Revival House

by S. S. Michaels

  Mr. Davis runs his thick sweaty fingers along the glossy veneer, leaving a snail trail of anxiety and indecision. A tear drops onto the casket’s lid with a muted plop. I bite my lip and listen to his uneven breathing for a long moment. Captains of industry are not immune to the long icy fingers of grief. Not even those captains who have been declared mutiny upon by their once faithful and steadfast crew.

  “Sir, your wife deserves this,” I say, studying his generously jowled and leaking visage, sneaking a look over at Uncle Sterling, who’s watching with great interest. “The Montrachet is the finest product on the market, incomparable. You wouldn’t want your lovely...” Shoot, what was her name again? I know I should know this. I’ve known this family since I was a child. And, besides, Mrs. Davis had been the predominant subject of the most incendiary conversation for the past three days, much longer than that if you count the steamy rumors that whizzed around town prior to her premature demise. Blame the spear-through-the-temple headache for my lapse in memory.

  “Lorna,” he whispers.

  “Lorna, of course,” I say, nodding. I clear my throat and set my lips in a grim line, showing him that I fully appreciate the gravity and delicacy of this complex situation. I wish Sterling would do something besides glare at me. I can feel his eyes burrowing into my ear. “Mr. Davis, you kept Lorna so well in life, giving her that stunning house on Greene Square, driving her around in fancy luxury cars, all the elaborate parties...” He winces. I probably should not remind him of all the money he’d wasted on her over the years. I’m sure he’s feeling some measure of regret.

  Guilt— I need some good old-fashioned guilt, a different sort. “Sir, I know you wouldn’t want the mother of your amazing children to spend eternity reclining in anything less than the finest of all rest chambers.” In reality, his children are not amazing at all; they are spoiled brats who have always stomped on the backs of others less fortunate, scrambling to the top of the heap called humanity, getting anything and everything they wanted. They lived a few blocks away, on the other side of the park, and, as children, we’d see each other at the playground every now and again. We’d played a few times, but shy as I was, I was intimidated by their bossy and boisterous behavior.

  I tap the over-priced mahogany casket lid, a bit too loudly, like a used car salesman touting the brand new paint job on an over-priced beat-to-death lemon. Sterling winces at the sound.

  “Daddy,” Harrison Davis summons his distraught father over to the corner of the showroom which houses the more modest twenty gauge steel boxes. Recently named partner at one of Savannah’s oldest law firms, Harrison cuts an imposing authoritarian appearance in a somber black suit and gray tie. He was just one of the boys that Four routinely distracted from flushing my head in the lavatory at BC.

  Harrison is far less emotional than his daddy. I can read the anger in his face, though, highlighted blue and amber by the late afternoon sunlight filtering through the dusty stained glass transom over the window. I do not know whether my sales tactics are getting under his skin or whether it’s his own mother’s scandalous behavior that has his blood up. Either way, his hostile demeanor indicates that I am unlikely to get an optimal sale. The two Davis men whisper back and forth while I avert my eyes, trying to listen in as I long for a cigarette, avoiding Uncle Sterling’s blistering stare. Perhaps a nicotine rush would cure this skull-boring headache. Looking down, I notice my black Lobb lace-ups need a shine.

  More and more often, this is the manner in which things proceed, with the urgent and hushed private conversations, carried out in a far corner, following my guilt-inducing sales pitch. I’ll have the grieving party standing over at the solid mahogany velvet-lined Montrachet, checkbook in hand, believing that their loved one deserves nothing but the best, forever and ever, and then some level-headed younger relative, well-versed in the scriptures of Internet shopping, will butt in and completely ruin my deal. Of course it upsets me greatly, but not because it affects my job performance reviews. I couldn’t give a damn about those; I know exactly where I stand with my uncle. I am more disturbed because over time, our business, our very livelihood, is eroding right before our eyes. If Sterling doesn’t do something to increase business soon, I will be forced to do something rash. Like get a real job. Leave my childhood home behind. Get a normal car.

  A real honest-to-goodness, shit-strewn grown-up life.

  We can’t have that now, can we?

