A Sibling in Always: Part One Chapter One

Okay

old man alone

grows by two, his sad life.

They called him good, until it came –

a coarse sadness that would not let him go.

So it grew stronger and it kept him breathing hate,

then it began to subside – ninety years.

His name now dim: drunk and crazy.

The doctor no one knows

gave all his life

to you.

   The first step is to wash the body. The clothing is removed and any jewelry is placed in a manila envelope, noting a full inventory and the body part on which it was worn is recorded. If the deceased has eyeglasses anywhere on his or her person, they will be kept. At the family’s request, they may be placed on the face of the deceased during the viewing and funeral. Thick lenses, which would cause a magnifying effect on the closed eyelids, are removed and replaced with pieces of cut Plexiglas. Any debris left behind from the less than humble process of dying is washed away with soaking wet rags. These towels are discarded. A strong disinfectant spray, that would reel the living into a coughing fit, is sprayed all over the body, and it is then wiped down thoroughly, making sure not one square centimeter of the body is missed. The body begins to decay immediately and the disinfectant kills all the microbes colonizing on the skin and orifices of the deceased. Next, the body is massaged, if still in the grip of rigor mortis. The joints and muscles stiffen soon after death, and they must be moved and kneaded to make the dead flesh supple. This allows the body to be positioned and manipulated. Then the face is shaved; men and women alike. Children, too. Everyone has traces of hair on their faces, and, if not removed, the makeup can clump and become unsightly during the viewing and funeral.

   These first steps are to prepare the body for embalming, and, some professionals in the field assert they are as important as the funeral process itself. I complete these steps textbook and methodic each time a body is placed before me, breathing meditatively the whole time. I have to learn the dead, so I will know how to proceed with making them look alive again, reminding myself the entire time this used to be a human being. I permit myself to be sentimental, “Pretend you are the one who truly loved this person.”

   Now I am about my work.

   Sometimes I delay – I sit back and think of how many ways there are to die in a small town. I see new ones all the time. Bodies come in the door mangled and dismembered in new and unusual ways. Many people do die while having a great time. Those can be hard ones. I don’t know if it is the boredom or mundane nature of small town life. If life in a small town is mundane and boring, that is. I don’t know it to be. I have lived my life in a small town not too far from a medium sized city. Many people do. There is life between the coasts, some of it very exciting. Not mine: I sit on my stool in front of a table. On that table lies a dead body. This is my work.

   But it’s time to get on with it.

   Believe me: procrastination is not a quality you want if you work in the funeral industry.

   I have to start though, so I do as I always do, with the image of my mother. I see her sitting on the ground beside the Ohio River. Her head turned back to gaze at me. Pillars of gray breath steaming from her mouth in the cold morning air, and I wait for her to speak, just to say my name and acknowledge I am there. I hear her, “Horace?”

The image comes from a real event: the first time I found her there after I became an adult. I was eighteen years old, and my uncle Seth told me he had received a phone call from the institution where she was committed. She had wandered off again. He told me where to go, there was no doubt where she would be. She was to be my responsibility.

I found her there, kneeling by the tree growing on the bank. Its roots washed naked by the river, turned backward, desperately clinging to dry land. She had been there for hours I imagine, but I was yet to fully understand why this place was where she would go whenever the orderly or nurse looked away for too long.

   And once I leave there, I come back to this moment and to my work.

   “Horace?”

   “Yes, Seth?” I say, not bothering to look at him. He is standing in the doorway. For a funeral director he is peculiar about dealing with bodies. He doesn’t like them when they are fresh: the blood and fluids still oozing from the orifices pooling into little puddles and the gases still exiting in little squeaks and sighs. No, he prefers them after they have been embalmed and quieted. The one before me arrived late last night -- the coroner’s assistants wheeling in the gurney.

   “How does this one look?” he asks.

   “Not good,” I answer.

   “Elaborate.”

   “Most of the face has been chewed away. He’s old too. One of the oldest I have ever seen. The skin is hanging from the bone. The neighbors complained about the smell. He’s good and ripe.”

   “Give him the full treatment,” he says.

