Life Insurance

Oh, dry the starting tear, for they were heavily insured. —W.S. Gilbert

Following a mild coronary episode, Mark Duress decided he should review his life insurance policy. The day he returned home from a 48-hour stay in the hospital, he searched for it, but without success.

"Why don't you just call the insurance company and have them mail it?" suggested Kelli, his wife of 25 years.

"Snail mail takes too long. I'll just drop by their office and have them make a copy and maybe go over it with me. Want to make sure everything's in order."

"In order? You're fine, Mark. The doctor said it was nothing chronic. Don't get all fatalistic because you had a little heart fart."

"I'm not. I actually have no memory of what the policy looks like. It's smart to know what you're paying for and if you can get more for your dollar."

Mark made an appointment with Furlong Indemnity for the next day and arrived promptly at the designated time. The company that held his insurance policy had changed its ownership and location a couple of times and was now housed on the third floor of what looked like a new building with a faux gothic facade. When he entered its lobby, he discovered the elevator was out of order, so he reluctantly took the stairs. Shouldn't be

exerting myself like this after the heart episode, he thought, moving slowly and deliberately up the cement steps.

"May I help you, sir?" asked a doleful looking receptionist when he entered the insurance office.

"I have a 1:15 appointment with Mr. Carson."

"Oh, you must be Mr. Duress."

Mark nodded, "That would be me."

"I'll let Walter know you're here. Please have a seat. There's a new People Magazine in the rack right over there, if you'd like to read something."

Mark thanked the woman and took a seat, ignoring the reading material. Before he had a chance to settle in, the receptionist instructed him to go to the end of the corridor and take a right to the second door.

"Walter is waiting for you, Mr. Duress."

About six steps down the hallway, Mark was stopped in his tracks by a painting hanging on the beige-colored wall.

What the hell is that? he wondered, moving closer to what was a depiction of a burned-out house with two sheet-covered bodies on the ground before it. Why the hell would they display such an awful picture? Who would paint such an atrocity?

Mark took a few more steps down the dimly lit hall and encountered yet another painting—one even more grotesque than the first. Christ! he gulped at the sight of it, his stomach churning. The images were repellent, to say the least. Two wrecked vehicles blocked a highway. A bloodied body lay across the mangled hood of one car, having obviously been launched through its windshield. Next to the twisted wrecks lay three other mortally wounded accident victims.

What the . . .? This is unbelievable, grumbled Mark.

He turned away feeling nauseous only to spy another painting that portrayed a flooded street with several corpses floating in the murky water.

Too much! I've had it, growled Mark, deciding to leave the insurance office.

"Mr. Duress?" came a voice from behind him.

Mark swung around and found himself a few steps from a tall, gaunt figure in a black three-piece suit.

"I'm Walt Carson. Please, come into my office. It's good to see you."

For a moment, Mark considered leaving, but then turned and followed Carson.

"Have a seat. I don't believe we've actually met in the flesh, although I am familiar with your policy."

The agent's exceptionally ornate desk looked as if it were on loan from Versailles, thought Mark.

"Beauty, isn't it? Got it at an estate sale. A client. Sadly, she came to a tragic end. Had plenty of coverage, as you might imagine for someone owning this treasure. Speaking of coverage, that's why you're here. To make sure your loved ones are taken care of in the event of your untimely absence."

Carson smiled broadly, revealing a row of uneven and discolored teeth.

"I just want to make certain everything is where it should be. I think it probably is."

"Well, not really, Mr. Duress. May I call you Mark?"

"Yes, that's what my mother called me," replied Mark, attempting to lighten the oppressive atmosphere.

"Thank you, Mark. Actually, your coverage is less than it should be, and I think that places you in duress. Oh, ... I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make a joke about your last name."

"No insult taken," answered Mark. "It's pronounced `Dures, though" No extra syllable or emphasis on the `ess.'"

"Oh, please excuse me. I've been pronouncing it wrong all along. Anyway, your policy really could use upgrading . . ."

As Carson spoke, Mark found that he could not shake the horrific images adorning the hallway.

"Excuse me. May I ask why you have those shocking paintings hanging out there? They're really . . . well, hideous."

"Au contraire, Mark. They're quite heartrending," objected Carson, his expression assuming an air of superiority.

"Huh?"

"They're depictions of clients who lacked sufficient life insurance . . . "

"That's, ah . . . "

"Touching?"

"No! ghoulish. Who would paint such things?"

Carson's expression darkened. "A talented artist, I would say. Now, back to the point I was trying to make. You should consider increasing your coverage substantially, Mr. Duress."

"Substantially? No, I can't afford to do that. In fact, I'll probably leave it the way it is, Mr. Carson."

"That would be unwise."

"Look, I really came here only to get a copy of my policy," said Mark, looking at his watch. "Can I have that copy, please? I've got to be going."

"Again, let me advise you to increase your numbers. You never know when something fateful may occur,

and right now you are not adequately covered to provide adequate support for your family . . . should something unexpected happen to you."

"I'll think about it. Goodbye, Mr. Carson."

"Goodbye, indeed, Mr. Duress," hissed the insurance agent.

"Why the tone? What are you suggesting?"

"Only that you should get more protection."

Mark gave Carson a disgusted look and left his office. He moved quickly down the hall, feeling a compelling desire to be away from the premises. He avoided looking at the disturbing artwork as he moved to the end of the corridor. Just before the receptionist's area, he came to a sudden halt. A painting he had not seen before leapt out at him. Huh? No, this can't be real . . . he thought, as he stood before the worst of all of the hall's grotesqueries. It's . . . it's me!

The canvas possessed a clear likeness of him in a heap at the bottom of a staircase. It was apparent that he had fallen and snapped his neck. The very sight of the grim image provoked him.

"Son of a bitch! How could he . . .?"

Mark pulled the painting from the wall and marched back to Carson's office. He pushed the door open and entered what seemed like the darkest corner of night. Before he could say a word, however, the room was flooded with light.

Mark regained his purpose just as quickly.

"What is this, Mr. Carson? Who do you . . .?"

As he addressed the back of Carson's office chair, the agent swiveled around and faced him.

"What seems to be the problem, Mr. Duress?"

"Look at this," shouted Mark, holding the painting in front of Carson.

"So? What's your point?"

"The goddamn painting is of me with a broken neck!"

"What are you talking about?"

Mark turned the painting toward himself.

"This is what I . . . "

"Yes, Mr. Duress? You were saying?"

Mark was speechless. The canvas was blank.

"But there was a picture of me dead. My face was blue. I must have fallen down some stairs."

Carson smiled, and his expression filled Mark with an overwhelming sense of foreboding.

"As I said, you never know when things are going to take a bad turn. Perhaps you've reconsidered increasing the amount of your life insurance policy?"

"Yes . . . yes, I have!" answered Mark, without a moment's hesitation. Good . . . I thought you would see the light, so to speak. Here's a copy of your upgraded policy," said Carson, with a forced smile. Mark left the office quickly, feeling apprehensive and confused. On his way out, he tried to avoid looking at the grisly paintings lining the walls, but only partially succeeded. As he reached the stairs preparing to descend them, he felt something cold push against his back.