Colder Than Death

“Mr. Coltrane?” he said softly, shyly.

“Yes?”

“Are you the guy who embalms bodies?”

The question almost knocked me off balance. “I know how to embalm, but we have someone else who does most of it. Why do you ask?”

“Only because I know, like, five people who got buried from here and I thought it was kind of, you know, cool to meet the guy who embalmed them.” He smiled. There was a measure of innocence about him.

“If it was longer than eight years ago I may have been the one, but I seldom do it anymore.”

“If I told you their names would you remember?”

“Probably not,” I said awkwardly.

“I figured it wouldn’t hurt to ask, ya know?” he said. “Quilla said I should talk to you.”

“About that?”

“No. Your line of work. I’m gonna be graduating from high school next year and I’ve been trying to find something to do. So far the only thing that interests me is being a Funeral Director. I was wondering if I could come by and talk to you about it some time?”

“Sure. Why don’t you give me a call over the next few days and we’ll make an appointment. What’s your name?”

“Viper. Viper Petrovitch.” He extended his right hand. I shook it, thinking So this is Quilla’s best friend. “Okay, Viper. See you soon.”

“When I come, would it be possible for me to get a tour of the place? I’d like to see where you keep the coffins and where the embalming gets done and things like that.”

“We’ll see,” I said.

“Cool,” he said, then trotted back to the Viewing Room.

About 8:15 a woman came in. I guessed her to be in her mid-twenties. At first glance one would say she was plain. Other than some subtle lip gloss and rouge, her face had no color. And her light brown hair hung from her head as if she were an odd cross between Buster Brown and Moe of The Three Stooges. Her eyes, a dazzling blue  — Paul Newman eyes  — were the focal point of her face, despite the fact that in the ten seconds or so that I observed them, they were downcast like those of an extremely shy five-year-old. She wore dark, loose-fitting clothes and earthen colors, as if she were hiding several extra pounds, but she didn’t look overweight.

Overall she struck me as a woman who was trying to not look as good as she could. There was a lot of playing down here. I guessed that she was the type of woman who had never paid to have a pedicure or a manicure.

I nodded politely as she moved towards and past me. “Brandy Parker,” she said softly.

“Straight and to the right,” I said.

She bowed her head as if she were a nun passing a religious statue and started towards the Viewing Room. She’d gone about five feet when she tripped, almost losing her balance, but catching herself just in time. She looked back at me and with an embarrassed smile and said, “I’m so clumsy,” then kept going. I found the smile as appealing as her eyes. I imagined her after a complete beauty makeover and some wardrobe tips. She could be a knockout.

I tried to guess her profession. She could be a librarian, therapist for handicapped children or a college professor of some obscure Literature course like Eighteenth Century Irish Poets. Guessing people’s professions was a quirky little pastime I indulged in to help pass the time during viewing hours. People were always surprised to discover what I did for a living because I didn’t fit into the stereotype of the dower mortician. So I found it equally fascinating to try and guess someone’s livelihood by their overall demeanor, clothing and initial impression. One thing I learned after playing this game for so long was that I was seldom right. The careers of most people, like most people’s true personalities, were hard to gauge.

By 8:30 the majority of the people who had come were gone. Most had stayed about fifteen minutes. Long enough to say a few words to the family and a quick prayer over the coffin. Perry and Greg left at 8:15, but I suspected Perry was still outside, watching from his car or the bushes. Out of sheer boredom I wandered by the Viewing Room and noticed that there were four visitors remaining. Two of Quilla’s friends — Viper and a girl who sat by themselves staring silently at the closed coffin. Sitting between Suzanne and her husband was a plump, attractive silver-haired woman in her Seventies who looked like Marilyn Monroe might have looked had she lived. The fourth was the blue-eyed woman with the nice smile who sat with Quilla, engrossed in what looked like an intense conversation.

Because of the overall quiet in the room I was able to hear Quilla say something to the woman. I couldn’t make out all of the words, but I caught enough to learn her name. “…at the cemetery, Gretchen.”

Gretchen, I said to myself.

Suddenly, Quilla looked up in my direction. She said something to Gretchen, who turned around and also looked at me. Again she smiled. I smiled back, then returned to my post at the door. About five minutes later Gretchen came out of the Viewing Room alone. I watched as she walked towards me. I looked down at the place on the carpeting where she had tripped before. She was heading right towards it. I wanted to warn her, but I didn’t want to embarrass her. I decided to point at the floor and hope she got the idea.

I raised my right hand and gestured downward. She saw it, looked down and realized what I was warning her about. She rolled her eyes, stepped around the dangerous area and approached me. “Thank you.”

“I’ll have to get that fixed.”

“My cell conked out. I need to make a call. Do you have a phone I could use?”

“Sure. In my office.”

“Thanks.”

“Not at all. This way.”

As we walked to the office Gretchen said, “Quilla mentioned that you’ve been very supportive to her since she got the bad news.”

“She seemed to need it.”

“She speaks very highly of you, which isn’t something she often does of adults. By the way, I’m Gretchen Yearwood.”

“Del Coltrane. Nice to meet you. Here we are.” I opened the door to my office and turned on the light. “Take as much time as you need. I’ll wait outside.”

“I don’t need privacy,” she said as she stepped inside. She went to the phone and dialed a number. She pressed a couple of buttons, listened to a message for about twenty seconds, then hung up. “All done.”

I noticed her eyes go from looking directly at me to something over my shoulder. She blinked nervously a couple of times. I turned around to see what had gotten her attention. It was the photographs I had on the wall. There were a dozen or so pictures of the headstones of famous people’s graves. In some of the photos I was posing next to the grave with a stupid smile on my face.

“It’s a morbid hobby of mine.”

“Hobby?”

“I like to explore old cemeteries. Find unusual headstones. Celebrity graves.” She stared at me tentatively. “I know. It’s weird.”

“Not weird. Different.” She moved closer to the wall and examined the photos. “Billy the Kid, Aaron Burr, Al Capone, John Dillinger, Jack London. Joe McCarthy. Scott Joplin.” She turned to me. “You just jump in your car and drive to cemeteries looking for famous graves?”

“Not quite. I go to trade conventions a couple times a year. It’s usually a different city. Put a bunch of morticians together and the talk comes to what well-known person is buried in or near a town. I’ll rent a car. I’ve taken vacations and checked out local cemeteries. I don’t tell a lot of people about it.”

“There are worse things you could be interested in.” She glanced at her watch and said, “I’m enjoying our conversation, but I think I better get back to Quilla.”

“Right.”

Gretchen walked me to the front entrance. She made a joke about tripping on the carpet, then said, “Thanks again for letting me use the phone.”

As I watched her walk away I knew that I wanted to get to know her better. The nature of my business isn’t the most ideal for meeting women in circumstances conducive to dating. Dozens of times I’ve had a gorgeous