Mortuary Confidential

I was sitting outside a funeral one day when two men pulled pistols and had a good ol’ fashioned shootout before my very eyes. Surprised? I sure as hell was, but as at any social event, anything can happen at a funeral, and usually does. Sometimes the attendees’ tensions boil over as seen in “Wake Combat.” Other times some total, random, external force that has nothing to do with the funeral, can affect it, as in “Duel at High Noon.” Either way, wild stuff can, and does, happen. I hope, though, you’ll never have to attend a funeral as “exciting” as some in this section.

What exactly is a funeral?

We’ve all been to them, some of you readers have even arranged them, and they’re never joyous occasions, so why do we even bother having them? A funeral is the ceremonial marking of someone’s death. It’s a rite of passage just like a baptism, wedding, or graduation, all important events. The traditional flow of the American funeral includes a wake (interchangeable with “viewing”), funeral service, and then a burial.

There is still that “traditional” template, but in 21st century America there is no standard. Families today have a lot of choices, sometimes I think too many. With the increase in popularity of cremation, not to mention the burgeoning demand for green burial, the sky is the limit for memorialization and funeralization. Whatever the wishes of the family, the funeral director’s goal is to provide a personalized memorable occasion.

Unfortunately, there is a common pitfall. Many companies advertise funeral products that boast they will create a memorable service. But in fact, products will not create memories. People do. I think this point will become evident in a story like “A Hug, a Hope.” Don’t get me wrong, products can certainly augment a service, but a certain type of stationery can’t replace the memory of a granddaughter singing a favorite song of her grandmother’s during the service, or an honor guard presenting a flag for one of America’s fallen heroes.

While having dinner with my parents not too long ago, I told them about my latest book—the one you’re reading now. After hearing its premise, my dad demanded a “for instance.” I told him about “Duel at High Noon.” At the end he said, “How come this is the first time I’m hearing about this!”

“I was saving it for the book,” I told him. “You’re just going to have to wait and read the rest.”

So, read on.

CHAPTER 29 My Bar Story Contributed by a part-time model

What’s the craziest thing that’s ever happened to you?”

I invariably hear this after someone finds out that I’m in the funeral business. People are insatiably curious about the dead and those who work around them. Of course, I would hate to disappoint anyone, so I happily share the most outlandish, ridiculous thing that has ever happened to me in my life. It’s the tale of a dead Jesuit priest and it’s usually told in bars.

The funeral home I used to work for was located near a Jesuit-run high school. We had a contract with the order to provide funeral services when one of its members died.

Let me give you a little background. The Jesuits are a religious order of the Roman Catholic Church, formed in the 16th century by Saint Ignatius of Loyola. Their members can be found in over 100 countries, where they are associated with higher learning and run a number of high schools and universities.

My adventure began when one of the priests, who we’ll call “Father Iggy” in honor of the founder of the order, died. Father Iggy was an English teacher at the high school who coached a number of sports teams and was a generally upstanding guy. The students loved and respected him as a teacher, coach, and mentor, and former students routinely called upon him to perform their weddings. From what I heard, Father Iggy was also an active volunteer in the community and was recognized by the Pope himself for his service. When he died, I was assigned to handle his funeral.

I had handled several big ceremonies and was confident in my ability to handle the services for a well-known priest.

I did the removal from the rectory and embalmed Father Iggy. The following day I met with the senior priest and set the details of the funeral: an evening viewing in the church, Mass of Christian Burial the following day, and burial in the local Catholic cemetery.

On the morning of the viewing, a couple of Jesuits came over and we dressed Father Iggy in the priest’s traditional black cassock. I applied the barest traces of makeup on his face to give him a little ruddiness and put him in the most economical casket available. Our “cloth covered casket,” or “minimum casket,” is basically fiberboard covered with black felt called doeskin. Because of their vow of poverty, priests are laid to rest in our most basic casket. The black doeskin represents the color of the Jesuit cassock.

In addition to being minimalistic, priests’ caskets differ from others in that they have removable lids that allow the entire body to be seen, instead of just the upper-half, as is more typical. The design allows for two lines of people to file by during the viewing instead of just one. Priests usually have well-attended viewings and funerals.

I unscrewed the lid’s hinges before placing Father Iggy in the casket. Without a hitch, I transported the deceased priest to church and laid him out in the sanctuary for the viewing. The pews were rearranged to let the two lines of people file by. That evening, over eight hundred friends and acquaintances came to pay their respects.

The next day, the church was packed—standing room only. The school had the day off in observance of Father Iggy’s passing. Current students, former students, parents, members of the church, employees of the diocese, and fellow priests choked the pews and aisles.

At the proper time, I wheeled the now-closed casket into the vestibule and gathered the pallbearers to give them their instructions. On the stroke of ten, the officiating priests blessed the casket and the white cloth, or the “pall,” was placed. As the priests processed up the aisle, I signaled the pallbearers to lift the casket off the small cart called the “church truck” and carry it to its place at the front of the sanctuary. Generally we roll the casket up the aisle on the church truck, but the senior priest wanted the pallbearers to be more than ceremonial, so they carried it.

Everything went as planned until the casket reached the second pew from the front. A loud, ominous cracking sound ushered in an unsightly scene as the bottom of the casket fell out. Down with it fell Father Iggy. He hit the marble floor with an undignified thump. The crowd’s collective gasp echoed through the vaulted eaves. The pallbearers, still holding the handles of the pall-covered casket, stood dumbstruck staring down at the floor, where Father Iggy still clutched his ceremonial chalice.

I knew I had to take charge—fast.

I pushed the pallbearers to the front of the sanctuary and instructed them to lay the shell down. I shooed out the priests who occupied the front pew and asked the pallbearers to pick up Father Iggy and place him on the bench. The pallbearers were in such a state of panic that they didn’t hesitate.

Next I had the pallbearers create a human shield to spare the mourners the macabre sight of the dead man lying on the front pew. Everything happened so fast that I didn’t have time to be scared. I motioned one of my colleagues over and told him to go back to the funeral home for a new casket as quickly as possible.

While he rushed away, I dragged the remnants of the broken casket to the rear of the church. Fortunately, the funeral home was just down the block, and the new casket arrived in minutes. With as much dignity as we could muster, the pallbearers and I placed Father Iggy into his new casket and re-draped the pall. The service proceeded without further incident, but as a precaution, meaning no disrespect to the senior priest, I had the pallbearers wheel Father Iggy out on the church truck instead of carrying him.

The most difficult thing I’ve ever done in my life was to walk out of that church with Father Iggy, knowing that every pair of eyes in the congregation was fixed on me—and every mind was wondering, what kind of funeral home allows a priest to fall out of his casket?

I later figured out what caused Father Iggy’s second coming. The “minimum caskets” are held together at the joints by wooden dowels and glue. Our company policy was to order the minimum caskets in bulk to receive a discount. Father Iggy’s first casket had probably been stored in the basement so long that the glue had dried out—and the joints had come apart from the weight of his body.

