Death Perception

by Lee Allen Howard

  “I’m sorry, Kennet. I know how you must feel.”

  No, you don’t. Kennet was about to say something more. Something senseless. Something desperate. Instead, he mumbled goodbye and hung up.

  Mr. Grinold folded his hands and drilled Kennet with his gaze.

  “What kind of service can I get for two thousand dollars?”

  “No service at all.”

  “None at all?” Was Grinold expecting him to pitch in? He inched forward. “I have some money set aside. Not much. But I could make up the difference. You could even take it out of my pay.”

  Grinold fluttered his fat fingers on the blotter. He looked uncharacteristically flustered. “Do you think going into debt is a good idea for a young man in your circumstances?”

  “What business is that of yours? This is my mother. I was hoping that—”

  “I’m very sorry, Kennet, but with what little money she has, the best we can do is cremate her.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “I’ll . . . take care of it. And since you’re a faithful employee, I’ll even donate an urn.” He spread his liver-colored lips in the semblance of a smile.

  Kennet’s thoughts whirled. He gripped his knees to keep from keeling over. “I, I don’t want Ma to be cremated. I want her laid out so people can come and pay their respects. I want her friends to come and comfort me. I want—”

  “Much as I’d like to, I’m sorry we can’t do more for your mother. Now you must excuse me. I have some important paperwork to complete.” Grinold scribbled something on a yellow sticky note, rose, and bustled his hips around the desk, holding the paper out to Kennet. “The account number for the cremation. Be sure to record it on the time chart.” He returned to his chair.

  Kennet glanced at the numbers, but they made no sense. They were just scribbles on a square of paper.

  “After you’ve finished processing the cremains, Kennet, you may go home.”

  “I told you earlier that I only came to discuss my mother’s arrangements. I’d like a few days off.”

  “Now, Kennet, you know very well I don’t have a pool of creamers to draw from at a moment’s notice. You’re it. Since Myron quit, I’m your only backup, and I’m a very busy man. Take the weekend off, but resume your normal schedule Monday morning.”

  Kennet always had Sunday off. Grinold was offering only Saturday. Kennet’s throat felt paralyzed, but he managed to swallow. The lump that was there earlier dissolved into something bitter. For a second, he considered following Myron’s example. But, no, he needed his job.

  “Again, I’m sorry for your loss. My heart goes out to you in your time of grief.”

  Like hell, you heartless bastard. Kennet served Grinold a long, frigid stare. Then he stood and stalked out of the office, slamming the door behind him.

  Chapter 3

  Kennet returned to the annex, threw himself in the lawn chair, and commenced grinding his teeth. His being loyal for three years, outlasting grown men in his position, obviously merited him no favor with his employer. Grief and now anger snapped at his heart like a dog provoked.

  He yanked on his lab coat promptly at noon and, after checking the crematory temperature, opened the oven door. Powerful heat billowed out, crackling the plastic face shield.

  He debated whether to toast some marshmallows. He still wasn’t hungry. In fact, he felt like he’d been kicked in the gut. Yet, considering how Grinold had treated him, he decided to toast a few out of spite. Holding the skewer over the mound of ashes, he waited until the puffs nearly caught fire. He jerked them out, blew on them, and stuffed them in his mouth. They tasted no better than ashes to him.

  As he tongued the sticky goo from his molars, the revelation came to him as it always did. Not that it came the same way every time or required the marshmallows, because it didn’t. Rather, whenever he opened the oven and the heat enveloped him, the understanding came inevitably—whether as an inkling or as a certainty—he knew what had caused their death. It was no different today. He remained still as he rose to the bright hall of records and waited until he received and returned.

  This one had died of suffocation. Perhaps by drowning, although he never knew the means. Only the cause. He briefly sensed darkness and panic, the inability to draw his breath. He tore the face shield off his head. He gasped, and the sensation faded. Thank God, it always faded.

  Unlike the other times, he was overwhelmed with sadness. Following his familiar routine might help him regain a sense of normalcy eventually, but it was too soon. He’d hardly begun to grieve. He pressed his eyes against his coat sleeve and rested his gloved hand on the front corner of the crematory until he felt steady again.