  “We’re going to pass on that one,” Harrison says, nodding his too-large head at the Montrachet. “In fact,” he says, tilting his chin up at me, as if daring me to strike him, “we’re going to purchase Mama’s casket elsewhere and have it shipped here. I am certain you won’t have a problem with that, seeing how there’s an FTC ruling regarding the use of caskets bought from outside sources and all.” His smile opens like a slash made with a razor.

  Ah, yes, the FTC’s Funeral Rule. Everyone seems to know about that these days, not just these wise-acre lawyers. Uncle Sterling says twenty years ago you could talk people into assuming second mortgages on their homes just to afford the most expensive caskets and services, and the parlor came out of almost every funeral with a more than respectable profit. Sadly, those days have passed. The Internet has made everyone an expert on what is and what is not subject to negotiation in the financing of a loved one’s funeral.

  I am not in favor of technology in the hands of the masses.

  As I scribble down notes regarding Mrs. Davis’s service, I imagine myself throwing a right hook to Harrison’s side-view mirror of an ear and following it up with a front snap kick to his protruding Adam’s apple. In case you’re not in possession of this knowledge, the crunch of ear cartilage beneath one’s knuckles is one of the greatest pleasures in life. The inward snap of a trachea is heavenly. That’s in my own humble opinion, of course. You see, when one is a slightly effeminate and ghoulish stick figure at a boy’s military academy, one either learns to bend over without complaint or to cause grievous bodily harm to those expecting one to do the former. Seeing as I have a great fondness for the fairer sex, I, of course, chose the latter of those two very limited and distasteful options. I do possess a black belt in the art of tae kwon do.

  As I sit behind my desk, slipping miscellaneous papers into a file folder and cursing myself for having run out of Marlboros, Uncle Sterling hobbles into the showroom. He goggles at my blank face, as if trying to surmise what had happened with the recently departed Davises. He’s going to whack me, I just know it. I brace myself for the blow.

  “No,” he says, lurching closer and closer. “Don’t tell me,” he says, raising a hand toward me in a stop gesture.

  Perhaps it’s for the best that I am not a poker player.

  “What in Hell’s wrong with you, boy?” he says, stopping to shake his cane at me, six feet in front of my ornate mahogany desk, which does not look unlike the ornate and imposing Montrachet itself. And that cane which does not look unlike a shining palm tree with a nude woman for its trunk, and which is for use after business hours and inside the house only.

  Instead of rounding my desk to thump me with his cane, Sterling throws his portly frame into one of my two navy blue velveteen guest chairs. I watch the irritation melt his face into a doughy mask. “Oh, I know it’s not your fault, boy,” he says, wiping his brow with the crisp white handkerchief he pulled from his ugly brown waistcoat.

  Not my fault? Really? A gasp escapes my oral cavity and my eyes widen.

  “The Davis arrangements should have been an optimal sale, considering our families have known each other for generations. But...” He stuffs the handkerchief back into his pocket, making an unsightly bulge in his vest. “That’s just the nature of the business these days, I suppose.”

  I cannot believe my ears. I expected to be knocked into the park by his cane.

  He sighs, sounding like a punctured air mattress.

  His air of resignation, though, wallops me more than any physical blow. Something must be done to re
surrect the family business, surely he knows that. Where is his trademark tenacity? I cannot assess my uncle’s apathy toward my latest non-sale. Quite interesting. Not to mention, unnerving. This situation will require some investigation on my part, since we do not have the type of relationship that will allow me to just ask him outright what his problem is. He’s raised me since childhood, due to my parents’ murder-suicide, but we’ve never been what you would call close.

  My eyes wander across the eerie antique post-mortem photographs that hang on the wall adjacent to my desk. Something in those sepia-toned images whispers to me. I wonder if they hold the key to resurrecting our business. I see potential.

  “Well, she’s waiting for us,” Uncle Sterling says, heaving himself up from the chair, dissipating a thought that had begun to form in my head like fog rising from the early morning marsh. He seems deflated, defeated, but at least one iota of his passion remains intact: I feel his bulging eyes burning into my chest.

  He still loathes my emerald green tie.