   “Really?” I ask. “He has an estate to pay for it?”

   “No, Horace, he has a benefactor. I just got the call. He is going to get the full touch. Do you know who he is?”

   “I remember him,” I answer. I have the memory of him. I remember walking down the street with my hand being held by my mother. We crossed the street as he approached. I can remember him screaming into the air, waving his fists wildly at no one. Shouting accusations at names I had never heard.

   “I know what you are remembering, but he wasn’t always like that. He was respected when I was young. A doctor. A good one. I thought he died years ago.”

   “I just remember him wandering the streets and screaming and yelling. A crazy man,” I say.

   “And you’re right, he was that. But that happened when he got old. He was my doctor when I was a child. Your mother’s and father’s too.”

   I am always shocked when I hear Seth refer to my father.

   “My father’s?”

   “Yes, all of us. He was the only doctor in Always who saw children. I remember him well.”

   “Do you want to see him now?” I ask, wanting him to leave.

   “Maybe.”

   “Really,” I say, “that’s not like you.”

   I hear his feet step into the room. I still haven’t bothered to turn around and look at him. I had thrown the sheet back over the body when I first heard my uncle’s voice, knowing his weakness when it comes to the fresh corpses. “It’s really not good. He’s been dead for a while --long enough for rigor mortis to pass and decomposition to really settle in. Can’t you smell it?”

   “I can,” he says, “I can, but I think I want to see this one. Like I said, he has a benefactor, and I am rather curious as to why he does. I have to call this man back, and I want some sort of idea how bad it is, so I can say how much I am going to charge.”

   “Then take a look,” I say, as I pull back the sheet. Thin as it was, it was holding back some of the smell that wafts in the wind the sheet produces. I hear the retch in Seth’s throat. He begins to cough. I know he is seeing the full mess of cobweb flesh nibbled to scraps.

   I turn to look at him. He is standing still, eyes locked on the body. “You’ll be able to fix that, you think? I doubt there are any pictures of him, but I can ask when I call. Like I said, I thought he died years ago. It’s been a decade at least since I saw him last or heard anything about him.”

   “I haven’t seen him prowling the streets lately either, but I don’t get out much.”

   “You’ll be able to fix this?” he repeats.

   “Yeah, there is enough of the face left to get an idea how what is missing should look.”

   “Good, good,” he says, “Cover him back up.”

   “No, I am going to go ahead and get started. You may want to leave,” I answer.

   “You’re going to need to cover him up,” he reiterates. “The new man is upstairs. He is starting today. I want you to meet him.”

   “I met him at the interview,” I respond.

   “I know that. What was his name?”

   “I don’t remember,” I answer, though I remember it clearly.

   “Come on,” he says. “We need to get him started.”

   I throw the sheet back over the corpse. My uncle has already exited the room and managed the stairs to the ground floor. I wait till I know he is upstairs before I follow. The funeral home we work out of was built with intention, but it was built in a different age. By that, I mean though it was constructed as a funeral parlor, it has nothing in common with the funeral homes being built now. It is ancient and somewhat Victorian. Air conditioning and central heating unnaturally thrust into its bones. Sound carries. We are only set up for one funeral at a time.

   He’ll be talking about the flowers. I am sure. That is his standard lecture to all the new people. As you may imagine, it can be difficult to keep good help at a funeral home. If you are the one embalming and preparing the bodies or the one directing the funeral, chances are you are going to stay. You see death every day and you see mourning every day. You have a skilled position within the establishment, but when you bring in an employee for general help it is a different story. They are not accustomed to the sound of constant crying. I would say wailing, but there is not much of that at your average funeral these days. People aim for dignity in silence.

   For the new people just looking for something to pay the bills, it is a different thing completely -- the constant stream of people always at their lowest moods. The quiet and calm of the place can be unsettling as well. Also, the bodies. Seeing them. Smelling them. Knowing they are in the place is too much for some people. For others it is the mourners. The crying faces and the soft moans of grief. It gets to some people. We’ve basically given up on keeping anyone on staff to work upstairs, so we hire people to work the grounds and other less glamorous work.