After the “Father Iggy Incident,” as it came to be known, there was no more ordering in bulk.

CHAPTER 30 The Dove Contributed by an amateur surfer

One day I killed a dove—a beautiful, innocent white dove. The symbol of innocence and purity—and I murdered it. Normally, I release them at graveside services, but not on this day. Instead of releasing the bird as a symbol of the deceased’s freed soul, I unceremoniously stomped it. Now, before you start calling me a sadist or sociopath or report me to PETA, let me tell you of the events leading up to the slaying. It went something like this:

I was driving the hearse for a dead man whose funeral arrangements I had made. I was to lead the funeral procession from the funeral home, where the services had been, to the cemetery. Before we left, the wife pitched me an unusual request: Could she accompany her husband on his last ride? In some areas of the country I understand it is common practice for the deceased’s spouse to ride in the hearse with the funeral director, but it is uncommon in my area.

“I’d be happy to have you accompany me and your late husband,” I told the widow.

I rode in uneasy stillness with this very WASPy woman wearing her wide brimmed ’40s style hat. In the stagnant, plastic-smelling car air, the silence was so thick I could almost cut it with a dull knife. Normally, I am very easygoing around the bereaved families I serve, and I had been comfortable with this widow until the moment she got into the hearse with me. But now I felt like I was fifteen all over again, learning to drive with my mother in the other seat stamping on her imaginary brake every three seconds. With every bump, every abrupt stop or acceleration, I felt her watching me, evaluating me, judging me. I was so preoccupied with driving perfectly that I nearly missed a couple of turns.

I’m sure the woman had so many emotions overwhelming her that she couldn’t even function normally, but the situation was nerve-wracking for me. We were almost at our destination, when the unthinkable happened.

I pulled through the giant stone pillars of the Rest Haven Cemetery and a large dove flapped down from one of the pillars and landed right in front of the hearse. I braked hard and came to a near standstill. The beautiful bird in the road seemed not to care that a giant, smoke-belching beast was heading straight for it. I inched forward, riding the brake, and nudged the Federal Coach to the right and partially up onto the grass. Wouldn’t you know that that bird walked to the right?

I slammed on the brakes and winced. I could feel the widow’s disapproving glare as she watched the saga unfold in front of her. I could almost hear her inner voice shout at me: Can’t you even outwit a bird? My husband is in the back, dead! I cranked the wheel all the way to the left and eased off the brake. Of course, to spite me, the dove walked left.

The limousine carrying the rest of the family was right behind me, so I couldn’t back up. I was trapped. I made a game time decision. I decided to get out and shoo the bird away. I threw the hearse in park and got out. The bird, seemingly unconcerned by my presence, walked away from me and into the grass. There, I thought, that ought to take care of him. I hopped back into the hearse, and back into the roadway the dove walked.

That’s it, I thought, if I just move the hearse up, it’ll be smart enough to fly away. So, my foot on the brake, I steered the hearse closer and closer and closer… and I hit the bird. In the silence of the hearse the squawking of the injured dove was loud, very loud.

I winced.

The widow winced.

What could I do? I drove forward.

In the rearview mirror I watched as the bird, with a wing obviously broken, flapped about on the pavement briefly before the limousine crushed it. The widow jumped when the squawking suddenly ceased with a loud crunch. And I watched further as each of the thirty cars in the procession ran over the carcass.

While I’m not the one who actually killed the dove, a lawyer might say the extent of my culpability was “reckless endangerment.” Regardless of the legalities of who actually killed the bird, I was treated to the widow’s withering stare the whole time the minister committed her husband’s body to the ground.

CHAPTER 31 A Hug, a Hope Contributed by a professional speaker

It was the middle of winter. The type of day when the grass is frozen and crunches underfoot, but the sun shines brightly and there’s not a cloud to be seen. The type of day when the wind blows just enough to remind you winter is still there, but the sunshine, courting favor with the cold, reminds you spring is only around the corner. I was young, just starting my apprenticeship, standing, hands buried deep in my woolen topcoat, neck compressed into a scarf, watching the men from the vault company do their somber work.

The tent flapped in the breeze as the two men sealed the concrete vault and cranked the entire package into the yawning hole cut into the earth. The congregation had long since gone to their luncheon to laugh, reminisce, eat and maybe drink. I had chosen to stay and watch. I didn’t inspect their work, but observed it like a voyeur. As the men broke down the bier, I caught the eye of a woman standing a stone’s throw away at another headstone. She turned away quickly but then looked again as if she was gaining her courage.

The next time I looked, she was staring at me. It was a blatant, open stare that some might call curious and some rude. But by the look in her eyes I could tell it was neither.

I went over to where she was standing.

“Can I help you with something?” I asked, and flashed a smile. The woman was dressed professionally, like a businesswoman on her lunch break. She was middle-aged and pleasant looking. She had kind, soft eyes. The wrinkles around them told a harder, different story.

“I—You look—” Her breaths gave off puffs of steam as she spoke. “Never mind,” she finished lamely.

I looked at the grave where she stood. The headstone had a man’s name on it. He had died very young, I noted. He had been my age. “Your son?”

She bit her bottom lip and nodded. We stood in silence for a few moments. “I miss him. I miss him so much,” she simply stated. “He was such a good kid. Our first—” She put her chin on her chest to collect herself. “Somebody ran a red light. It was… the middle of the day. Nobody was drunk or anything. He was just at the wrong intersection that day.”

She shook her head as if confused while staring at the headstone, and then looked at me ruefully. “I’m sorry—”

I cut her off. “Don’t be.”

She knelt down and traced the name engraved into the granite while talking to me. She must have gone on for five minutes or more about how much she missed her son. I listened. When she was done with her monologue she asked, “May I give you a hug?”

Without hesitation I answered, “Sure.”

We embraced and I felt her crying softly. When she let go, she stepped back and said, “Thank you for that. You remind me so much of him. Kind. Polite. Well mannered. Your mother must be so proud of you. I—I needed a hug from my son today. Thank you for giving me that.”

I never did ask her name, and she never asked mine. We parted ways and I haven’t seen her since.

You can touch someone’s life in a profound way every day if you just slow down and recognize the opportunity.

Give someone a hug. Give someone hope.

CHAPTER 32 Wake Combat Contributed by a collegiate swimmer

There’s something about a funeral that makes it the perfect venue for a fight. I’ve seen all sorts of different fights take place at my funeral home, from little verbal skirmishes to knockdown, drag-out fistfights. I’ve even had to hire security (at the behest of the family) to keep the peace.

Money. Lovers. Attention. The list of things that families fight about is endless, but instead of facing the problems as they come, most people choose to bottle it up and wait. The pressure builds and a death in the family can cause the pot to boil over.

The most violent fight I can remember is one that happened years ago. I can’t remember the name of the family, but I remember the two sons of the dead man as vividly as I can picture my own sons. It was an Irish family. They had a McSomething type name. The two sons, Brian and James, came in to make the funeral arrangements without their mother. She was too distraught over the death of her husband to come in. The man was in his late forties and the death was entirely unexpected.

