The Host

The funeral director's name was Manny Musico.

"Is that like a stage name?" my sister, Alex, asked.

"No," he said proudly. "It's real." The gel in his black curls glistened; his teeth sparkled in the artificial light. He was good-looking in a soap opera way and seemed young for his profession.

I leaned over to my sister and whispered, "What a morbid job."

Manny also had supersonic hearing. "A lot of people think so, but it's not morbid at all!" His voice boomed like a Broadway star's; he adjusted his lapels and beamed. I wouldn't have been entirely shocked if spotlights had flicked on, coffins opened up, dancing corpses emerged, and Manny led us all in the opening number of Funeral!, the musical.

"Getting down to business," Manny said, "can I please have the death certificate?"

My father handed it to him and recounted the details about our mother–a sudden death, twelve days after the diagnosis; no, no one expected it; he was sorry too. Forms were filled out. Then Manny invited us to view the coffins.

"She went into the hospital with a stomachache," my dad continued as Manny led us downstairs and along a wood-paneled corridor to the coffin vault.

Manny said, "We've gotten some new models in."

The coffins: luxury models lined with silk, the plain pine box preferred by the Orthodox. My eyes bulged at the prices. A thousand dollars. Two thousand. Four thousand. The caskets had names–Abraham, Eleazar, Moses, Shalom.

"How about the Eleazar?" my father asked. The Eleazar cost $1,699.

"It looks okay," I said. This c...