  I had chosen it quite deliberately this morning.

  For our visit.

  Chapter 4 – Caleb

  ‘The Home,’ as we refer to it, is out on Wilmington Island, next to the most exquisite golf course. I’ve played at Wilmington Island Club on a number of occasions. I use the term ‘play’ loosely, of course. My idea of playing golf is rolling around in a cart, sipping Tanqueray and tonics while wearing polyester and catching up on the latest gossip, such as who’s had a stroke or a heart attack, who’s been in a drunk driving wreck, who’s been killed in an unfortunate boating accident— networking, you might say. Boring, but necessary.

  In any case, rush hour on the Islands Expressway is murder, as usual. You wouldn’t think of Savannah as having a “rush hour” like the bigger cities, but we do. The main difference being that we maintain a certain level of decorum about it. For example, horn-honking and vulgar gestures are frowned upon, whereas sipping any beverage of your choosing (although it must be from a plastic cup) while idling in line is perfectly acceptable. (Not necessarily legal, but always acceptable.) Perhaps it’s the average Savannahian’s blood alcohol content which lends the city its trademark civility.

  By the time we make it over the Wilmington River Bridge, I have a bitch-kitty of a headache, likely stemming from a lack of nicotine paired with the Gilbert and Sullivan show tunes played at too many decibels in order to penetrate Uncle Sterling’s Miracle Ear. I shall never again listen to the ‘Yeoman of the Guard’ soundtrack. Not that I ever have, not of my own accord anyway. I feel dangerously close to delivering a savage kick to the burl walnut surrounding the Jaguar’s CD player. But, truth be told, it isn’t just Uncle Sterling’s choice of music or my own lack of cigarettes that has me in a violent mood; it is my uncle’s lackadaisical attitude and behavior. The savage kick should really be delivered to his great bald pate. Had I failed to close a significant sale in the past, a sale to lifelong acquaintances like the Davis family, I could expect not only to be screamed at about my own lack of concern for the future of the family business, but I would also receive that resounding smack on the head from Sterling’s cane. Not that I miss the abuse, but, at present, he doesn’t seem to care about the Davises, or anything else.

  Over the past several weeks he’d been crankier than hell— whacking me with that cane, snapping at suppliers, being short with clients— but he has been less combative than usual, arguing with me less despite the whackings. I find the situation most unsettling. Is it depression? Hopelessness? If he is hopeless, then our business must be a whole lot closer to spinning down the toilet than I’d imagined. I don’t know what, if anything, to do. I stare at the gray ribbon of road and recite the periodic table of elements within the confines of my head. This is a little trick I use to calm myself in moments of what you might call rage or extreme anxiety. I learned it from some therapist years ago. By the time I get to germanium, number thirty-two, the dark cloud centered in my frontal lobe dissipates. I uncurl my aching and blanched fingers from around the steering wheel.

  I mutter a hello to Aunt Billie when we enter her room ten minutes later. I bend to kiss the air next to her withered cheek, as if she can hear me or is even aware of my presence. She lay motionless in her hospital bed, a thick semi-transparent white snake taped into her mouth like some kind of rigid plastic intestine, forcing air into and out of her wasting lungs. Her head is bald and flat on top, over to the right-hand side. Directly beneath her scalp lies a steel plate secured to her skull with titanium pins. That is from the accident, of course.

  Uncle Sterling takes her long-nailed talon in his own fat paw and smiles into her unseeing eyes. “Oh, darling, you look beautiful,” he says, eyes wet, his words barely audible over the rasping of her breathing machine.

  I reckon you’re curious as to what happened. I am not proud of it.

  Seven years ago, Aunt Billie had woken early to prepare a pitcher of mimosas and to bake a breakfast casserole to bring over to the Farthington Inn Bed & Breakfast, just down the block from 121 Hall Street. The Howards, who owned the B&B that overlooked Forsyth Park, held an annual sumptuous St. Patrick’s Day breakfast, which commenced promptly at seven a.m. Aunt Billie had never missed it.