The boys were in their late twenties. I couldn’t tell if they were twins or not. They looked an awful lot alike except Brian was slightly taller than James and had a large scar over his right eye.

The brothers came into my office, sat down, lit up, and immediately started in at each other. They were heavy smokers, and I wasn’t an hour into the arrangements before the ashtray on my desk was full of cigarette butts stubbed out in anger. They used the gesture of stubbing out a cigarette like an exclamation point at the end of a sentence, getting louder and more animated as our arrangement conference progressed. They couldn’t agree on anything. The air was blue and thick with language and smoke.

The brothers’ anger grew with the pile of stubbed butts until the ashtray couldn’t hold one more butt. Brian screamed some obscenities at his brother and stormed out. Over the next two days I played mediator and got them to agree, for the sake of their mother, on a funeral that suited everyone.

In those days the world wasn’t so “sue-happy” and I allowed booze in my funeral home. It was the typical Irish wake. They brought all sorts of food and drink and partied for most of the evening with music, singing, joking, and carrying on—the dead man lying in the parlor almost an afterthought. It was a big crowd, and the two brothers were pretty well behaved except for some yelling and pushing that was quickly broken up by friends. But they kept their distance from each other for the entire night. The wake ended and everyone left the party in good, drunken spirits.

The next morning the brothers showed up separately. Brian came first, escorting his mother. He reeked of cigarettes and whiskey and looked the part, too. He obviously hadn’t shaved or combed his hair, and his eyes were bloodshot and had the look of a hunted animal about them. I escorted them into the private family room, got them settled, and greeted the rest of the guests as they arrived. James arrived much later wearing the same clothes he had worn the previous evening. He obviously hadn’t been home. He too reeked of rye, and attached to his arm was a garishly dressed young lady whom he introduced to me as his girlfriend.

I escorted James and his girlfriend to the family room and outlined to the McSomething family how things would go that day so we would all be on the same page. Immediately, the two brothers started verbally sparring. I tried to nip it in the bud by saying, “Gents, could you please just behave today for the sake of your mother and in memory of your dead father?” That seemed to work. They stopped arguing and merely glowered at each other. Their mother sat silent, looking shell-shocked. I got the family seated right before service time and gave a colleague the task of getting the funeral started; I had other plans.

While the service was going on I wanted to embalm a body that had come in during the night. I went into the basement, where the prep room is, took off my coat and tie, put on a gown and pair of gloves. I knew that if I hurried I would be able to get done before the service ended and go back upstairs to say goodbye to everyone. It was wintertime, and in my area of the country you can’t bury in the winter. Everyone gets stored in a vault until the spring thaw, which sometimes doesn’t come until early June. I had just gotten the body undressed and was giving it a preliminary wash when the entire funeral home shook like it had been hit by a plane. BOOM!

I tore off my gloves and gown and rushed upstairs in my shirt-sleeves to find a circle of people in the parlor yelling and screaming. I pushed my way to the center of the circle to find James standing over Brian. Brian was laid out on the floor, blood gushing from his nose. As I floundered into the circle James yelled, “Don’t talk about my girl like that!” He circled his motionless opponent, shaking his bloody fist and ranting like a madman.

I knelt over Brian and slapped his face. “Hey! Can you hear me?” I yelled. Then I looked up at James, “Are you crazy?”

Brian opened his eyes.

“You all right?” I asked.

Brian shook his head, pushed me out of the way, and sat up. Bright red blood ran from his nose like a faucet, gushing down the front of his suit and onto the carpet.

James yelled, “You better stay down if you know what’s good for you.” He continued circling his prey, waving his bloody fists.

Brian ignored him and got unsteadily to his feet. He took a couple of tentative steps, before he spit a huge bloody loogie onto the carpet, put his dukes up, and said, “C’mon.”

The crowd exploded in yells and jeers, and Brian took a mighty swing at his brother. It caught him in the arm, but with enough force that James reeled backwards into a lamp on a table, smashing both.

“Hey! Hey!” I yelled desperately at seeing my funeral home being destroyed. “Take it outside or I’m calling the cops!”

Surprisingly enough, the mob listened. A couple of burly men in leather jackets grabbed them and said. “You heard the man, lads, take your grievances outside.” They marched them outside like truant children.

The crowd rushed outside, leaving only a crying Mrs. McSomething alone in the parlor with her dead husband. I was torn. I didn’t know what to do. Console the widow, or try to break up the fight.

I ran outside.

There was at least a foot of snow on the ground and the two boys were out in the front lawn just swinging away. The clean, white snow was dotted with little crimson drops of blood. They were still going strong; I had never seen men take such hits before and still be able to stand. I rushed in to break it up but was intercepted by the burly arm of one of the men who had carried them outside. “Let them fight,” was all he said to me.

I decided to listen to the giant, and stood and watched as Brian and James beat the—for lack of a better word—shit out of each other. Brian was wearing a black shirt but I could tell it was covered in blood by the way the sunlight reflected off the wetness saturating it. James was wearing a white shirt that looked like he had worn it while slaughtering a pig. They slowed down until, at the end, they were just taking wild swings at each other.

Finally, James landed a solid blow to Brian’s jaw. Brian dropped into the snow and lay there motionless. James turned away from his conquest, tripped, and face-planted into the snow where he, too, remained motionless.

There they lay, two brothers, motionless in the bloody snow. The burly men carried them back into the parlor and propped them up on chairs; the crowd took their seats and the service resumed with someone saying prayers. The priest had left when the fight broke out.

At the end of the service, I had the casket bearers help me load the casket into the hearse for the ride over to the vault. It was a comical sight, the two brothers, side by side, dried blood covering their faces, James with his one eye swollen shut, and Brian with his broken nose carrying their father’s casket. They looked like two whipped dogs.

I was glad to see the McSomethings go and decided that next time they called upon my services I would be too busy to accommodate them. Unfortunately, I still had to be around them when we buried their father after the spring thaw. I didn’t relish that day, and in fact, dreaded it the rest of the winter.

On the day of the interment Brian and James showed up in the same car, smelling as they usually did, of booze, but strangely enough, the best of friends. They called each other “brother” during the short committal service and boasted of their drinking exploits the night before. I couldn’t believe they were the same two people I had watched duke it out in front of my funeral home not four months prior.

I just couldn’t resist. Before I left I asked Brian, “How did you get that scar over your eye?”

He grinned, revealing several missing teeth. “Fightin’ James.”

CHAPTER 33 Lucky Contributed by a Texas Hold ’Em player

I remember the first funeral I was given to direct on my own after I graduated from mortuary school. It was a disaster… almost. But I’m Lucky. My real name is some God-awful albatross my parents shackled upon me, Chester. So you can see why I prefer my nickname to my real name. I got the name because, whether it be playing poker or nearly ruining a funeral, I can step into a dung pile and still come out smelling like a daisy.

