The International Shop of Coffins: Anexus Corbanan

Just last night Anexus Corban had glass installed in the window holes, and now he can keep the big wooden shutters open. He can see outside and still keep the air conditioner on and the street noise and the mosquitoes out. This morning he sees the sun shining right in, casting lovely shadows about the room-an additional bonus. So now Corban cannot help but smile too broadly.

When the door opens with a jingle it is okay that Corban is smiling. It is Father Simon. He is not a customer. He is a visitor. He comes to look at the coffins. The shop is the place on the island where the priest feels most comfortable.

The shop is never crowded, so often when Corban and Simon are there together they talk to each other. Today Corban is proud of his windows. "Do you have anything new in, Anexus?" Simon speaks with a British accent, even though he is from West Africa and spent only a few years in Britain as a young seminarian. This pretense suits Corban fine. Even endears Simon to him. Corban, who is pure French, has trained his own voice to give the inflections of an island man rooted in the St. Thomas soil.

Corban wants to tell Simon to look at the new windows, but he knows that his friend is not interested in light and the effect of the light. The priest wants only to know about the coffins. Corban doesn't let this dampen his mood. Today is a good day, and such days must be savored. Before he can respond that he has just bought a load of St. Croix wood, two girls in school uniforms walk in. "School project," the blond one says as she waves her notebook at Corban. He knows they are lying. He knows that, though he is running an honest and important business, for some his shop is just a curiosity. The girls are attracted to the children's coffins, but the darker one slinks away shyly from the Mexican coffins, moving closer to the counter where there is less light. Corban looks at her and his chest tightens. There is something about her, her face there in the shadow. The resemblance is only slight, but today, because of his new windows, Corban is vulnerable to the past's intrusion. The girl reminds him of Usha.

Corban forces himself to come out from be he displays small things like keepsake urns and cloth handkerchiefs-to ask the girls if they need some help.

"We're picking our coffins," replies the brown-skinned girl with a sureness that is unexpected, and yet all Usha. "Your sign says custom made."

"For a history project," the other one quickly interjects, opening her eyes widely at her friend.

The girls wear ties. They are seniors in high school. Private school, by the colors they're wearing, but Corban can't tell which one. He knows they will ignore the plain pine coffin held together with wooden nails. That one is for Muslims, who most often request it for its strength and simplicity. He wonders if the one with the dark hair is Muslim.

Father Simon looks the girls over. He does not know them. They do not go to the Catholic school. "What is the topic of the assignment?"

"Death," the blond one responds.

"The history of death?" asks Simon, with what sounds like disbelief but really is intrigue.

"The history of mourning," the Indian girl explains, and again seems to be gaining temerity from her own voice. Father Simon nods. Now he knows they are lying, but the history of mourning would indeed make a decent topic of study.

"Well," says Corban, looking askance at Simon, "this is a place that celebrates life."

And Anexus knows about life. He knows about an entire life. Because he has lived an entire life already. In a way, this is his third.

The brown girl buys a box of marigold petals and pays for it with a fifty. She must come from a family with money, Anexus thinks. He enjoys...