   I can hear Seth’s voice echoing through the hallway, so I go to join my uncle and the new employee. I slowly ascend the steps, wondering how long this one will last.

I approach him with my hand out and he takes it saying, “Mason Beel. It’s nice to see you again.”

   “Yes, it is. And it’s Horace Carver. I understand if you don’t remember,” I say.

   “No, I remember,” he says. “You’re the Carver in Parsons and Carver Funeral Home.”

   “Sort of,” I say, as my uncle interrupts me.

   “Again, Mason, welcome to Parsons and Carver Funeral Home. We’re glad to have you on board. Horace is going to be doing most of the training with you, since he’s done all the work you will be doing at some point in his time here, but I wanted to give you an introduction to the place,” Seth says and motions for us to follow him.

   He speaks as he is walking, “Horace’s mother is my sister, and his father and I opened this funeral home about two years before Horace was born. We have been in business well over thirty years. Horace began learning the trade as a child, but there will be more time for that sort of information later. Like I said, my nephew will help you acclimate to this place. Also, you need to understand your duties. As I explained, you will have many.”

   “Right. We talked about it on the phone and in the interview,” Mason offers.

   “Good. You remember. I, also, hope you remember I said it would be labor intensive. You said you were up for the job though, so we’ll see what you are made of.”

   He opens the door and holds it for us, “Outside. Let’s go.”

   We follow, squinting against the sunlight.

   “Oh, and you are to call me Mr. Parsons. You may call my nephew Horace if he so chooses, but you need to call me Mr. Parsons.”

   “Okay, I understand,” Mason answers.

   “Don’t take that the wrong way,” Seth continues. “We just have a lot of people in and out of here. People who have lost their loved ones. You won’t interact with them much at all, but, if they hear you talking, it needs to be formal. No joking around. You may see people standing outside smoking cigarettes and slapping each other on the backs and having a good laugh, but you are not to join them. Horace and I will deal with the customers, which we would never call them to their faces. You only speak to them if they speak to you, and then only to answer their questions as succinctly as possible.”

   “Sure, they’re sad. Only speak when spoken to,” Mason states. “Got it.”

   Every new employee gets the same sermon. Mason would be tending the flowers, my uncle starts. It is explained to him, as his duties are being described by my uncle, that he was to perform this first thing in the morning after the sun rises, but before it’s shedding its full heat.

   We walk around the building and Seth points to each and every type of flower that decorating the building. There is a flower box nestled under every window and the vast parking lot is dotted and decorated with many islands – all filled with blooming flowers. At the end of the building, there are two spigots and a couple of long water hoses wound up and hanging from long flat hooks.

   “If one is going to die, Mason, it is best that they do it during this time of year: the spring. Summer is okay as well and early fall, but once the leaves turn the place becomes different. It loses its vibrant appearance. And, in all honesty, to hell with anyone who dies during the winter.”

   Mason and I both have a little laugh at this, “Oh, I’m not joking, gentlemen,” Seth snaps. “Remember, keep it serious.”

   He continues:

   “It’s very important you get this done early. I don’t want this being done while a funeral is in service. I want these flowers soaked. Drench them. The petals need to be wet before the light really gets to them, and the soil has to be saturated with water. This isn’t just decoration. This isn’t my hobby, and I have no interest in them. I am not a botanist or a gardener. I am a funeral director.”

   Mason nods his head, indicating he understands. Seth has already shown him where the hoses, watering cans, and sprinklers are located.

   “Take this sprinkler, hook it to the hose, and point it at one of the flower beds in the parking lot. While you have that going, take the can and hit the beds underneath the windows and the flower boxes. Then, move the sprinkler and start watering the beds by the house. You have to really pay attention to the ones at the entrance. I want them to be pretty. Gorgeous. People meander by the doorway, so it needs to be especially nice.”

   There is a long, thick brick fence lining the parking lot and separating it from the street. From the top of it, flowers are sprouting in one long bed, continuous and about a foot in width.