I did my internship at McDaniel-Walsh. It is a prestigious old firm with the physical plant housed in a big old Victorian mansion. I lived on the third floor in a small dorm-type room. It’s the type of room that’s hot in the summer and cold in the winter, but I was just glad for a place to stay. My rent? The phone for the funeral home rang up in my room from 6:00 P.M. to 7:30 A.M. six nights a week; that’s how I paid rent.

The funeral directors who worked for McDaniel-Walsh were considerably older than me and thought I was just a stupid kid. They couldn’t be bothered with explaining anything to me. I think they thought I should instinctively know it all. Or maybe they thought that just by merely being in their presence I’d pick up their knowledge through osmosis. Either way, they didn’t give me much responsibility at first. In fact, I was like their live-in janitor when I started, and I also had the pleasure of hearing them speak to me like I was retarded—loud and slow. “Chet”—they refused to call me Lucky because it was an “unprofessional” name—“can you wax the cars today?”

So I kept my head down and worked hard, and slowly, very slowly, they began giving me more responsibility.

One morning after I’d been at McD and W for about six months, the phone rang up in my attic apartment. It was Mark, one of the directors. He told me his wife had been rushed to the hospital during the night and he wouldn’t be in to work that day. Could I take the funeral he had planned?

Could I? “Of course I can,” I told him, excited at the prospect of actually doing some funeral directing.

He gave me directions to the church and cemetery and told me the pallbearers would meet me at the church to help me in.

“Do you know what to do?” Mark asked me.

“Yes, I know what to do.”

“Chet, are you sure?” he repeated.

“Don’t worry. Everything will be fine,” I assured him.

He thanked me and hung up. I was ecstatic. This was my big chance to really prove myself and move up from my current custodial duties of polishing the brass ashtrays and replacing the urinal cakes. I ran out and loaded the funeral coach with everything I would need for church: floral stands, sign-in book, pedestals, makeup grip, automobile funeral tags, and the like. I left with plenty of time, but because I was relatively new to the area, and didn’t travel very much outside the immediate area of the funeral home except to go to the grocery store or the occasional movie, I got on the freeway going in the wrong direction.

I didn’t realize my mistake at first, because the exits on this particular freeway are so far and few between, but I finally noticed the exit numbers kept getting bigger. I was looking for an exit number that was supposed to be lower. That’s okay, I told myself, I’ll just get off at the next exit and hop back on. I’ll still be there in plenty of time.

I drove and drove. At one point I contemplated driving over the grass median and getting in the southbound lanes, but it appeared there was a slight ditch and I had visions of getting the funeral coach stuck in the median and making the nightly news. I gripped the steering wheel and willed the next exit to come. It came and I took it. I drove up to the top of the off-ramp, hooked a left turn, and discovered there was no access to the southbound lanes of the freeway. That’s when I began to panic. These were the days before cell phones or GPS navigation devices, and the exit I had gotten off at was for farm country. There weren’t any gas stations I could inquire at, just fields. I had a choice. I could continue northbound on the freeway, or I could try to backtrack through the back roads until I linked up again with the freeway.

I gritted my teeth and kept driving, straight into farm country.

Twenty-five minutes after the funeral service was supposed to start I pulled up to the curb; my face was flushed and my nerves were frayed. I felt like my body would snap, I was so agitated. I had blown it. I had ruined my one big chance to prove myself. When this got back to Mark I was finished!

Forty-five people with arms folded glared at me as I threw the coach in park and killed the engine. I thought the knot in my stomach would jump right out my throat. I squeezed my eyes shut and bit my lower lip so hard I could taste blood inside my mouth, and then I took a deep breath and got ready for the reaming I was sure to receive. I threw open the door and was totally un-prepared for what came.

The daughter of the deceased flew down the church stairs, pushing through the throng of furious faces. “My mother always said she’d be late to her own funeral! Oh, this is just perfect!” She stopped short and looked at me. “Who are you?”

“I’m Lucky. Mark’s wife was rushed to the hospital last night so he sent me.”

“Oh my, I hope his wife is all right!”

I assured her she was.

“And to think, his wife is in the hospital and Mark is still thinking of my family, and having you arrive late so mother would be late. We laughed about her tardiness for a good while when I was in making the funeral arrangements. What a sweet man! He really did think of everything!”

“He’s always thinking of others,” I agreed.

“This just made the funeral perfect,” the daughter stressed.

I just smiled.

We proceeded with the funeral, and the daughter couldn’t thank me enough.

I accepted the praise with as much grace as I could muster that day. I couldn’t seem to shake the feeling that I had dodged a bullet.

Two days after the funeral Mark approached me while I was painting the eaves of the portico. “The daughter of that funeral you took the other day called me.”

“Oh?” I said, putting my paintbrush down.

He had a funny look on his face. “Thanked me for having you show up late because, I quote, ‘Mother always said she’d be late to her own funeral.’”

“So she’s happy then, I take it?”

He stared at me for a long time. I stared right back. Finally, he broke the silence. “You’re lucky.”

Yes, I am.

CHAPTER 34 Believe in the Butterfly Contributed by a Young Republican

A founder of St. Patrick’s Church, Connor McLeod, died. He was 103.

St. Patrick’s Roman Catholic Church is a beacon on a desolate urban landscape, only illuminated once a year, the date of the death of the patron saint of Ireland. On that one day it becomes the epicenter of the city’s focus, but when the green beer has dried up it’s just another neo-Gothic structure in the neo-ghetto.

There was a time when St. Pat’s was more than just a holiday icon, a time before the ethnic lines of delineation blurred and it was an all-Irish neighborhood. It was the time of Connor McLeod when the congregation was a thousand plus strong. The families of the original congregation have moved to the suburbs and the repentant souls that fill the pews on Sundays have shrunk to a pittance.

But when there is a death in the suburbs, the families want to return to their roots in the city, as in the case of Connor McLeod.

Connor’s mother and father emigrated from Ireland in the late 19th century; Connor was born six months after their arrival, a product of their pilgrimage. He grew up in the all-Irish neighborhood and lived there for most of his life until his health forced him to relocate to a suburban rest home. Though he loved St. Patrick’s, in his older years he had resorted to attending daily mass at a local parish. But upon his death, Connor’s family wanted him to be buried from the place of his youth, his home, St. Patrick’s.

Connor decided to die during one of the biggest heat waves the region could remember. Even my father, a fixture in the community, was commenting how he couldn’t remember the heat ever being so bad. The elderly were urged to stay indoors, and the power companies rejoiced at the bonanza. Of course, St. Pat’s was built before air conditioning, and the dwindling congregation’s coffers couldn’t afford to retrofit the building with it. On the day of Connor’s Mass of Christian Burial every window and door to the massive old church was thrown open. Somebody from the church even resurrected a box of old reed fans, printed with the logo Dumphy and Sons, Inc—something my grandfather had provided the church, no doubt.

