I wrote this a while back, but I edited it and prettied it up a bit, "though I can't guarantee I didn't miss something."  Hope you like it.

Pay the Toll

Green grass stretched out over the field, too immaculate, too fresh to be natural.   For miles around, dead, dry grass baked in California sunshine, yet this secluded little patch managed to stay perfectly green.  One might think it was a well-kept lawn, until they noticed the stones jutting out of the grass, once again too perfectly clean and carefully carved to be natural.   

This is one of those special places that do arithmetic with humanity; make additions or subtractions to life.  Maternity wards are such places, and this was another.  No matter how many people passed through these gates, one fewer always left. A few small groups stood huddled in different parts of the field, all looking something less than happy to be there.  However, only one man looked angry.  

Bill was not in the mood for a funeral.  It showed in every little gesture, from the way that he had his hands stuffed in the pockets of his favorite overcoat to the way he dug at the grass with his shoe.  He hadn’t move to California to attend funerals.  He had come to pass his waning years in peace, away from academia and lectures no one listened to.  He did not want be reminded of the terminal ending.   

 The man standing with him had never lived in California, but found that he liked it.  It reminded him of home. The service was not yet started, so they paused beneath an oak tree.  While his companion leaned against the trunk, Bill kicked at a clump of grass and griped.
“What kind of society has a place for the dead that’s so much better than the living?  So much water wasted.  Look at this grass.  You know its drought conditions right now?  I bet you this is the only green lawn for miles around.”

The man leaning against the tree smiled benignly.  He knew that Bill was baiting him, but he played along.  Perhaps the argument would cheer him up.

“You don’t think that the dead deserve a little respect?”

“What for?  They’re dead.  All this ‘paying your respects’ shit is a waste of time.  God, funerals are such a drag.  So many people pretending to be sad, standing around acting nostalgic, all while getting totally wasted.”

“That does seem to be the tradition.  Surely you, of all people, can appreciate tradition.  Something to help the dead move on.”

“The dead?  Give me a break.  It’s the living that you need to worry about.  All of this is to help the living move on.  It’s always been like that.  Funerals have nothing to do with the corpse; he’s dead n gone.  He doesn’t want anything, because he’s dead.  But somehow everyone feels like they have to do something.   Egyptians sucked out the brain and stuck the guy’s heart in a jar, piled a few thousand tons of rock on top of him.   Do you think he wanted that?”

His companion frowned at that, then shrugged.

“I can’t imagine he minded all that much.”

Bill glowered at him.

“That was a rhetorical question.  Dissecting a dead guy to help him find peace.  Nowadays, we call that corpse mutilation.  Back then, it was tradition. The Hindi’s liked to burn em, sometimes throw the wife on top, just for kicks and giggles, you know.  Something about sending her into the afterlife with her husband.  Man, some of the shit I dug up, literally, dug up, mind you,  in research would make your skin crawl.  Not that it matters.   All of…,” he waved vaguely at the assembled crowd, “this, is just to make the living feel better for when their time comes.”  

“Do you think it worked?”

“Hell if I know.  Some look positively peaceful when they pass… then you go to move them, and find that they shit themselves.”
“That may have been post-mortem; when the body dies, all the muscles relax, and…”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.  Damn it, can’t you let me make a point?  What are you doing here anyways? Are you…”  Bill looked a little confused for a moment, then realization swept over him. He lifted a finger and pointed accusingly at the other man.

“You dragged me here, didn’t you?  This is someone you know, and so you drag me into it.  That’s taking advantage of a friendship.   Couldn’t you have brought someone else: friends, family, a hooker?”  

Bill’s companion looked puzzled.

“Yes, the funeral is for someone I know, but no, I couldn’t bring someone else.  It had to be you.”

“Don’t see why. You could have had some pretty girl on your arm, instead of an angry old coot. Anyways, where’s the body? Who kicked it?”

The other looked at him for a while, in a way that indicated that he thought Bill was being stubbornly oblivious.

“You know you’re dead, don’t you, Bill?”

Bill looked around, then gave the man a sheepish smile.

“Yeah, I figured.  Knew for a while now. Thought I could draw it out.”

“Oh?”

“My last memory was a heart attack; it doesn’t take a doctorate to figure out what happened. Well, I guess the Egyptians were on to something after all.  So… who does that make you?”

“The ancient Roman’s used to bury their dead with coins in their mouths.  Why?” Bill scratched his chin.

“To pay the ferryman to cross over into… oh.  So what are we still doing here?  Not that I am complaining, I am in no hurry to meet my maker, but aren’t I supposed to see a light, cross a river, something like that?”

“Normally you would, but there is the small matter of your toll.”

Bill laughed and started patting his coat, making a show of searching his pockets.

“Well, sorry to disappoint you, but I don’t have any change on me.  You know what they say.”

His companion looked at him strangely.

“No, I don’t.  What do they say?”

“You can’t take it with you.  Means that most dead people don’t bring any cash along for travel expenses.”

His companion stared at him blankly, then brightened.

“Ah, yes, I have noticed that.  Well, no matter.  The toll isn’t measured in terms of money.”

“Oh, well that’s good. So, how do I pay?”

“We’ll get to that soon enough.  Oh, look, here comes your family.”

Bill spun around quickly, and stared at the approaching group of mourners.

"Damn it, what are they doing here? I told them not to come!"
"Why not?"
The old professor turned to his companion with a look he usually reserved for his slowest students.  

