Colder Than Death

“What I’m really interested in most of all,” Suzanne said in a deflated voice. “Is getting this over with.”

“Getting it over with is why Funeral Homes exist,” I said. “We think of the process as helping people get through the first stages of grief and into the healing process.”

Suzanne leaned back. “There is no grief.” She looked at her daughter for a semblance of understanding. “My sister and I were not close when she was alive. When she disappeared I felt a brief sense of sadness, just like I felt the other times she ran away. I assumed that this time she decided not to come back. There was nothing to come back to. Our parents were dead. The only family she had was me.”

“And me!” said Quilla pointedly.

“As you can see, my daughter has this obsession with my sister. It’s gotten worse over the years and… ”

“It’s not an obsession!” Quilla yelled, jumping up from the couch. “I loved Aunt Brandy and she loved me and I’ve thought about her every day since she left and I always knew she didn’t run away and that something bad happened to her, but you wouldn’t believe me!”

Quilla sat back down and started to cry. Suzanne, as if she were oblivious to the tears, continued speaking. “There was a large gap in our ages. The truth is, I barely knew my sister and we didn’t get along. She was twelve years younger than I. When you’re a child, that’s a tremendous gap. But the fact is, she is my sister and I want to do what’s appropriate and I think that the best thing to do is to get everything over with as quickly as possible for all concerned.” She reached for a tissue from the box I kept on my desk and gently dabbed at her eyes, then she turned towards Quilla. “If a closed casket viewing is important to you, alright.” Quilla’s eyes lit up. “But only one night,” said Suzanne tersely. “Then, I want her remains cremated and buried. Fair enough?”

Quilla nodded yes. Mother and daughter’s eyes locked for a brief moment as if some unspoken understanding had been satisfactorily reached.

The next point of business was the choosing of a grave. I explained the various options they could choose from, namely that the cremated remains could be placed in an urn which would then be sealed in a niche in the large mausoleum at Elm Grove, buried in the ground or simply returned to her to either be kept at home or be scattered.

“My parents are buried at Elm Grove,” said Suzanne. “If my sister could be laid to rest by them, that would be fine.”

“That shouldn’t be a problem, unless your parents are interred in a Section that’s completely filled up.” I said.

“I don’t recall where they’re buried. I don’t get out to the cemetery that much.”

“I can find that out easily enough. All that’s left to do now is pick out the exact grave site.”

“I know this may sound cold,” she said looking uncomfortable. “But I’d rather not go to the cemetery. Can you pick something out or is there another way to do it?”

Quilla stood up and faced Suzanne. “I’ll do it. Why should he pick out her final resting place?” She gestured towards me. “A perfect stranger. How do we know he’ll choose the right spot? He could stick her anywhere!”

“Quilla, stop!”

Suzanne and Quilla’s eyes locked again.

“Uh, Mrs. Worthington,” I said. “Frankly, I’d be more comfortable if a family member was involved in selecting the site.” They both looked at me. “If Quilla wants to drive to the cemetery with me we could leave now.”

Suzanne eyed her daughter suspiciously as Quilla examined me with a sense of curiosity. I got the impression that she wasn’t used to adults giving her feelings much credence. “Jesus, if you want to go with him, go,” Suzanne snapped.

Quilla seemed genuinely surprised at her victory. But she didn’t thank Suzanne for giving in. The only indication of gratitude was a softening of the nasty glare she’d been directing at her mother.

The only words Quilla uttered were directed to me: “Can I go to the john before we leave?”

Chapter 7

Before the meeting ended, Suzanne and I took care of the few remaining details of her sister’s funeral arrangements. She let Quilla pick out an urn for the ashes. I showed her the four styles I kept on hand starting with the cheapest — a plastic receptacle that looked more like an ice cube basket that went for a hundred dollars, to the most expensive — a stainless steel vase in an Egyptian design which went for a thousand. Quilla settled on the latter.

Suzanne wrote out a brief obituary which I would place in the newspaper. Quilla insisted on checking it over and adding one piece of information: that the cause of death was murder. They decided that viewing would be from seven-to-nine and that there would be no religious service the morning of the funeral. A Minister from Suzanne’s church would come to the cemetery, say a few words and lead the mourners in prayer. We discussed flowers and agreed that a floral spray of red roses would be draped atop the coffin. I would take Brandy Parker’s remains to the crematorium, then the next day interment would take place at noon.

I walked Suzanne to her car after the meeting. Quilla tagged along, staying a few yards off to the side. “Any problems, please don’t hesitate to call. That’s what I’m here for.”

Suzanne nodded. To Quilla she said, “How will you get home?”

“I’ll drop her off.” I moved closer to Suzanne. “She’s in mourning. Her hostility is normal. Really.”

“This is how she is all the time,” Suzanne said as she got into her car. “Thank you for your help.” She glanced coolly at Quilla and drove off.

I turned to Quilla. She was watching her mother head out of the parking lot. “Bitch,” she muttered softly.

“All set?” I asked, trying to project a pleasant tone.

“Yeah. Are we gonna take the hearse?”

Her question threw me. “I hadn’t planned on it.” Usually I take my own car for trips like this.”

“I always wanted to ride in one.” She tilted her head to the left a bit. “Would it be okay?”

“Sure,” I said, figuring that if it would make her happy, the drive to the cemetery might be more tolerable.

* * *

Having this odd-looking, opinionated, hostile teenager riding shotgun made me feel old, out of touch. She held her Blackberry in her right hand. I didn’t have much contact with kids. About the only times I’ve been around them was when one died in a car wreck or from suicide or over-dosing on drugs. And the only times I’d actually talk to a teenager was when they’d be waiting on me in a store.

The idea of spending time with this girl was unsettling, mostly because I wasn’t sure if it would be sixty-or-so minutes of awkward silence or meaningless chatter about pop culture which I knew little about. Neither of us said anything for about a minute. Although I didn’t enjoy long silences I could handle them and I was glib enough to make conversation if I sensed that the quiet became too uncomfortable for whomever I was with. I was about to remark on Quilla’s desire to ride in the hearse when she spoke. “You don’t look like an undertaker.”

“What do undertakers look like?” I asked.

“Creepy. Bony faces. Either so skinny they look like corpses themselves or fat with big bulging eyes like that J. Edgar Hoover guy. But you look different. Like you should be an English teacher or a clerk in an old bookshop.”

“I guess that’s a compliment. Thanks.”

“You always been an undertaker?”

“Yes. And for the record, “undertaker” isn’t what we like to be called. We prefer Funeral Director or mortician.”

“I don’t blame you. Undertaker’s a nasty word. “What made you decide to become one?”

It was a question I’d been asked dozens of times. I’d developed a stock answer because the real reason was too personal. “It seemed like a good way to help people,” was innocuous enough to satisfy most. I looked at Quilla and was about to deliver my stock answer to her question, but her face reflected such a sincere and genuine