The humid air hung heavy, stagnant, caught in the vaulted ceiling. The mass proceeded quickly as the congregation sat vigorously fanning themselves. The priest, a monsignor, and friend of Connor’s, celebrated the mass and prepared a special homily for the day. I think the funeral analogy people are most familiar with is likening our lives to the seasons—it seems to be a favorite of the clergy—but on this day the Reverend Monsignor James Shannon likened Connor’s life to the life of a butterfly. He described Connor’s life as a caterpillar, his death as the cocoon, and his rebirth into new life as a beautiful butterfly. It was a touching homily about Connor’s life and his faith.

Just as Monsignor Shannon was wrapping up his homily, a giant blue butterfly flew in through one of the open windows. It sailed down a shaft of light and perched on the pall of the casket. The butterfly gently flapped its wings a couple of times before taking off. It floated lazily over the altar for a few seconds;

Monsignor’s gaze fixed upon it and he faltered. As Monsignor collected himself and finished, the butterfly took off out the window.

It wasn’t a big dramatic event. Even so, I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t been sitting in the rear of the church and had witnessed it for myself.

My father nudged me. “Liam, did you see that?” he murmured.

“Yeah,” I replied uneasily. “Freaky.”

My father smiled at me in a knowing way.

I puzzled over the event as the mass wrapped up, and we processed to the cemetery, lowered Connor into his final resting place, and dropped the family off at their reception hall. What had happened?

There was no doubt in my mind if it had happened. It had happened. Everyone in the congregation, as well as the priest and my father, had witnessed the butterfly. What I was trying to make sense of was what had happened.

Was it a coincidence that Monsignor Shannon was talking about Connor’s rebirth as a butterfly at the exact same moment a butterfly settled on Connor’s casket? I don’t put much stock in coincidences, but I saw the butterfly, and it moved me in a way I can’t explain. I’ve come to the conclusion that the butterfly had nothing to do with coincidence, superstition, or religion. The butterfly was a sign of faith.

Though I’m not an overwhelmingly religious man, I do consider myself a deeply spiritual man—and spirituality is the root of all religions. What transcends religious borders and cultures is the belief, the faith, in the everlasting soul. The butterfly was affirming that faith. It was Connor saying to his family, “Though I’m dead, I live on.”

And it wasn’t hard to see how he lived on. His beautiful family sat in the first three pews in the church he helped found, and his undying faith in his God had allowed him the chance to say one last farewell.

I believe that how you, as a reader, accept this story will say a lot about your individual faith.

Whether you’re Christian, Muslim, Hindu, agnostic, or an atheist, if you haven’t had the chance yet in your life, or are too scared, I urge you to take that first step. It’s only the tiniest of steps.

Believe in the butterfly.

CHAPTER 35 Continuum Contributed by an actor

There’s a beautiful old cemetery in my area that reminds me of a scene in a movie. Every time I drive through the gates of Manhattan Heights Cemetery, I think of Rain Man. I’m sure everybody has seen that movie. It stars Tom Cruise and Dustin Hoffman and won the Oscar for best picture in 1988.

In the scene where Cruise’s character goes to meet his brother in the institution for the first time, the camera pans the oak-lined driveway. This is how Manhattan Heights is; roadways lined with giant old oaks stand like timeless sentinels, flanked by rolling fields where grave markers nestle in the perfectly trimmed grass. The cemetery is a lovely, tranquil place.

When I was just starting my apprenticeship, I was given the task of going out to Manhattan Heights to do a headstone rubbing. It was a clear, sunny, spring day. Everything was green, and the leaves on the trees were full, causing the sunlight to fall onto the cemetery drive in intermittent pools. I cruised through the gates slowly, enjoying the weather and the solitude. As I crested the hill, I saw an old woman standing over a fresh mound. The funeral flowers piled on the mound weren’t wilted yet, so I knew the grave was only a day or two old.

The woman was alone, and I assumed she was the wife of the deceased. Despite the warmth of the afternoon, she wore a heavy wool skirt and sweater. She held one withered hand to her forehead as though she had a headache, motionless as she looked at the patch of freshly disturbed earth.

A woman pushing a baby emerged from an intersecting drive and turned towards the elderly woman. The mother was young looking, twenty-seven or twenty-eight would be my guess, and based on her pace, was simply out for a leisurely stroll. She wasn’t visiting anyone today. The baby was swaddled in a pink cotton blanket. I thought it strange for a woman to be walking her child in a cemetery, but I guess it’s a better place than most. It’s quiet, usually clean, and there isn’t much traffic.

As the mother and daughter passed the elderly woman, neither party seemed to notice the other. But, I, in my car, saw the continuum of life. Grandmother. Mother. Daughter.

At one point in time, not in the too distant past, the grandmotherly woman had been that little girl being pushed in the stroller. She had blinked, and now she was burying a husband. Her spring has quickly turned to winter, and another spring was fast approaching.

Time doesn’t wait. Cherish every day of your life.

CHAPTER 36 The Prodigal Son Contributed by a jazz pianist

There is a natural order in the world. Sometimes the order is broken and the parent is burdened with the task of burying the child. Of all the things I have to deal with in my profession, this situation is always the toughest. It can happen organically, accidentally, or self-destructively. But whichever way you slice it, it’s still a bitter pill to swallow.

The story of the prodigal son is as old as written history, and I see it re-enacted too many times every year. Usually, it’s the wayward son or daughter coming home to mourn the loss of a parent, but sometimes it’s the prodigal son coming home on a flight for his own funeral; a flight in which I pick him up at the cargo bay at the airport, load him into the hearse, take him back to my funeral parlor, and lay him out for his parents to come mourn him.

A woman who we’ll call “Casey” contacted me a year ago. Casey’s son, “Jeff,” had died of a drug overdose while out in Las Vegas.

When Casey called me, she needed someone to listen.

“I was a single mom,” she said. “I dropped out of high school at the age of 17 to have Jeff. It was a bad situation. The man that impregnated me disappeared and my parents disowned me. I was left homeless with an infant.”

I made a sound of sympathy and she continued, “I earned my GED, got a job with the state, and even managed to buy a home, although it wasn’t in a section of town that was that good. I had to work a lot to keep my son and myself afloat and I wasn’t always there to keep an eye on little Jeffrey. He started running with the wrong people and getting messed up. Drugs.”

“Oh Jeez,” I said.

“I didn’t watch him close enough. It’s my fault. All of this… is my fault.”

“You can’t blame yourself.”

She ignored the comment. “He dropped out of high school and lived at home for a couple of years. He’d disappear for weeks on end and I’d never know where he was or even if he was—” She paused. “And I never knew where he got money, even though I had my suspicions. Jeffrey never worked. I begged him to get help. Really, I did. I begged and begged but he wouldn’t listen. He’d always say, ‘Ma, I don’t need help,’ but he did. He needed help.”

I kept quiet and let her talk.

“A couple of short stints in prison for drug charges and petty burglary didn’t straighten him out, but a laced batch of heroin that nearly killed him did. That overdose convinced him to get into rehab. Best thing he ever did. Jeffrey came out a changed person. He got a girlfriend, finished high school, not the GED thing like I did, actual high school, and held a steady job… for 18 months.”

“Oh no,” I said.

