He began to cry. Just quietly, the tears streaming silently down his face, not even helped along my sobs. It wasn't supposed to happen like this. Mark couldn't be dead, how could he be dead?

Why?

Suddenly Roger felt a presence beside him. He didn't look up. If Joanne wanted to boss him around some more, she could wait.

"Excuse me."

The voice was unfamiliar. Roger looked up and saw a girl, maybe around thirteen, staring down at him. He said nothing.

"Am I related to you?" the girl asked. She had dark hair and took after the Jewish side of Mark's family, with a larger nose and big brown eyes. She seemed to notice that he was crying. "Oh… I'm sorry. I didn't mean to…. I just had never seen you before and wondered…."

"It's no big deal," Roger whispered, wiping his eyes.

"Are you one of Uncle Mark's friends?"

Uncle?

Roger remembered with a start that Mark had been an uncle. His sister Cindy had three kids. "The best he had," Roger answered her. She nodded.

"I'm Jessica. Are you Roger?"

"Yeah."

She nodded. "I remember him talking about you last time he visited."

"How long ago was that?"

"A long time ago. I haven't seen him in a few years." She sat down beside Roger. "You're lucky you got to see him more. Every time he'd come over, he'd film movies that me and my little brother and sister put on. It was fun. We still have them."

"Oh." Roger felt awkward. He didn't want to discuss Mark with some kid he had never met.

Jessica was silent for a while, then said, "I can't look at it."

"Huh?"

"The body. I can't. It's too freaky. My mom said that I could wait for her outside, so that's what I'm doing."

"Oh," he said again.

"Was he in a lot of pain when he died?"

Roger raised an eyebrow at her. What the hell was her problem? "Yes," he said coldly, "as a matter of fact, he was."

"That's sad," she said quietly. Then asked, "What were his last words?"

Who the fuck did this girl think she was! Roger felt himself snap. In his mind he heard Mark's weak voice whispering, "Musetta."

"How the fuck should I know!" he all but shouted. Jessica started, looking at him like he had just grown another head. "I don't know where you get off asking me shit like this, but I don't wanna talk about it!"

"Roger!"

Joanne was suddenly behind him. "I know you're upset, but don't swear at this little girl…."

"I'LL SWEAR AT WHOEVER I WANT TO!" he screamed. She put a hand on his shoulder and he batted it away, standing up. "Leave me the fuck alone, Joanne. You're an unfeeling bitch. I don't wanna talk to you, you didn't even like Mark."

Joanne's face changed completely. Her jaw dropped and her eyes went soft and she let out a little audible breath of air. "Oh my God, Roger, is that what this is about?"

He didn't answer her. He didn't have to.

"Oh… oh Roger…. How could you think…. You don't think I'm glad Mark passed away, do you?"

Roger shrugged.

Joanne looked at him incredulously. "How could you think that? I was jealous of Mark, Roger, I didn't hate him. In fact, I liked him and I could see what Maureen saw in him and it scared me."

"Then why haven't you cried?" Roger looked her straight in the eyes. It took a moment for her to answer.

"I have," Joanne said harshly. "Just not in front of you or Maureen. I need to be strong for the two of you."

Just then, Maureen came out of the funeral home, looking like she was going to be sick. "Pookie," she said weakly, "can we go home?"

"Yes, Honeybear."

Mark's service was such a service. It made Roger want to pull an April right there in the pew. There was a priest and a rabbi. As if it really mattered either way. There was some incense that made Roger sneeze twice and attract glares and people speaking Hebrew and others saying "And also with you" to the priest every five minutes and Roger wished he was safe on Joanne and Maureen's couch with his head under a blanket.

Relatives were crying softly, and others sat in their seats, staring at their hands because they hadn't known Mark well and felt awkward.

Roger did not listen to a word the priest said. He didn't know what he was talking about, He spoke about Mark's kindness and his passion for his work and it was horribly scripted and generic and made Roger want to puke.

The rabbi, however, had actually known Mark when he was a kid. Mark had had his Bar Mitzvah as his synagogue. He could truthfully tell about how much trouble Mark had had trying to learn Hebrew. He even described Mark's frustrated tears as it came time for his confirmation and he just couldn't grasp it.

"He had a difficult time of it," the rabbi reminisced. "But he came through. He didn't do wonderfully, as I remember, but he survived it."

The service took place outside in the cemetery where everyone was buried. It saved the problem of whether to have it in a synagogue or a church. They moved to a big square hole dug into the ground.

Holy shit, Roger thought as some metal contraption lowered the casket into the earth, Mark is in that box. Mark is in there and they're really going to bury him. Oh my God he's really gone.

Roger's knees suddenly felt weak. Luckily he was standing near a tree when they buckled and he could lean against it for support. He stared, horrified, at the people gathered around the hole. Mark was gone. He was really gone, he was never coming back, Roger would never see him again, not ever, his best friend was dead dead dead.

And with that thought, Roger felt his whole world come crashing down.