   “This one I would do last, but don’t skimp on it,” Seth says. “It takes forever. You just don’t want to mist this one but get it really good with the hose. These get the most sun and the soil in the bed dries out quickly, so do those dead last that way they are good and soaked right before it starts to get hot. After you’re done watering, you need to do a walk-through. This is when you will check your work. Make sure you didn’t miss any of the flowers. Also, when you are doing this, you need to look for weeds. I have a barrier down for them, but some may work their way through. You need to get them and get them quick, so they don’t take over. Weeds are decay, and we pretend that decay doesn’t happen here. Got it?”

   “Yes, I understand, Mr. Parsons,” Mason says. I’m standing quietly by my uncle, watching Mason. I am trying to see if he is getting nervous listening to my uncle. He doesn’t seem to be, but maybe he is just hiding it. Most of the men that have worked for us are shaking by this part of Seth’s lecture.

   “Also, look the parking lot over really well. Let me know if you see anything out of place. If someone leaves a beer bottle tonight, it needs to be gone tomorrow morning. I had the asphalt resurfaced last year, but if you start to see any cracks let me know. You need to look for weeds in the blacktop too. Make sure the lines in the parking spots are bright white. There is paint, tape, and rollers if they start to fade. My nephew will show you where. We get a lot of old people here, and they will complain if they are the least bit faded.”

   “Make it look perfect,” Mason says. “Be your eyes out here.”

   “Exactly. It has to look perfect. No one comes here happy. This is where they come to send off their dead, so the place has to look alive. It can’t be festive, but it has to have a certain appearance about it. People have to feel comforted by looking at it, just pulling into the parking lot. There can be no distractions and no frustrations, just tranquility. They have to see beautiful flowers and clean lines. They have to think about how flowers bloom and then how the petals die, but it is all reborn. It makes them feel better. That is what this business is about. Does that make sense?”

   “Absolutely,” Mason answers. “It’s about aesthetics, I got it.”

   Seth pauses for a moment, looking at Mason.

   “You can make it about philosophy if you want, but it is not. People are simple. This is basic psychology. When people are mourning, they want it to be over, so they will look for anything to make them feel better. Psychology. You tell them what to think, and they think it. They will look at the pretty flowers and think about how they will die and come back again. Now, again, does that make sense?”

   “It does,” Mason says.

   “Do you have any questions so far, Mason?” I ask.

   “The apartment?”

   “We’ll get to that,” Seth says. “I think I was pretty upfront when I interviewed you. I’ve had problems keeping this position filled. It is a bit of a, shall we say, diversified job. But this is what it hinges on. If you can do this, that’s a big part of it, and I can forgive other shortcomings. If I see dead flowers and weeds, I can’t deal with that, and I’ll be placing another ad in the paper.”

   “No, I understand. Every morning. Make sure the flowers are impeccable.”

   “Well said, well said, Mason,” Seth says and taps him on the shoulder. “That is it. There is no grass here, just flowers and asphalt. This is the face of my business, and it must be maintained meticulously. If you can do it, fine, but, if not, there is the street.”

   “I think he gets it,” I chime in.

   “I do, Mr. Parsons, I understand.”

   “That’s right, Mason, it’s Mr. Parsons. Always Mr. Parsons. I never want you to call me by my first name like my nephew does.”

   “He even tried to get me to call him Mr. Parsons. Not happening.”

   “There will be a family arriving soon to make some arrangements, so I want you both out of sight. Horace, you see, does not like to get involved with the business aspect of what we do. He prefers his embalming chamber. I’m the licensed funeral director; he is the licensed embalmer. He does join us among the living from time to time, but he’s not always presentable, and, as we’ve discussed, appearances are of importance here. That is what we do here.”

   Seth pauses and clears his throat, looking around the parking lot and stopping to look at the funeral home, “I’ve spent my adulthood building this place’s reputation, and I won’t have it compromised. I am glad you understand about the flowers. You will have other responsibilities, and this is not even close to being the most physically demanding.”

   “What would that one be? The most physically demanding one?” Mason asks.

   “It’s the graves, Mason. Hand tools only. You can use shovels, picks, post hole diggers. It doesn’t matter. But, in compliance with local ordinance here in Always, all graves must be dug by hand.”