  Kennet returned the skewer and the Jet-Puffed bag to their hiding places, realizing it would take some time to work through his mother’s death and what his life would now become.

  He stepped to the processing workbench to check the death certificate and confirm his revelation, but Grinold still had it. That reminded him of two things, the first being what an arrogant prick Grinold was. It also prompted him to record the account number from the yellow sticky note on the time chart, which he did.

  Although Kennet couldn’t confirm his revelation without the death certificate, it seemed inconsequential today. He was always right, anyway. The sooner he finished his work, the sooner he could leave, and that’s what he wanted to do.

  The outside door opened, and Nathan Springer stepped in from the driveway. Nathan often stopped by to say hello between lawn jobs. Lean and broad-shouldered, he tucked his sun-bleached hair behind his ears as he crossed the annex. Concern replaced his usual cheer.

  “Hey, Doctor.” He rested a hand, all knuckles and veins, on Kennet’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry to hear about your mom. Jack Dodds called with the news.”

  “Did he?”

  “Sure. I went to the home first, but Alex said you left. What’re you doing here? Won’t Grinold give you time off?”

  “I only came to talk about a service for my mom. . . .”

  “He put you to work anyway.” Nathan looked disgusted. “When’s the funeral?”

  “Not gonna be one.” Kennet yanked the iron catchtray from beneath the oven.

  “Really? Why not?”

  Kennet rammed in the stainless steel tray. “Not enough insurance. She’s gotta be cremated.”

  “Won’t he give you a discount? You’re an employee, for chrissake.”

  Kennet snatched the hoe and shoved hot ashes down the horizontal trough in the crematory floor. He carried on like this for a minute until he could speak without losing control, then told Nathan he had offered to pay the difference so his mother could have a decent send-off. “But I guess Grinold can’t be bothered with the likes of us. Said he’d ‘donate an urn.’ Cheap bastard.”

  “God, Kennet, I’m sorry.”

  Kennet dropped into the lawn chair and buried his face in his gloves. “I just wanted to do something to honor her. My last chance.”

  Nathan squatted before him. “Don’t beat yourself up, dude. You did what you could. If Grinold wants to be a dick, that’s his karma. You know, you don’t have to hold the service in a funeral home.”

  Kennet lifted his head. “What do you mean?”

  “Have one of your own. Somewhere else, like a church, maybe. If you do, I’ll be there for sure. Your mom was a good woman. She deserves a respectable farewell.”

  Kennet considered this as he unfolded and refolded his gloves.

  Nathan stood. “Gotta finish my Friday lawns before it really storms. Cold as shit out there for June. You need anything, call me, okay?”

  “Thanks, Lawnboy.”

  Nathan squeezed Kennet’s shoulder and then let himself out the annex door.

  Nathan had so many friends that he didn’t need Kennet, yet Nathan considered him one of his best buds. In school, Nathan had befriended him when others shunned him—or worse. He took Kennet’s side against bullies who tormented Kennet about what he could afford to wear or where he liv
ed. Nathan was just like that. Everyone who met him liked him, and he liked everyone. Except Mr. Grinold, but nobody liked Mr. Grinold. This thought almost made him smile.

  Kennet put his face shield and gloves back on. He used the hoe to crunch up a charred a femur so that he could get it through the slot and then, with the long-handled broom, he carefully swept out the last of the ashes.

  Carrying the warm steel tray to the processing table, he realized that today or tomorrow Grinold would perform the same process with his mother’s body. At this, tears welled up, hot and bitter, and spilled down his cheeks. Kennet set the tray down and stared at the shimmering remains, recalling a scripture his mother once read to him. Dust you are, and to dust you shall return. Then he processed the cremains, hoping his plans to honor her meant more than dust and ashes.

  Chapter 4

  At ten the next morning, Kennet stepped from the drizzling rain into the funeral home annex. Grinold was steering the lift toward the crematory, which was already fired up.

  “Good, you’re here.” Grinold flashed his capped choppers as if smiling. “This one’s ready to go. Here’s the paperwork. Has a pin in the hip.”

