SOMERSET

by Terri L. Weiss

I¶m not reading another story about death, not when I¶m trying to write my own obituary.I don¶t want to get even more bummed out. I could let somebody else write it. Some guy in acubicle who writes cold, dead obits for a living and doesn¶t know me from Adam. I could ask Jennie to do it, she knows me better than anyone in the world, but her eyes would well up andshe¶d tell me to think positive when we all know I¶m going to die soon. Stage IV-B endometrialcancer, I don¶t stand a hope in hell. Nah, I have to write the thing myself. The best case scenario is the same as the worstcase - if I screw up, I can¶t come back and haunt the person who wrote it. At least I can makesure it says more than µCassandra Somerset, born March 12, 1960, died whenever in Talbot,Maryland, send contributions to American Cancer Society¶. Like the American Cancer Society¶sdone anything for me. They¶d never even pick me to be a poster girl for Prognosis: Poor; I havetoo much of an attitude. Besides, my nose is too prominent.I wish I could count on an obit writer to include more information, even something likeµShe was the daughter of Jackson and Jocelyn Somerset¶, but I can¶t. Thank God the J¶s (my parents, I was never a µMumsie and Pop¶ kind of kid) didn¶t live long enough to hear mydiagnosis, but there are still quite a few people who know my family. I have no survivinghusband, no kids, but the Somerset family¶s been around a mighty long time. My brothers andcousins have been fruitful and multiplied. I guess they could instruct the obit writer to mentionmy parents.Come to think of it, what difference would it make if the obit¶s limited to basicinformation? The people who know me will have their own things to say about me after I¶m

dead; they won¶t need to refer to an obit to remember what they want to remember. And the people who didn¶t know me won¶t give a damn either way. Maybe I should leave the dirty job tothe obit pros, and squeeze every last drop out of the rest of my life instead of dwelling on theinevitable. I mean, when a guy gets nailed by a Mack truck, he doesn¶t know it¶s going tohappen beforehand. People don¶t waste time writing their own obits in advance, just in case. It¶snot like writing a will so your stuff doesn¶t end up in the garbage. To hell with the whole stupididea.I hope some people do remember me, for a little while, anyway. Apart from my family. Iknow a lot of people, even if only a couple of people really know me. Guess most people arelike that, lots of acquaintances, few real friends. My closest friends are mostly in PembrokeCounty, New York, where my family¶s lived like gentry ever since the Brits arrived in the 1600¶s ± yeah, it¶s nuts, but we can trace the Pembroke Somersets to the 1400¶s. I remember when Ihad to draw my family tree in sixth grade and my classmates thought I was joking. I was soembarrassed. I wished I had a cool background like the kids whose families came through EllisIsland or made a daring escape from third-world despots.Anyway. Outside New York, the rest of my friends are from prep school, like Jennie -I¶ll talk more about her later - and some folks here in Talbot, Maryland. There are Tracy andBill, the people who sold me the house. And the gay guys up the street, Jon and Daryl. I metthem when I found their dog in the woods and didn¶t know whose it was. I took care of him untilI saw their leaflet. Then there¶s Prati, the owner of the ice cream shop who makes awesomeflavors like whipped bittersweet chocolate caramel crème. And Chase, I slept with him for aboutsix months until we both decided it wasn¶t a good idea. People like them, who amble over totourists to discuss their favorite books for half an hour and then recommend a good seafood

restaurant down the road, they¶re the reason I¶m living here, three hundred miles from home.Them, and the grassy cattails of the land and the blue lap of the bay that make me throw back myhead, close my eyes and listen to the herons tiptoeing in the marsh.I came to the Eastern Shore to follow a man. He walked out on me a year after I arrived -it¶s the story of my life. Casey¶s always going where her lovers go, my friends complain; shedoesn¶t make her own decisions. True enough, I¶m one of those Great Disappointments.Everyone said I was brilliant, I was going to be a literary luminary and win the Pulitzer Prize.Instead, my Yale diploma is God knows where, maybe shredded by mice in the attic of the J¶shouse where my oldest brother now lives. He¶s probably forgotten the house even has an attic.The only useful degree I ever got was my stenographer certification. Have boyfriend,will transcribe, that was my motto. Maybe that should be on my headstone, except I asked to becremated and my ashes scattered. I don¶t care where I¶m scattered, as long as it¶s not NewJersey, Queens or Staten Island. Or at a toxic waste facility, don¶t let me forget that one. I haveto draw the line somewhere.Back to Jennie. Her full name is Genevieve Standish ± yep, as in Myles Standish fromsoldthe Mayflower. The two of us are such awkward true-blue WASP¶s. Jennie pops down herefrom New York every few months to sure I¶m still eating and to try to con me into moving back.Even though she knows if the cancer didn¶t kill me, New York would - too many bad memories.We smoke a few joints for old times¶ sake and she pesters me to see a specialist at JohnsHopkins. Too late for that, Jennie, stop being such a pain in the ass.And speaking of pains in the ass, Jennie¶s coming this weekend with my favorite pain inthe ass of all time, Cora Franks. Franks and I haven¶t seen each other in years, she¶s got her own