  St. Patrick’s Day is a huge celebration in the city of Savannah. The schools are closed, fountains are tinted green, and everyone in the city is Irish, if only for the day. And, as family tradition dictated, Uncle Sterling and Aunt Billie rode on their very own Sterling Exley & Sons Funeral Parlor float each and every year. I, myself, had been a fixture on the float since the year I was born. It became my job to drive the vehicle the year I turned sixteen.

  I recall drinking Bloody Marys with Uncle Sterling that morning, as there is no such thing as underage drinking in Savannah on St. Patrick’s Day (well, there is, but as long as you don’t stand naked in front of the police station hollering obscenities, and you’re with your legal guardian, it is not a problem). Both of us were dressed in emerald green suits and ties, gluing artificial lilies to the sides of the float and joking about the number of fatalities the day’s festivities might generate. Aunt Billie showed up, trailing the Howards and some of their guests behind her like so many overinflated balloons. We all stood around, waiting for the parade to begin, drinking and talking. Finally, we got the signal and started rolling down Abercorn Street. We threw strings of green beads, green doubloons imprinted with the funeral parlor’s name, and green-dyed artificial lilies. We waved and drank and speculated on the participation of Sinn Fein and whether that participation would ever bring any untoward attacks to the annual event.

  Before we knew it, we had passed the big art deco SCAD library building and theater on Broughton, nearing the middle of the parade route. For some reason, floats ahead of us were veering toward the left-hand side of the street. We’d had a particularly cold winter that year and I suppose it had taken its toll on our streets. Our float, fashioned from an old hearse, hit the enormous pothole that everyone else had avoided. I did not see it until it was far too late to dodge. My Bloody Mary spilled all over my lap, ruining my best green trousers. Uncle Sterling and Aunt Billie had been sitting in the extra-large sunroof we’d cut in the top of the vehicle, and when the car lurched and I spilled my drink, we lost Aunt Billie.

  She fell to the right as I yanked the steering wheel hard to the left. The orange traffic cone that had been set up in front of the hole flew off the float’s front bumper and into the crowd, breaking some woman’s green-painted nose. Aunt Billie tumbled off the roof, her legs scraping the hastily-finished left edge of the hole, ripping massive runs in her beige pantyhose, stripping the skin from her left shin, vegetable peeler-style.

  I don’t remember much after that.

  I was later shown the entire accident on video at the police station. Billie had fallen in slow motion. She flailed, upside down hovering at the rear passenger window, her left leg snapping, sharp ragged bone tearing through her considerable flesh, face freezing in a desperate
scream. Then, she quite simply fell to the pavement, landing on her head. I’d stopped the car, but she’d still been dragged about ten feet or so, leaving a pasty red and hairy trail behind her. The smear was surprisingly dull under the glaring sun. A hush fell over the raucous crowd. Someone said ‘dude.’ Someone laughed. Someone covered Aunt Billie’s face with their lime green coat. Uncle Sterling threw the coat back into the crowd with an animal roar.

  Aunt Billie was brain dead.

  She had what they call a depressed skull fracture. Bone splinters that had shattered off of her skull surrounding the point of impact impaled her brain, requiring extensive surgery. The covering of her brain, the meninges, more specifically the dura mater, was torn. Surgeons worked for hours, first monitoring her intracranial bleeding and pressure, then closing up her skull with a stainless steel plate. So much of her scalp had been cut away during the debriding of the wound that she’d had to undergo a skin graft to cover the plate. The doctors removed a square of skin from her posterior and stitched it onto her head.

  That is the reason Uncle Sterling hates my emerald green tie. He hates everything green.

  I maintain, to this day— contrary to popular opinion— that the accident was not my fault.

  We visit her three times a week, Uncle Sterling and I. Sometimes, I drag Four along. He enjoys going around stealing desserts from the residents, surreptitiously slipping them into his pockets like some kind of devious magician. Four is like that, though. For the life of me, I cannot figure out why. A pilferer of the highest order, from one of the richest families in town. In any case, he would be distraught that he’d missed today’s visit. Paula Deen, whose brand new culinary compound sits just on the other side of the golf course, brought macaroni and cheese, deep fried Snickers bars, and sticks of salted butter for the enjoyment of all.