“Yeah. The high was too appealing. Jeffrey went back to it and it was worse than before. Way worse. I just couldn’t stand it anymore, so I threw him out of my house,” she said matter-of-factly. “I never heard from him again. It’s been almost a year since I threw him out. And then yesterday I got this call from this medical guy out in Vegas—” Her voice cracked.

I offered her some comforting words and assured her we’d get her son back so she could give him a proper burial. Her parting words to me that day before she hung up were, “I don’t even have any idea how he got out there or what he was doing there.”

Casey didn’t have a lot of money, but I was able to work with her so we could give Jeff a quiet, dignified burial. Casey and three of her friends were the only ones at the service in my chapel. After the minister performed his brief service, I ushered everyone out, leaving just Casey. She stood before Jeff’s casket, her trembling hand touching his. He looked peaceful. His long hair hid the autopsy incisions, as did the collared flannel shirt. Casey had been very calm up until this point, but now she broke down sobbing. I stood next to her and put my arm around her and held her gently.

Casey didn’t curse her son, or denounce him, but merely wept for a couple of minutes before digging into her large purse. She pulled out a bag of marijuana and threw it in, followed by bags of God-knows-what-else, a small bong, a couple of homemade pipes, some syringes without needles, and other things I didn’t even recognize.

“I cleaned out his room,” she said. “Leave them in there. If he wanted his drugs so much, then he can take them with him. Close it.”

I closed the lid. Casey composed herself and walked out to the lobby. We embraced in the lobby and she said, “Thank you for letting me put all this to rest.”

Later in the day I drove Jeff out to the cemetery. The men from the vault company helped me place him on the lowering device, and without a soul in the world who knew Jeffrey watching, I lowered his casket into the gaping hole in the earth.

The prodigal son had come home.

Broken families, fractured families, black sheep, and estrangement; unfortunately, I’ve seen it all. Is there really an issue that is so great you can’t mend that fence? Reach out. At the end of the day, family is all you have in this world.

CHAPTER 37 Duel at High Noon Contributed by a guitarist

I had never heard of a gun battle disrupting a funeral until the day I found myself in the middle of one.

It was a spring day, clear and sunny, and after the entire winter of hiding in church vestibules during funeral services, I took advantage of the beautiful day to sit outside and kill time. The service was Orthodox, and those are usually good to go for at least an hour or more.

That church is in the city. I was lounging on the wide stone steps, keeping an eye out for straggling mourners, leafing through Car and Driver, and not really paying attention to the passers-by, when some yelling caught my attention. On the corner of the block, about one hundred fifty feet from where I was sitting, two men were arguing. Their faces inches away from each other, they both gesticulated wildly, obviously irate. Their argument was more interesting than my magazine, and I put it down to watch. They shouted and pointed for a few more seconds and then stormed away from each other, the argument seemingly over. I started to go back to my magazine when I saw guns appear.

The firearms were drawn from under their billowy white tee shirts—almost the way a magician produces a dove. I’m not too up-to-date on my firearms, so I have no idea what type of guns they were except that they were black. It was like a scene from an old western film. The two stood about fifteen feet apart, menacing each other with their weapons for what seemed to be a millennium, but was probably only a second before they just unloaded. They fired and fired, sparks spitting from the muzzles of the pistols, until the slides locked back. Gun smoke swirling around them, they looked down at themselves, stupefied to be unhurt, and within seconds of the cease-fire, took off like frightened jackrabbits in opposite directions.

I sat on the steps, stunned, as the smell of cordite stung my nostrils. Did I just see a gun battle? I asked myself. No! Shootouts were things on the front page of the local section, things of the night, things of abstraction. Shootouts didn’t happen in broad daylight… outside a funeral!

While I was still trying to process the scene that had just unfolded before me, an unmarked police car appeared from nowhere. It was joined seconds later by two marked prowlers, a fourth, and then a fifth. One of the initial officers to respond at the scene ran by and yelled to me, “Nobody comes out of that church!”

His order spurred me out of my trance and I hopped up to man the church doors.

The mourners, having heard so many gunshots in such close proximity, had all made a beeline for the door. My partner and I, along with the limo driver, were at the big wooden doors forcibly holding them closed. I felt like an actor in some ridiculous movie, holding these giant castle-like doors closed against the pandemonium inside. The priest bullied his way to the front of the crowd and I conveyed the situation to him. He managed to get everyone settled down to the point where there was no more shouting, but they still stood just inside the front doors, milling like cattle, ready to stampede. They weren’t settling back down for a funeral when a war was raging outside.

The police cars were joined by a helicopter and two K-9 units as well as several bicycle and motorcycle cops. They searched for about a half hour, but to no avail. I gave a brief statement about what I had seen and the police finally gave us the okay to empty the church. We processed on to the cemetery and the priest did his best to include at the graveside the parts of the liturgy missed in the church.

I checked the paper the next day and it mentioned the shooting. I guess they never did catch those two men. Not to be glib or anything, but perhaps those two men would benefit from a membership to a local shooting range.

CHAPTER 38 Wives and Girlfriends Contributed by a veteran

If there is one life lesson I have learned as an undertaker, it’s this: the lies and secrets we maintain in life cannot be perpetuated in death. There is an old saying that goes, “Dead men tell no tales.” That’s true, but the dead also can’t keep a secret. Whether it is a man’s secret stack of Playboy magazines, a couple’s titillating photos that were never meant to be shared with others, or a spouse’s secret bank account, it all floats to the surface once the dead person protecting the secret dies. Many a person has told me of the discrete removal of certain objects from their friend’s or sibling’s house before the parents or children go in to clean it out. But aside from objects, stuff that maybe we shouldn’t have or would be embarrassed to admit owning are the people.

The most common thing I see involving the secrets of the living and dead is the illicit sexual relationship. After a death relationships, which were previously buried in the shadows, are thrown into the light of day for all to see. When the secretkeeper is dead, so is the secret. It’s sad when a good man’s or woman’s name is tarnished after they have died because some information floats to the surface, but it’s human nature to have secrets, and it’s something I’ve seen too many times.

Consider the situation of a man with a wife and girlfriend; or a woman with a husband and boyfriend. Man dies. Come the day of the funeral, wife and children are sitting in the front row on one side and girlfriend is on the other side. Sometimes the girlfriend makes a scene. Sometimes the wife makes a scene. Sometimes it’s amicable. Either way, the girlfriend who was previously unknown, or only whispered about behind closed doors, is thrust into public display. Is it a disgrace to the dead man? I don’t have an answer for that. That’s a question you’d have to ask the dead man; I’m not one to judge the state of his marriage and infidelities.

I know what you’re wondering, and, no, the girlfriend usually doesn’t have the sagacity to stay away from her boyfriend’s funeral. After all, it is the funeral of somebody she loves. Would you stay away from the funeral of somebody you loved? I didn’t think so.

