mind.”
“Gives him another opportunity to break our balls. He sent me a welfare case last week. I had to spring for the cremation.”
“What did you want to talk to me about, Tyler?”
“It’s my Dad. He’s… we think it’s time.”
“Tyler… Jesus, I’m sorry. I… ” His father, Alphonse DiGregorio had been diagnosed with lung cancer last year.
“He could go tonight or tomorrow. I discussed this with my mother and my brother and, well, we’d like you to handle the funeral.”
“Me?” I was truly shocked.
“You. Henderson’s. I know it’s a weird request, but my father always talked about how when he took over the business from my grandfather the worst experience of his life was when Grandpa died. He actually embalmed his own father. This is Dad’s idea. Will you help us, Del?”
“Of course, man.” I reached out and touched Tyler’s right shoulder. Through his shirt I could feel that he was hot, sweating. “So the entire service will be here?”
“Yes. I’d like you to coordinate everything from calling Mel at the cemetery to having Nolan do the embalming. We have a family plot. I just can’t do it, Del. Strange, huh? I’ve buried hundreds of people, but when death smacks me in the face, I’m a basket case just like everyone else. Plus I’ll be having my hands full with my mother.”
“Consider everything done.”
“I appreciate it, Del. On the way over here I thought about how it must have been for you when your Dad died. How old were you, fifteen?” I nodded yes. “God. You were a kid. I’m thirty-two and just the thought of not having him around makes me think I’ll fall apart.”
“Somehow we all get through the deaths of our parents.” To myself I said,
He looked at his watch. “I better go.” He reached for the door and opened it. “Thanks, Del. I can’t tell you how grateful I am.”
Tyler and I shook hands, then he stepped out the door. Not counting the Worthington’s BMW, the only car in the lot was his. For a moment I thought of Quilla and her expectation of visitors to pay respects to her Aunt. It was still early though. There was plenty of time for people to show up.
As Tyler walked to his car I glanced around, wondering where Perry was hiding and what he was making of Tyler’s visit. I wanted to find him and tell him why Tyler had come to the Home and to erase his name as a suspect, but I couldn’t leave my post. Besides, I sensed that at the end of the viewing Perry would pay me a visit.
I went back inside and heard voices coming from the front entrance. I stuck my head around the corner only to find Alan Worthington standing with Clint, gesturing wildly. Clint seemed to be trying to calm him down. As we often get family members who overreact to certain things, handling them becomes another part of the job and, in Clint’s case, another part of his training in learning to deal with the living and breathing part of the funeral business. But in the case of Alan Worthington, I knew Clint would be no match for a steamroller like him, so I interceded.
“Is there anything wrong?” I asked.
Clint started to speak, but Worthington cut him off.
“Look, ace,” he said, ignoring Clint as if he were no longer there. “I know we’re going through the ruse that somebody’s actually going to stop in here tonight and I can go along with it for awhile. I know for a fact that a couple of people will make duty calls, but they’ll be in and out fast. It’s approaching seven-fifteen and not a soul has shown and it’s getting real uncomfortable in there for the three of us staring at that fucking coffin. What do you say that instead of stringing this out until nine o’clock, you go to the kid and make up some kind of rule that says if nobody shows by, say, eight or eight-fifteen, you close up?”
I wanted to punch him in the mouth. “I can’t do that. The arrangements call for a seven-to-nine p.m. viewing. Many people often come later.” This was a lie. Most people come in the middle. “If you’re uncomfortable in the Viewing Room perhaps you’ll feel more at ease in the smoking lounge.”
“Look, pal, I’m paying for this and I’m telling you to cut it short.”
“Cut
Worthington looked at me, then at her, then snapped, “Nothing. I’m going back to your mother.”
He sneered at me, snubbed Clint and went back to the Viewing Room. Quilla looked at me. Despite the fact that I heard weeping from the Viewing Room, Quilla’s eyes didn’t look as if she’d been crying, but the expression of sadness on her face was more than enough to indicate her grief.
“Could I talk to you in private?” she asked, tilting her head at Clint. “I don’t mean to be rude.”
“No problem,” said Clint with a smile.
Quilla and I walked back to my post at the side door. “How you doing?” I asked.
She shrugged. “I wish I could see her. I know I can’t.”
“How’s your mother holding up?”
“She cried. I couldn’t believe it. Do people usually come early to these things or later?”
“Various times.”
“Like a party. Nobody wants to be first. I probably wouldn’t want to be first if this was somebody else.”
Suddenly the door behind me opened. Quilla and I turned to see who was coming in. An elderly couple appeared, the woman holding on to the man’s left arm. I looked at them with my practiced grin and said, “May I help you?”
“Woodley,” said the man.
“Room One,” I said. “Straight ahead and to your left.”
They both nodded and made their way to the room containing the remains of Fred Woodley, one of the victims of the bus accident.
“How soon can I talk to Cobb?” Quilla asked.
“Probably whenever you want.”
“What about now? He’s here. I’m here.”
“It’s your Aunt’s viewing. What if you’re talking to Perry and people come to pay their respects?”
“Nobody’s gonna come,” she said bitterly. “My mother was right. People are such shits.”
Again, the sound of the side door opening made both of us turn towards it. Quilla got a look before I did. What she saw made her face light up. Approximately twelve kids, all roughly Quilla’s age, began filing in. I stepped aside and watched this odd group of miscreants, an equal mix of boys and girls, all wearing variations of the same uniform of torn black jeans with assorted styles of combat boots or Doc Martins or red canvas tennis shoes plus loose-fitting sweatshirts or tight T-shirts sporting the names of different heavy metal and alternative groups.
Each kid gave me a suspicious, cursory glance before approaching Quilla. I wondered if this was the first time any of them had been inside a Funeral Home.
They formed a circle around her. A few began to speak, but did so in whispers and hushed tones. A couple of them kept glancing back at me. As she led her friends towards the Viewing Room I was relieved for Quilla’s sake that someone had come.
I was to experience that relief for the bulk of the evening. Twenty-five more people paid their respects. I didn’t know who most of them were. There were half a dozen more teenage kids and a couple of teachers I remembered from my days at Dankworth High.
Perry Cobb came in around 7:45 with Greg Hoxey who arrived out of uniform in an expensive-looking, dark blue suit, white shirt and no tie. Perry said, “Gonna mill around” and went into the Viewing Room. Greg barely nodded at me. I nodded back. He was sucking on the ever-present green floss. I hoped he would have the courtesy to remove it when he went in to see his “friend” Quilla.
The rest were adults, mostly in their mid-Thirties to late-Forties, mostly couples. I assumed they were all friends or co-workers of Suzanne Worthington or her husband.
About an hour into the viewing one of the young boys who had come in and greeted Quilla approached me. He was tall, well over six feet, and gawky, razor thin, dressed in a nicely pressed black shirt, ripped blue jeans and motorcycle boots. His hair was short, not much longer than a crew cut, and he wore a heart-shaped ring in his right ear and what looked like a wedding band in his nose.