"Why do you think I moved out here? So they wouldn't have to see me wasting away, like they did with Ruth. So that they could get on with their lives. What if they see me like this?"

He ducked behind the tree, and furtively worked his way through the headstones.  His companion waited a moment under the tree, then heaved a sigh and followed.

“I really don’t think you need to worry about that, Bill. They can’t see you.”

Bill ignored him, and only stopped when the clump disappeared over the crest of the hill.  Once they were gone, much of the old man’s humor seemed to return.  He kicked irreverently at a nearby headstone.

“You see this? $900 a letter. Don’t get me wrong; made my job so much easier when they left a label with the stiff, but really, what good does it do for the dead?  Might as well just put 'Bye' on the stone, and leave it at that."
"You didn't do that for your wife."
Bill paused.
"No, Ruth deserved more than that. She was gone too soon; gone before she even died. She deserved something better."
"Why? You just said that these things didn't matter for the dead."
"And that's still true, but all the same... she deserved more. "

His companion glanced in the direction of the mass of black.

"And your children- didn't they deserve more?"
Bill didn’t respond, just stared blankly at the headstone he had recently desecrated. His companion didn’t push the point, just turned and walked up the hill.

“The funeral is about to start.  We don’t want to be late. You are the guest of honor”

They walked in silence, until Bill finally breached it.

“It was their fault, really. They shouldn’t have been so pushy.”

"What happened?"
"They wanted me leave our house, move in with them, let them take care of me. My son was so damn pushy, insisting that I needed their help. That it would be better if I lived with them."
"Wouldn’t that have been better?  They could have sent you to a home, but instead they invited you into their home.  Why didn't you accept?"
Once again, his companion was treated with the stupid student stare.

"What, and leave our house?"

"Didn't you anyway? Leave your house, I mean."
"Yeah, but that was different. I did it to get away from them, from their pity and their concerned stares.” He glanced up the hill, where the black was gathering like a storm cloud. “Though I don’t know how much good it’s going to do me.  They are here now, crying over my grave. Should have stayed back east, let me rest in peace.”

His companion didn’t say a word, just smiled and shook his head.
“That judging little look that means you want to say something, but have a little too much tact to actually say it.  You know, you're just like the dean over at Harvard. Man was still in diapers when I was writing my dissertation, yet he had the audacity to imply that I should retire."

His companion chuckled and shook his head.

“You were 84 years old, Bill.  You could hardly make it up the stairs.”

Bill stomped his foot angrily, trying to stomp down a daisy.

“That’s not the point.  I had tenure, I made all my classes, and my students still were scared to death of me.”

“Oh, and that’s a good thing?”

“Damn straight. Shows that I hadn’t lost my touch. They used to call me Dr. Death, and it wasn’t because of my area of expertise.  I could write finals on cultural anthropology that made them wish they were dead. When they walked out of that room, it looked like they were ready to be interred.”

The old man gave a cruel chuckle.

“When I retired, I think they were all glad to see me go.  Not that they were up front about it; no, that isn’t the style these days.  It’s all polite little remarks about how nice California is this time of year, how I have been on the faculty for sooo long.  Those meaningful, sidelong glances.  Bastards.  I waited till the last possible second, and just when they were ready to throw me out, I left. So, any chance you can tell me about my toll?”

“No, not yet.  It isn’t time yet. You still need to resolve a few things.”

“What is there to resolve?  I am dead, there’s nothing to be resolved.”

“Then what are we doing here?”

Bill stared at his companion for a while, then pointed an accusing finger at him.

“Wait, this is some sort of unfinished business bull crap.  Like I left stuff in my life undone, and now I have to fix it.  I am here until I take care of it.  ”

“No, that isn’t it.  Everyone has unfinished business, old guilt and shame built up over a lifetime.  Some of it will never be resolved.  No, this is much simpler.”

“Then what is it?”

“You have to want it.  Most people don’t want to let go, to drop their problems and go.  You have to give up the petty thing you call your life and leave.”

Bill glanced at his family, what was left of it, anyways.  His friend might be right; they did look genuinely upset that he was gone.   It was the first time he had seen his grandson in years; that little brat that had barfed on his couch must be ready to go to college now.   He should go over there, try to say goodbye…

“What if I don’t want to?  What if I want to stay here? Get in a little quality time with the family?”

“Well, you can, if you’d like. I can’t force you to come. They won’t be able to see or hear you, but you can be with them, make up for lost time. They look upset, and your presence might make things better.”

“But…. there’s a catch, isn’t there?”

“No, no catch.  Just consequences. You can stay here with them.  Then they will leave, and you will stay.  Then they will come back here, one by one, and I will take them, one by one.  And you will be here.”

“So I either decide to leave now, or I don’t leave at all?”

“I only come once.”

Bill shook his head, and slouched a little as he thought.  He glanced at the headstone, and smiled a little.

“Ha, wish I could see my doctors’ faces.  Damn did I show them.  Got a century under my belt before they could box me up.”

His companion smiled, and shook his head.

“You sure showed them… And you aren’t upset that they splurged on the inscription?”

“Nah, its right.  Wish they could have found a way to include Dr. Death, but no ones perfect.”

“Bill, are you ready to leave?”

The old teacher looked over the crowd; the funeral was just beginning.  The California sun shone down from a violently blue sky, and everywhere he looked, Bill saw people from his past; family, friends, and just a few who were glad to see him go.  He should stay, just a little longer, go over there, try to say goodbye…

“Yeah, let’s go.”