Now consider the other situation, a man with a girlfriend and a dead wife; or a woman with a boyfriend and dead husband. Wife dies. Girlfriend comes to wife’s funeral to support her boyfriend (and possibly future hubby). In fact, I just had a funeral not too long ago when the couple hadn’t been married very long. It was under two years. The wife died suddenly. The husband was ruined. Absolutely ruined. I haven’t seen anyone that distraught in a good while. So it was really surprising to me when his girlfriend showed up at the funeral. Don’t get me wrong, she wasn’t obvious about it, but I could tell by the way she touched him (and some things I overheard) that she was his girlfriend. What was so puzzling to me was that this man was so grief-stricken I would have thought they had a perfect marriage. Obviously, it wasn’t so perfect that Mr. X wasn’t stepping outside his marital vows.

I think the kicker of my little relationship sightings was when a husband and wife died in a tragic car wreck. On the day of the funeral, sitting in the front pew opposite the children were the boyfriend and girlfriend of the couple! I found out when I was making the arrangements that “mom and dad couldn’t stand each other.” But I had no idea how complex their lives were. Apparently, the children knew about the affairs and each parent knew about the other’s partner and was okay with the situation as long as it wasn’t out in the open. Their marriage had slid into a marriage of convenience.

I’m not trying to say everyone is a philandering jerk. I just want to remind everyone to think about how you want to be remembered. Once you’re dead, there is no covering the little lies and secrets, and the truth has a nasty habit of finding its way into a funeral.

CHAPTER 39 The World Record Holder Contributed by a volunteer in the Big Brother Program

I definitely hold the world record for having done the most embarrassing things (that’s right, things, plural) at work. I’m not talking about running out of gas on the freeway, splitting your pants and having nothing to change into, or falling asleep during an important meeting. All those things are embarrassing to a certain degree, but I’m talking about hitting the point where you want to crawl deep into a very dark hole and die. The type of embarrassment where you get heart palpitations and your mind goes blank and you can only focus on crawling into that hole. I’m sure everyone reading this has had moments of embarrassment, but see if they compare to a couple of my more glorious moments as the world’s most embarrassing funeral director.

I’ll preface the first incident by saying I spilled an entire cup of coffee down the widow’s dress the night of the wake. But that’s minor and can be solved with profuse apologies and a dry cleaner. If that were the worst thing that happened to me, I’d thank my lucky stars, but the incident happened while I was leading the funeral procession. The decedent was a pillar of the community, loved by all, and hated by none. He had quite a turnout for his send-off and there were at least fifty cars processing to the burial. The cemetery is in the next town over—a place I have been to many times during my career—but I was unaware there was road construction going on that day. The road I was planning on taking was blocked and I was forced to detour around it. I got hopelessly lost and led the entire procession down a dead end street.

You can imagine how I felt when I came to the barrier and had to do a three-point turn in the hearse, wait for the limo to do a five-point turn, and then wait for everyone else to turn their cars around and get back on their way. I finally found the cemetery by the grace of God, and let me tell you, I felt a lot of pairs of eyes on me that day!

It wasn’t too long after the dead-end-street incident (as my colleagues like to call it) that I decided to go for another Hallmark embarrassing moment. We were a little busy on a particular day and I made funeral arrangements with two families. I am generally very careful about making copious notes and keeping everything separate, but when I went to order the casket engraving for the first family, I put down the first name of the wrong man. I didn’t realize it when I faxed the order in. I didn’t realize it when I checked the proof. I even didn’t realize it when the casket arrived and I put the man in it. In my mind I had correctly matched their first and last names.

We had had the wake in the funeral home; celebrated the Mass of Christian Burial, and what I had done didn’t dawn on me until I invited the widow up to the casket at the cemetery. “Do you like the engraving?” I asked, hand on her back.

“That’s not my husband’s name!” she wailed.

I felt about six inches big that day. I postponed the burial, and ordered a new casket lid. But those two incidents can’t even hold a candle to the one incident that won me the title of having the “Most Embarrassing Moment in the World.” It went something like this:

I get a death call. “Mom” has passed.

I tell them I’ll be right over.

Of course, I stepped in dog poop in the front yard and didn’t notice until I managed to track it all over the house. It was a mess. Of course, it was a white carpet. Did I cut my losses and let another funeral director handle the call? No! I pressed on.

The family came into the funeral home the next day, and after many, many apologies—I hope you see a pattern emerging—and insisting I hire a carpet cleaning company, I made the funeral arrangements with them. The family left and I started making the necessary calls to organize the funeral. One of my employees came in and started asking me questions about something and I got sidetracked. Later, when I went back over my notes, I made a mental checklist of everything I had done (or thought I had done) and everything I had to do. I finished making the necessary arrangements and left for the day.

Three days later we had a viewing in church followed by the funeral service. Everything went perfectly. After the service, my colleague and I got all the cars lined up, and we hopped into the hearse and headed for the cemetery. It is one of those big corporate memorial parks that are extremely well run and maintained, and because of that, it is a popular destination for the local dearly departed. Following a nice twenty-minute ride from the church, I pulled into the gates expecting a cemetery lead car to escort us to the grave. No cemetery lead car waited.

That’s not a big deal. Sometimes the lead car gets tied up or is running late. So I headed off through the sprawling cemetery in the direction I thought the grave was, looking for the tent. We drove and drove through the miles of cemetery road, until I turned to my colleague and said, “This is ridiculous. Let’s just go to the cemetery office and find out where the grave is. Maybe we can get someone to take us over there.” I led the procession back through the cemetery and to the office, where I jumped out and ran in.

The cemetery secretary recognized me as I walked through the door. “Oh hi, Rob. What brings you here today?”

I looked at her peculiarly and replied, “The Allen funeral.”

“Who?”

“The interment I’ve got here today.”

She looked at me for a second and said, “We only had one on the books for today and it’s already come in.”

As I uttered the words, “What are you talking about?” it hit me. I hadn’t ordered the grave! I could tell by the look on her face she was thinking the exact same thing. At that point, for a fleeting few moments, I honestly considered just slipping out the back door and hitchhiking home. But instead I said, “How quickly can you set up a mock site?” I asked her.

“I’ll call the guys right now. Give us fifteen minutes.”

“You’re a lifesaver!”

As I walked out to the idling procession stretching out thirty cars down the cemetery drive, a thousand lies swirled through my head, but were interrupted by the pastor rolling down his car window and shouting none-too-kindly, “What’s the hold-up? I’ve got other things to do today!”

I sidled up to his window and growled, “Take it easy. There’s going to be a slight delay.”

Obviously agitated, he shouted at me, “I told you I could do this funeral if it was over by one o’clock and it’s one now!”

“Look,” I snapped at him, “if you want to leave, go ahead. I’ve got the Book of Common Prayer in the hearse. I’ll say the interment rites.”

If looks could have killed I would have been dead and buried right there. He emitted a humph, crossed his arms, and stared straight ahead. I took that to mean he was going to wait.

I strolled back another car and motioned for the son of the deceased to get out of his car.

“What’s the hold-up?” he asked me.

