Funeral Parlor

Jake pulled his Battered Blue Dodge Ram up to the address.  Yep, this was the spot alright.  Dern, I hate these things he muttered as he slid out of the driver’s side and his pale snake-skin boots landed on the hot pavement.  He reached in and his knarled hand closed over his pale Stetson.  The door creaked shut as he slammed it with his jean-shirted elbow.  His long arm arched up and the hat landed firmly on his head in a motion he’d repeated over and over again since he was 13.

His 60 year old legs tall and lanky as a vine unraveled and began to inhabit the new dungarees as he loped towards the door.

Sam, the undertaker stood at the entrance, wincing in the mid-morning sun. He looked uncomfortable in his polyester suit.

Jake tipped his hat in respect and then held it near his chest and he passed through the threshold of the place.  These kinda places always remind me of them slap-up cowboy sets in a movie, he thought to hisself.  Only here as a charade, to offer temporary shade.  He wondered why they didn’t feel more permanent.  Folks passin through, I reckon.

First door on the right, the undertaker informed him.

The hallway was dark and smelled faintly of formaldehyde.  The hat comforted his chest.

Ol’ Miss Jessup a fine lady, he reminded hisself.  She’d appreciate me coming to give my respects.  And he pressed on into the room.  It was small and clausterphobic… the smell of lilly’s just a mite too powerful.  He ached for the prairie wind.  He could see why those injuns hoist up their dead and let the wind blow through ‘em.  Somethin’ to be said for that.

part 2 – other voice

Grandma was quirky. That all there was to it.  She was so stubborn and wouldn’t move from that ranch, regardless of how sick she got.  And how did she stand living with that crazy coot of a cowboy all those years?  I wouldn’t trust him as far as the door frame.  Good thing the undertaker near by.

Oh shit.  Here he comes the old cowboy now.  Speak of the devil.

Look at him.  He doesn’t belong here.  Look at how he looks at her.  What does he know?  I shink back into the corner more, maybe he won’t see me.  Grandma, protect me now, you hear?  Don’t you go leaving me alone here with that big hulk of a man.  I don’t care if he old, he still scares me.

I go rearrange the flowers.  The Paisley girls be here soon.  Got to get the signin book out.

Shallowly he breathed and forced himself to look at the stuffed skin of his landlady.  Damn, sure don’t look like her now.  Ah well.  I’s here and I saying thank you, just in case you can hear it.

Not too many people in my life saw me for who I is, but miss Jessup, you one of them.  I appreciate it, he said out loud, and then caught himself.

The woman in the corner shuffled her black shawl closer.

Carly 2

When I walked into the viewing room, Cherry was surrounded by her usual coterie and already in high drama, exclaiming (in hushed tones, of course) to some woman I’d never seen before.  Cherry always had epitomized everything I hated about being female, embracing with determined abandon the look, feel, and sounds of the forced and fabricated versions of femininity that had permeated our childhood.  I was glad I’d brought Fred along.  Since this was all about Cherry’s husband’s family, I could more easily keep my distance, but that was easier to do in a pair than alone.

I glanced around the room, not seeing anyone else from the Randall family that I recognized.  There weren’t even many people there yet and, except for the two guys by the coffin, they were dispersed throughout the room, like magnets aiming at each other with opposite poles.

Taking Fred’s hand, I guided him toward the casket, following custom.  It was odd to find myself comforted by the path of least resistance, but somehow death is like that.  It’s one thing to push back, negotiate, rebel against life.  But death doesn’t work like that, and for the moment I was content to leave the rituals around death unquestioned as well.

Sam 2

I wanted to stay at the back of the room as long as I could, so I looked at the pictures mounted on posterboard, and pretended interest in who had sent each bouquet of flowers.  I don’t think anyone even really knew I was there yet.

I knew Keith and Woodward would notice me soon.  They had hosted my graduation party in New York City back in college, always happy to open their home to family – at least the family that would deign to come.  My girlfriend had said the usual about them – they were so good looking, what a waste.  But I thought they probably put it all to good enough use.

I didn’t have to look at Cherry and her brood to know who was there, and they were too self-involved to care if I were there or not.  Simone was with her, of course, and that did give me a momentary distraction.  When I was younger, I often lingered around her like a dope, as if any moment she might regale me with scintillating stories of her porn star days.  Maybe she’d take pity on me under these circumstances and come hold my hand.

I glanced at the guy in the corner, trying to get a bead on him, but I couldn’t place him.  Clearly I didn’t have to worry about him crashing in on my grief space.  I was laying odds that he’d be out of there as soon as was politic, sooner if he could.  Briefly I imagined slipping out the back, meeting him at his car.  Maybe a sympathy fuck would be more up his alley.

I leaned over to smell the tulips sent by Aunt Marge.

Derek 2

I understand the sociological, even anthropological, significance of funerals as the markers of a death, the change in a family or community status.  That doesn’t mean I like going to them.  IMHO, in their current form they’re pretty useless.  To keep on the good side of the relations, I decided to go.   But no way would I stay more than 15 minutes.

Sitting in that funeral home, though, I regretted my generosity.  None of these people were the least bit interesting.  I looked at my watch – 10 more minutes.  The group of women chattered away, and the two guys I didn’t know just stood at the coffin – killing time, I guessed, and staying away from the chattering women.  I checked my watch again – 8 minutes to go.

Madeline 2

I was to be the distant cousin from out of town, on his mother’s side.  Cherry had coached me on my supposed lineage, so I figured I could get by if anybody quizzed me.   I had done this plenty of times before, but yeah, I had a few nerves.  We didn’t know if Borkfield would even show up – might just be a waste of time.  But might not.

I checked my makeup in the rearview mirror, tucked a few stray hairs into place, grabbed my purse and headed for the funeral home entrance. 

It was still early for the viewing, but there were about 10 cars already in the parking lot. No one outside, though. I walked through the doors, the blast of A/C sending my carefully arranged scarf back over my shoulder – damn.  Inside, like most of these places, it was rather dark, especially after the bright AZ sun, and plush, with dark yet subdued colors, comfortable chairs, lots of flowers, hushed voices.  I hate these places.  They’re like death – not the kind where you actually die, but the kind where your soul gets slowly sucked out and you eventually are - well, generic, I guess.

I glanced in a mirror in the hallway to rearrange the scarf, then headed purposefully toward Parlor C – Randall.  From the doorway – only seven people in the room, with Cherry in a group with three other women, one skinny, twitchy guy sitting in a corner looking at his watch, and the remaining two at the coffin.  Viewing.  Two tall, good-looking guys, side by side, looking down on the deceased.  Brothers, I guessed.  I headed for Cherry.

She looked up as I moved, and gasped slightly.  As if I was a surprise.  I almost rolled my eyes, but I was a good girl.

“Hello,” I said, as we had rehearsed.  “Are you Cherry?  I was so sorry to hear about Manfred.”  I waited a beat.  “Oh, I’m Marian, Marian Stragthorn.”  I extended my hand.