Mortuary Confidential

russet colored twenty-gauge steel casket half-couch. Then she unloaded a canvas bag she had brought in with her. Lynyrd Skynyrd CDs to be played at the visitation; a pack of Marlboro red cigarettes, a can of Budweiser, and a bottle of gin to go in with Mr. Peterson, along with his favorite John Deere hat and his fuzzy slippers.

Next, she pulled out a wrinkled dress shirt and a thin tie. “Mandy, lay him out in this,” she told me, handing the hanger across the desk. “He never did wear a tie much, but I think he should look proper.”

I took the clothes and hung them on the doorknob. They obviously hadn’t seen an iron in ages. It wasn’t at all uncommon for me to get no pants, so I casually asked, “Would you like me to put a pair of boxer shorts on your husband, ma’am?”

“What the hell for?” she asked.

She followed with a coughing bout that nearly dislodged a lung.

“Just to provide him with a dignified burial. So he doesn’t have to meet his maker without drawers. I’d be happy to do it.”

She coughed again, and this time I know a piece of lung came up. “Hell no! Jim preferred to be nude. He sat around without his pants on most of the time anyway. Nude. All the time, just wore an undershirt and those slippers.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Okay.”

“Now young lady,” Mrs. Peterson said and wagged her finger at me, “I’m going to be checkin’ to make sure my Jim ain’t got drawers on. I swear that man never wore his pants, ’cept when he had to leave the house. He lived that way so he’s going to be buried that way.” She started laughing and coughing at the same time. I wasn’t sure which one precipitated the other. When she got herself under control she said, “In fact, Jim often said—” She lost herself in another coughing/laughing fit. “Jim often said he wanted to be buried like that outlaw, you know, the one that said, ‘I want to be buried face down so the whole world can kiss my ass.’” She looked at the ceiling as though revisiting a fond memory. “Yeah, he liked that, but I’m not going to do that. I’m just going to bury him the way he lived.”

“I understand,” I said. “My boyfriend is the same way.”

“See,” Mrs. Peterson said. “Men.” She cackled. “They’re all the same.”

I laughed too. “I guess they are.”

That was that. Mrs. Peterson and I bade our goodbyes.

I pressed Mr. Peterson’s shirt and dressed him in it, as well as the tie and slippers and John Deere hat, nothing else.

Three days later I watched Mr. Peterson being lowered into the ground, clad only from the waist up. Mrs. Peterson wept something terrible.

Later that night when I told my boyfriend about Mrs. Peterson’s last wish for her husband, he scratched his chin and said, “She might be on to something there, but I’d one-up him. Forget the shirt and tie, I want to be totally buck naked.”

CHAPTER 22 Walk the Walk Contributed by a dog lover

A few months ago I learned in the true sense the meaning of undertaker. The word for the profession historically describes the fact that the town cabinetmaker would undertake the responsibilities of caring for the dead. The profession grew from those humble origins and the name stuck. I’m not sure why—other professions undertook tasks—but it did. I didn’t truly appreciate the value of an undertaking because today we now have the nice sanitary title of funeral director. But a few months ago I undertook for the first time.

It happened when I made funeral arrangements with an English woman named Abby. I’d judge Abby to be in her late forties, young to be a widow. Her husband, Greg, had worked for one of the big financial houses. They had met and fallen in love in London while he was working overseas, and when Greg had been transferred back to America she had followed. They married shortly thereafter. This was, according to Abby, “Over twenty years ago.” Long enough that America was her home now—she was a citizen—but not long enough for her to become completely assimilated into American culture.

Abby looked very English: round, pleasant face framed by a thick mane of straight brown hair she kept cropped neatly at shoulder length. She was thin, yet looked soft, and I imagine she kept her weight down by her “fag habit,” as she called it. We Americans would call it a smoking addiction. Abby chain-smoked the entire time she was in my office.

Abby had a very continental attitude about Greg’s death, and by that I mean she was very matter-of-fact. She told me between puffs on her Woodbine cigarettes that Greg’s death hadn’t been sudden. He had been chronically ill for some time. I could tell that she had come to grips with losing him a long time ago; what we were doing in my office was merely a formality. I have to admit, Abby had quite a stiff upper lip, and she sure hadn’t lost her Cockney accent in the twenty years she had been in America. I spent most of our meeting trying to figure out what she was saying.

“Now Dere’, I’ll be expec’ing bof ’e ’earse and limo to pi’ us up a’ ’e ’ouse.”

In my mind I had to translate what she said. It took a moment for me to sort out the jumbled syllables and insert the missing consonants before I got: “Now Derek, I’ll be expecting both the hearse and limo to pick us up at the house.”

“You want the hearse and limousine to pick you up at your house?” I asked carefully, so as not to offend her, yet puzzled by her request.

“Of course. It’s normal in Britain to have the hearse and limousine pick up the immediate family at the house. My mum and dad are flying across the pond for the occasion. They were quite fond of Greg, you know.”

I paused to translate and think before I replied. “I think I’ll be able to make that happen for you.”

“Splendid!” she said and clapped her hands together softly. “We’ll also be needing a walker.”

I thought she was talking about one of those gray aluminum assistance devices. “We don’t have any walkers but we do have a wheelchair at the funeral home that I could bring along. Is it for one of your parents?” I spread my hands and looked at her. She lit a new cigarette with the tip of its predecessor and crushed the old one out. “Would the wheelchair be all right?”

“Oh my, Derek, you’re so silly!” She waved her fresh cigarette in the air with one hand and reached across the desk and squeezed my hand with her other. “No, my parents don’t need a wheelchair; they’re perfectly capable of walking on their own. You know, a walker to lead the cortege. Walker walks in front of the hearse and all.”

I processed what she was saying before answering. “I’m sorry, Abby, it’s just your accent. I’m having a little trouble understanding you.”

She laughed, and stuck her cigarette between her lips so she could take both of my hands in hers. I noticed she was very comfortable invading my personal space. “Greg used to tell people all the time that my finest and most frustrating feature was my accent. And then he’d say”—she put a husky timbre in her voice, which made it even harder for me to understand—“‘Abby, why can’t you learn to talk American?’ God, I’m going to miss him saying that.” She cackled and let go of my hands. “And some other things I won’t repeat to you.”

I blushed

“I’m from Cheapside, you know, and I’ve found most of you Americans have trouble understanding the accent, but I can’t understand the Americans from the southern states. Talk about talking through molasses! I can’t understand them to save my life.” She stabbed her cigarette in the air to accentuate her point.

“I can understand you pretty well, Abby. I’m just not sure what you mean by a walker.”

“Oh, I guess you don’t have them here in America then. Come to think of it,” she grabbed her chin, “I’ve never actually seen one here in the States. A walker is the chap that walks in front of the hearse and leads the family members out of the drive of the residence toward the cemetery.”

“Let me get this straight,” I said. “You want me to walk in front of the hearse out of your driveway while you walk behind the hearse with your family?”