Helen nodded. She still didn’t have her voice back. She fled the room, the purloined papers in her hand.
Helen went home at lunch break and fed Thumbs the leftover Cantonese chicken with water chestnuts. Her cat ate around the water chestnuts just like she did. Helen made herself a peanut butter and strawberry jam sandwich, but couldn’t finish it. Her encounter with Vito had ruined her appetite. The terror diet, she thought, an effective new weight-loss program.
She tried to take a nap, but she was too charged with adrenaline. She knocked on Phil’s door to give him the stolen list, but he wasn’t home. She slid the list under his door with the phantom employees starred.
Three hours before she had to be at work. Helen paced restlessly, wondering what to do. Then she had an inspiration.
The wife of Damian Putnam, the horny plastic surgeon at the Mowbrys’ party, was the CEO for a funeral- home chain.
Helen had seen her picture in the society story.
What was that woman’s name?
Patricia Wellneck, that was it. The funeral home chain was called The Wellneck Group. Helen had heard their ads on the radio, with a professionally lugubrious announcer intoning: “The Wellneck Group. We’re here when you need us.”
Helen needed Patricia now.
She checked the phone book. The Wellneck headquarters were in Lauderdale, a half-hour bus ride away. Helen put on a black pantsuit. The bus pulled up to the stop as she arrived, a good omen. Even better, the bus stopped right in front of the pink stucco funeral home.
Florida funeral parlors looked about like the ones in Helen’s hometown of St. Louis, with one major difference: they were preternaturally sunny. No matter how thick the curtains, a Florida funeral home was flooded with sunshine.
In the softer St. Louis light, you could say, “He looks so natural” with a straight face. But the relentless Florida sun was the enemy of the mortician’s art. It cruelly revealed the corpse’s makeup, the sprayed hair, the too-stiff stiff. Helen thought that was why there were more closed-casket funerals down here.
The casket in Slumber Room A was mercifully shut. It was pinkish bronze with a red carnation cover, like a flower blanket on a Kentucky Derby winner. Helen thought the red carnations clashed with the casket color, but it was fairly tasteful for Florida.
She tiptoed past Slumber Rooms B and C, both empty, and found the office. A young woman in a somber navy suit said, “May I help you?”
Her soft, solemn voice made Helen want to clutch a tissue.
“I’d like to see Patricia Wellneck about some pre-need arrangements.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
“No. But if I don’t make them now, I’ll never have the courage again,” Helen said.
Ms. Solemn Suit knew better than to let a live one get away. “I’ll see if she’s available.”
Patricia Wellneck was back in two minutes. She photographed better than she looked in person. She was so thin, she looked like one of her coffin candidates. Her yellow-blond hair was upswept, and in the harsh light of day, facelift scars were visible behind her ears. She also had an eye-job slant. Her husband had been whittling on her, Helen thought.
“Now, how may I help you?” Patricia gave a death’s-head smile.
“I’m looking into some pre-need arrangements,” Helen said. “For myself. I want to buy a coffin.”
“And your name is?”
What’s my name? Helen thought. Patricia’s skeletal smile made her panic. I can’t use my real name. Who do I want to be in this place?
“Rob,” Helen blurted her ex-husband’s name.
“Yes, Ms. Robb. You are wise to make your choice now.
We have a full line of caskets. Many younger people, like yourself, prefer our theme line.”
“Theme caskets,” Helen said. She flashed back to those awful corporate theme parties from her former life, where unhappy servers had to wear lederhosen for unfestive Oktoberfests and cowboy hats for dreary chuck wagon cookouts.
Patricia pulled out a catalogue. “These,” she said, “are dignified but distinctive.”
She showed Helen a casket covered with Monet’s water lilies. It looked like a giant jewelry box. “This is from our Eternal Masters series. It makes a comforting statement for your family. This is a quiet reflection of a full life.”
Helen looked at the water lilies and thought of groundwater seeping around her body. Florida flooded a lot.
“Uh, no thanks,” she said.
“If you are religious, we have many beautiful expressions of faith. Like this one.”
Helen saw a sky-blue casket covered with flying seagulls.
She looked for the telltale white splotches left by seagulls, but apparently that didn’t happen in heaven. Two curlicued words announced, “Going Home.”
Helen thought of herself stuck in her mother’s home for all eternity and shuddered.
“There’s also this one with Raphael’s angels on the casket.” The two cherubs, who looked like winged juvenile delinquents to Helen, stared out from the coffin lid. Helen had also seen them on umbrellas, cocktail napkins and candles. She felt like a gift-shop special.
“Pretty,” she said. “But I don’t think I’m the angelic type.”
Patricia was not discouraged. “If you have a profession, she said, “we have many choices to honor it. This model is for firefighters.”
The bright red casket was covered with fire trucks, which Helen liked a lot. But she thought the flames were asking for trouble.
“Veterans prefer this model,” Patricia said, showing Helen a coffin with the Stars and Stripes, an abandoned rifle, and an empty helmet. What a way to go: at war, with a permanent reminder of defeat.
“Very patriotic,” Helen said. “But the only place I ever served was a Greek diner. I was a waitress. I had to fight off the owner, so maybe I qualify as a combat veteran.”
Patricia didn’t laugh.
“Did you attend college?”
“University of Missouri at Columbia.”
“Then perhaps you’d like a college scene or your school colors on your casket.”
Mizzou had never cared two hoots about Helen until she started making a hundred thou a year. Then the alumni association dunned her for contributions until she finally wrote “deceased” on their begging envelopes. Now the university could follow her to the grave. She would never be free.
“Do I need ivy on my tombstone?” Helen said.
“I see you have a sense of humor,” Patricia said. “This model might be the one for you. It packs you for the trip home, so to speak.”
The casket was a giant brown package stamped with “Express Delivery” and “Return to Sender.” Great. She could be an eternal joke.
“Elvis fans would like it, too,” Helen said. “But I’m more of a Clapton fan.” Or a fan of a Clapton fan. Helen knew where she’d wind up if she had a black coffin emblazoned with “Clapton Is God”—some place even hotter than Florida.
“These are certainly unusual,” Helen said. “But perhaps I’m more of a traditionalist than I thought.”
“We have many traditional styles. Some have the newest features, like memento drawers. That’s if you want to send something special with your loved one: a photo, medals, letters. We’ve had wedding photos, jewelry, children’s drawings and many other meaningful keepsakes.”
She showed Helen a bronze casket with a flat pullout section at the bottom, like a pencil drawer on a desk. Helen had slipped a six-pack of Falstaff beer into her grandfather’s coffin, along with a bottle opener and a bag of Rold Gold pretzels. The drawer didn’t look big enough for her kind of memento.
“I have an odd request,” Helen said.
“We will do our best to accommodate your wishes.” Patricia smiled her skeleton grin.