  Kennet glanced at the woman’s shriveled corpse. She looked like a stretched fig rolled in flour, her misshapen mouth a gaping black hole.

  Not on your life, mister. “I’m only here to pick up my mother’s ashes. They’re ready, aren’t they?”

  Grinold straightened and crossed his flabby arms. “I understand how distressing this must be. It’s best you keep busy to take your mind off it.”

  Kennet took a deep breath. “You said I could have the weekend.” Not that one Saturday off was much of a break.

  “Tut, tut, busy is best. Besides, I’ve got three cremations scheduled tomorrow. These two can’t wait.” Grinold turned to go.

  Before he reached the door, Kennet called out, “I’m having a service for my mother this afternoon—elsewhere—so I’m not available.”

  Grinold whipped his head around and glared at Kennet. “What time?”

  Kennet forced himself to maintain eye contact. “Twelve-thirty.” His face turned hot, not from the crematory output, but from rising anger. Yet he was careful to control himself.

  Grinold thrust a finger at the corpse. “Start this one immediately. You can have your little service during cool-down. Be back by one-thirty sharp to process the cremains and start the second cremation.” His mouth hardened into a brittle line.

  Kennet watched rainwater drip from his jacket to the floor as he counted to ten.

  “Life goes on, Kennet. I’ve customers to care for, and no time to do the cremations myself. It can’t be helped.” Then his voice softened. “I appreciate your loyalty to your position and hope you have a nice service. I’ll see you back here by one-thirty.” He left the annex.

  What smoldered inside Kennet felt hotter than the oven. So this is how it’s going to be. . . . Sympathy—no, false sympathy—for the paying customers, but none for the “faithful employees.” Asshole.

  He had tried to assert himself. Lawnboy would’ve been proud. Should he have stood his ground and insisted on having the day off? No, the little boldness he did show had backfired. Should he have let it drop, gone along without objecting, as usual? Not if he was determined to step forward in life.

  To live on his own, he would need more money—even if he had to use his loyalty as leverage. He stripped off his wet jacket, donned his uniform, and went to work with a vengeance.

  • • •

  By 12:30 the residents had finished their lunch. The smell of boiled chicken and noodles cooked to mush still hung in the air. Kennet changed into his only pair of dress khakis and a white button-down shirt. After slicking his black curls with water, he quit the downstairs bathroom for the front parlor of the care home.

  Flavia Costa and Alex Keckler were situating the residents for the service. Alex’s square face was stony. Kennet was glad the orderly rarely looked at him, because the guy’s yellowish eyes were so empty, and whenever Alex did look at him, it was usually with contempt. Alex was a guy he would never describe as warm and friendly.

  Flavia drew the sheer draperies across the front window to cut the spring sun, pursing her full lips with the effort, the pronounced Cupid’s bow defined with dark liner. As always, she appeared polished and professional, dressed impeccably in a red silk blouse and gray wool skirt. She locked the wheels of Sylvia Kryszewski’s wheelchair.

  Sylvia was a middle-aged stroke victim whose left side was completely paralyzed. Her foot turned in, and her forearm was curled and atrophied. The poor woman couldn’t talk, only moaned occasionally, and always stared into the distance. Kennet sometimes caught a spark of recognition in her eyes, but she never let on whether it was genuine. Her page-boy haircut was a dull strawberry-ash, and her mouth, now toothless, was always working, as if gumming some secret morsel.

  Kennet moved toward the fireplace. His buddy, Albert Putterman, had decided to wear his dentures today. The old man sneered with them as Alex tried to ease him from his walker into the lift-assist armchair, which he called “the ejector seat.”

  “Don’t touch my ass, you freak,” Putterman said. Alex simply returned the sneer.

  Putterman was the closest thing to a grandfather that Kennet had ever known—and the orneriest old coot he’d ever met. The sidewalls of the old man’s snowy hair were buzzed bristle short. His skin was pink as a pig’s, but he was thin and feeble. He fancied himself a “horny bugger” and was fond of exposing himself at inopportune moments, as if there ever was a proper time to “let the beefstick breathe,” as he put it.