He was a really nice guy, and I decided honesty was the best policy no matter how stupid it made me look. Imagine, one of the biggest parts of my job—ordering the grave—and I can’t even remember to do that! My face was scarlet and I thought my heart would explode out of my chest when I said, “Look, Brad, to be totally honest with you, I forgot to order the grave opening, so they’re arranging a false setup. Once everyone leaves I’ll wait around until they dig the grave and put your mother in.”

He chuckled. “That’s no problem, Rob. Don’t feel bad.”

“Well, I—”

Brad interrupted me. “Just last week I accidentally sent a shipment to the wrong location.”

“This is a little different,” I protested. Once again, I felt about six inches tall. “And not nearly as embarrassing.”

“Hardly. I sent a shipment of beef, the holy cow, to an Indian restaurant. Big customer. My boss was less than pleased.”

I felt better and laughed a little. “That sounds bad, but believe me. I am the king of embarrassment. I could tell you some stories.”

“So could I,” Brad said and rolled his eyes with an I-know-what-you-mean look.

“But this is inexcusable—”

“Like I said, it’s no big deal. You’ve done a lot for my family in the past couple of days. You’re allowed a mistake or two once in a while.” He pounded me on the back. “We’ll just hang tight until you’re ready to roll. By the way, once you’ve finished up, you’re welcome to come back to the country club and have lunch with us.”

“Er, thanks?” I stammered.

When I climbed back into the hearse my colleague looked at me and said, “How’d it go?”

“Considering the fact that we’re in the cemetery with his mother and no place to put her, he’s pretty calm.” I paused. “He invited us to lunch after we finally get his mother buried.”

My colleague laughed. “Sometimes I think you have a horseshoe up your ass.”

“I’ll tell you this much. I’m not going to that luncheon. I’m going to find a very small, dark hole and crawl into it and stay there for a very long time.”

After we wrapped things up at the grave and the family was leaving, I walked them back to their cars. Brad, as gracious as a human could ever be, sidled up to me. “So Rob, are you going to join us at the luncheon and regale me with reasons why you, and not I, hold the crown for embarrassment?”

As if to prove my point, I tripped over a memorial marker and face-planted.

CHAPTER 40 Third from Right Contributed by a car enthusiast

I dressed up a woman like she was going out for Halloween when I wasn’t supposed to… but not really. It’s complicated. Let me explain.

I always ask the family for a photo of the deceased if it’s a woman. The photo helps with makeup and hairstyling. Men generally don’t require a photo. You don’t want them to look like they have makeup on so you just use a little color to give them a ruddy complexion. But with women you need to know what colors to use where, how much makeup they used, and what type.

A woman named Karen died and her family came in to make arrangements. When I asked about the clothes, the family told me that Karen’s best friend would be bringing them by the following day. I reminded them to have the neighbor bring in a photo of Karen so the hair stylist would know how to do her hair.

The following day, the friend brought in Karen’s clothes and a photo. The photo had obviously been taken some time ago, perhaps in the late seventies or early eighties. It was a photo of eight women who were obviously at a party. They were lined up in front of a fireplace; all bore the silly expressions of women who had indulged in too many libations and gossip over the course of the evening. I commented on what a great picture it was and the neighbor informed me that the photo was of the founding members of their neighborhood garden club. She added that she was the only living member left of the original group. We talked a little about her departed friends, and I could tell she loved reminiscing about them. As she was leaving, I remembered I had failed to ask which one was the decedent. I called after the neighbor, “Which one is Karen?”

“Third from the right,” she replied and ducked out the front door.

I was pleased that the woman in the photo enjoyed color, style, and fashion. Even though thirty years ago she was in her middle forties, she looked great. She was fit and tan, and leaning on her two friends flanking her, grinning a silly drunken grin. She had great big black eyelashes and light blue eye shadow topped off by a great big beehive hairdo that was Lucille Ball red.

The poor woman must have had a rough time near the end because she didn’t look much like her old self. Her flamboyant red hair had turned gray and she had let it grow down to her waist. I called the family and got permission to dye the hair to the color in the photo. They assured me they loved that photo. In fact, their exact words were, “That’s her. Do whatever you can to make her look like she did in that photo.”

I did.

Unfortunately, the dress they brought in was lackluster compared to the fashionable empire style diamond print mini-dress in the photo. The pastel colored short skirt in the photo featured her muscular legs, and the mint colored sleeveless blouse showcased her ample bosom. The dress the neighbor had brought in was a shapeless brown thing, not even fit for a woman of such style. To say it had no pizzazz would be an understatement; it looked like a monk’s robe. I picked up a mauve silk scarf at Goodwill and a big belt that I placed high around her waist in the typical seventies style to dress her up a little.

She was beginning to look like the photo.

Once the hair stylist dyed her hair, trimmed it up a bit, and styled it in a beautiful beehive hairdo, she looked almost like her old self. I added some fake eyelashes, thick mascara, and blue eye shadow to complete her makeover, but something was missing. I wiped off the burgundy colored lipstick the friend had brought in and reapplied a loud, light pink lipstick just like she wore in the photo.

Perfect! I thought, stepping back and taking a look at the finished product. The family is going to love the way she turned out!

The next day the members of the family came in before the viewing began. I assembled them in the lobby and took them all in. The two daughters and son walked up to the casket and I heard a collective gasp followed by a loud, “What the hell?”

I rushed up to see what was the matter and the eldest daughter turned to me and pointed a finger at me and wailed, “What did you do to my mother? She looks like a clown!”

“I—I—I tried to make her look like the picture! I’m sorry if you’re not pleased—”

The son roared, “We sure as hell aren’t—”

One of the daughters cut him off, “But her hair!”

“You told me I could dye it like the picture!” I protested.

“You idiot,” the son yelled. “It’s red!”

Then it dawned on me. “I’m sorry,” I said. “But your mother’s friend told me your mother was third from the right.”

I pointed to the picture I had left lying at the foot of the casket.

“Oh God,” the son groaned, looking at the picture, “she’s third from the left! You made her look like Mrs. MacDonnell!”

I rushed over to get a closer look at the photo. The woman third from the left, though looking nothing like the decedent, had longish blond hair and wore a simple floral print dress. And though she had the same silly grin as Mrs. MacDonnell, she wore none of the thick makeup. In fact, she wore none at all, except for a trace of burgundy colored lipstick.

The neighbor who had given me the photo walked up to the casket to see what all the commotion was about and recoiled in revulsion. “Who is that?” she demanded.

“You told the undertaker mom was third from the right,” the son said quietly.

The look of horror that crossed the woman’s face was almost comical. I could tell she wanted to run and hide. “Oh dear,” was all she could utter. She looked at me with a look that said, Did I?

I nodded at her solemnly and put my arm around her shoulders. “Don’t worry,” I assured the three children and neighbor. “I can fix this. Give me fifteen minutes.” I ushered them out of the parlor and re-appeared twenty minutes later, my shirt soaked through with perspiration. She looked as close to the picture as I could muster, except her hair was the wrong color for the viewing.

The next day she was third from left. And her hair was blond.