hardship. His hands were tiny balls of arthritic pain, balled as if to prove he went out swinging. His family had brought in a nice dark blue polo shirt and khaki pants for him to be buried in; nothing pretentious; just practical. Practical, probably the way he had lived his life.
I began doing the makeup. It wasn’t tough. He had been embalmed well and had great skin color. Unfortunately, since he was wearing short sleeves, I had to use considerable makeup to cover up the bruising on his arm. This isn’t uncommon in elderly people, especially if they have been in the hospital prior to death. The intravenous needles can leave post-mortem discoloring. He had the dusky complexion of a Slavic person, and I had to use several layers of increasingly darker tan-tinted makeup before I was able to achieve a uniform color that blended well with his natural skin tone and covered the black bruises. When I was done I was pleased with how natural he looked.
The dead man’s daughter arrived at the prescribed time. She had a slight accent that I couldn’t place and looked very similar to her father: dark skin, hard features. I took her back into the small room we have for private viewings. Seeing her father laid out in his casket, bathed in the soft light of the torchieres, looking comfortable and peaceful, she knelt before the casket and wept.
I gave her some time. When I returned to the room she came to me and said, “Thank you for everything you’ve done. Dad looks better than I’ve seen him in ten years. He was so sick towards the end—” She bit off the end of her sentence.
Comments like that are why I do the job I do. “I’m glad you’re pleased, ma’am. Is there anything I could do to enhance his appearance?” I asked.
“There is one thing—” She trailed off and then said quickly, “No, no, never mind. It’s nothing.”
“No, please, tell me. We’ll get everything perfect.”
I could tell she was hesitant, but after a second she told me, “I thought my dad had a tattoo on his arm. It was his serial number—”
“Serial number?” I was puzzled.
“Yeah, he was Hungarian. Imprisoned originally at Birkenau by the Nazis until they found out he was a Mason, then they transferred him to the Mauthausen-Gusen camps and forced him to mine granite from the infamous Wiener-Graben quarry. He was quite proud of that serial number. Almost as if he was sticking it to the Nazis by surviving their death camp and showing it to the world.”
A light went off in my head, with a sudden realization. “Was it here?” I asked tracing a line on the posterior of my forearm.
“Yes!” she said.
“Oh, ma’am, I’m sorry. I thought the tattoo was bruising and covered it with makeup.”
“It had gotten all stretched out and illegible in the past couple years. I just never really thought about it,” she admitted.
“Here, let’s let your father get sent off bearing his badge of honor,” I said, taking a tissue and wiping the makeup from the once-burly arm, exposing his concentration camp serial number.
We all wear badges in one form or another, and though some fade, some tarnish, and some stretch over time, it doesn’t negate their impact upon our lives. Even in death.
CHAPTER 19
Ever Seen a Dead Man Move?
I’ve been asked more than once if I ever get scared.
“Scared of what?” I reply
“You know… dead people. Aren’t you afraid they’re going to get you?” the inquiring party asks.
I love that term, “get you.” I guess people think a mortuary is just one big house of the living dead. I am here to tell you that it’s not like the movies where the decedent, laying in the coffin, sits straight up and then proceeds to chase the damsel in distress through the castle. But yes, the dead
Don’t worry; the next wake you go to, grandma won’t sit up and do a three-sixty number with her head. I hope.
The first time I had the crap scared out of me had nothing to do with the dead moving, but breathing—sort of. I was just a young buck, wet behind the ears and green all over. I’m pretty sure I was serving my apprenticeship, doing removals and running errands and things of that nature, or maybe I hadn’t started it yet. Either way, it was late at night and I had been sent to some convalescent home on the other end of the earth to pick up a body. On the way back, I decided I needed a snack, so I wheeled the enormous station wagon into a fast food joint.
I pulled up to the talk box, listened to the staticky voice welcome me, and yelled my order. Upon being told some type of monetary amount that I couldn’t make out, I assumed my order had been received and I pulled up to the next window.
It must have been cold out because I remember wearing a raincoat or topcoat and digging around in the pockets trying to find some cash. I found it and waited patiently for the red-eye crew to get my food. The wagon was an old gas-guzzling monster with a vinyl bench seat in the front and a radio that you had to tune. The reception was always terrible and I usually rode around in silence, as I did on that particular night. So there I was, in total silence, waiting patiently.
After a spell, I began to wonder if the place was still open. I hadn’t caught a glimpse of anyone on the other side of the two little glass doors. Then it happened.
From the back I heard a loud rattle that I can best describe as a cross between a cough, a gag, and a gargle. I twisted around in the seat and looked at the supine figure under the quilt. The sound got louder, and it was definitely coming from the cot!
By a reflex my foot pressed the gas pedal and the station wagon shot forward in the drive-thru chute. Out of the corner of my eye I think I saw a puzzled counter attendant bringing my food to the window. All that person found was a cloud of blue smoke.
I’m not sure how I jockeyed that big wagon out of the lot without jumping the curb. It all happened too fast. I just knew I drove. The next thing I knew I was back at the mortuary listening to the decedent’s chest like an idiot, trying to figure out if I heard a heartbeat or could see the chest rising and falling. Nothing. In a panic, I called the manager and told him what had happened. I felt like an even bigger idiot when he told me it was just escaping air rattling through the throat.
I guess they’re still waiting at the drive-thru with my food.
That night was pretty eerie, but not nearly as much as the night a former classmate of mine died. His name was Jack. He and I went to high school together and were on the wrestling team. Jack contracted poliomyelitis—or polio—at the age of five. The disease crippled his legs and he was forced to use crutches for the rest of his life. As a result, his upper body was massive. When we wrestled, anyone could knock him off his feet, but down on the mat was his territory. He was as strong as a bear, constantly underestimated because he was a cripple. He had a winning varsity record.
I don’t know if the childhood polio had anything to do with his failing heart, but Jack began having cardiac problems in his mid-thirties. A heart transplant did little good, and by age 41 he was on hospice care. He made me promise I would take care of him when he passed, and since I was close to his family, I gave them my private number to reach me as soon as Jack died. I wanted to handle everything personally.
Jack died and I received the call and went to the house to perform the removal. I loaded him onto the cot with some difficulty due to his muscle mass and took him back to the mortuary. Once in the preparation room, I flicked on the lights, wheeled the cot up next to the embalming table, and stepped out to get gowned up. When I stepped back into the room a few minutes later my heart flew into my mouth. The cover over the cot was rustling