  The front door opened, and Nathan followed Jack Dodds through the foyer into the parlor. Jack was a taut, wiry man in his late sixties with a yellow overbite and white hair, neatly combed. He smiled his consolation and pumped Kennet’s hand, then moved to the far side of the parlor and stood with his hands clasped at his waist in the dining room entrance. Nathan gripped Kennet’s hand and then leaned on the door jamb between the foyer and the parlor.

  Alex seated Helen Streider in front of the radiator. Helen had waited until she was ninety-six to exhibit the symptoms of Alzheimer’s. She was all of eighty pounds, a stick wrapped in weathered leather, with stringy iron-colored hair that swung when she rocked, and she rocked constantly. She’d developed the habit of wandering at all hours of the day or night, so she had to be restrained. Flavia smoothed the Velcro strap that would keep the woman seated on the high-backed dining chair. Helen disliked being restrained, but was too far out of touch to discover how to free herself. Old and slight as she was, she was powerfully strong, especially when she grew agitated, which seemed to be more frequently. She often appeared to be thinking, planning, scheming—probably her big escape.

  Alex and Flavia, her shoulders held back proudly, took stations on each side of Jack.

  Kennet glanced at the brass urn on the fireplace mantel, took a deep breath, and began. “Thanks for coming, everyone. And thank you, Ms. Costa, for letting me hold the service here.”

  Flavia nodded graciously.

  “We’re gathered to honor my mother, Virginia Banes Singleton.” Kennet briefly outlined the history of his mother’s life, how she’d met his father at a bar, conceived a child and decided to marry, that she’d found God and how this had changed her life. And how she protected her only son when his father turned abusive. “She lost her eye watching out for me. But that didn’t stop her from picking up and starting over after my dad died.”

  Most of the residents were attentive, or at least looked that way, nodding when he praised his mother, shaking their heads when he mentioned hardship. Helen Streider scowled, rocking as if riding an invisible hobby horse. Flavia kept a cautious eye on her.

  “We never had much, but Ma did her best to provide. She mopped floors at the high school and cleaned houses on weekends. Scrubbed her hands raw.”

  Helen twisted in her chair, plucking at the Velcro strap around her waist. Gladys patted
the woman’s bony thigh, apparently trying to calm her. Gladys Wilson was just shy of five feet—even Flavia had a few inches on her—but weighed over 200 pounds. Miss Wilson was pleasant, yet apt to turn maudlin at any moment. She cried a lot and often complained of stomach problems and other ills, usually whatever was featured in the latest issue of AARP Magazine.

  “Even when Ma moved here to be cared for, she made sure I could stay with her.” Kennet had to speak louder now, because Helen Streider was grunting and whining.

  “Shut up and sit still, you old nut,” Putterman told her. She ignored him or more likely didn’t comprehend what he said.

  “I always wanted to repay Ma. This service isn’t much, but it’s all I can do now. She taught me that, with faith and fortitude, even the defenseless can overcome abuse and hardship.”

  Nathan nodded at him, and Kennet got the distinct feeling his friend was giving him the thumbs-up sign, although his hands remained at his sides. Kennet often received such impressions.

  Flavia looked wary, watching Helen Streider. Alex’s rheumy gaze shifted from her to Kennet. Kennet sensed him thinking, Jesus, aren’t you through yet?

  Kennet drew his mother’s Bible off the mantel and leafed to the passage in Ecclesiastes he marked that morning. “Then shall the dust return to the earth as it was, and the spirit shall return unto God who gave it.”

  Helen screeched and pitched about in the chair, her iron-gray hair lashing. Flavia launched herself at the woman and went for her hands, which were clawing at the seatbelt. Alex retrieved a bolt of folded terry-knit cloth from behind the sofa, kept for such occasions.

  Helen was yelling now, cursing angrily, and jouncing her chair. Gladys Wilson cried harder, her tiny hands patting her own cheeks. Putterman, thoroughly disgusted, worked the controls to eject himself from the armchair.

  Flavia glanced over her shoulder. “I’m sorry, Kennet. Could you bring it to a close?”

  Kennet sighed, knowing it was useless to ask the residents to share their fondest memories of his mother. “Jack, could you . . .”