Death Perception

by Lee Allen Howard

  Fuck. . . Was this what it was like when you finally bought it? He feared he was going to be sick, but he swallowed hard and stood his ground.

  Rick’s parents, although divorced, huddled together at the foot of the casket with their dark-haired daughter, who was a few years older than Rick. The eldest brother had died suddenly of an aneurism a few years back. They looked broken up. Rick’s mother was busy crushing her tears with a tissue.

  Shit, what a scene. Alex knew he had to say something. He was drawing up the courage to deliver his condolences when Mrs. Hannah shot him a look that could only be blame. Mr. Hannah joined her, his face flashing rage. They thought their son had gotten the drugs from him. They blamed him for Rick’s death.

  Choking on his words, Alex turned away and maneuvered out of the room, ignoring those who addressed him or tugged on his shirt sleeve. The cloying smell of roses was going to make him puke.

  Out in the muggy twilight he crossed the parking lot and then climbed into his truck, gasping. He managed to start it, back out of the space, and pull onto Smithfield before he broke down. He brayed huge, ragged sobs and beat the steering wheel with his fist.

  “Goddammit, you stupid shit! I told you not to buy offa him. I told you!”

  He swerved into the dirt lane that led to his property by the woods. The sky was going out, and the mass of trees loomed black behind the pallid house.

  When he reached the end of the drive, he shut off the truck and laid his head on the steering wheel until he finished bawling. Then he dragged himself inside the house and opened a pint of vodka. He drank until it was empty, until he was empty, and he could no longer smell the roses.

  Chapter 25

  Kennet arrived at the funeral home the next morning earlier than usual, at a quarter to eight. A new corpse reposed in the cooler, waiting to be cremated. The crematory was already preheating. Was Grinold planning to do this one himself? Kennet knew better. As he reached for the knob to the funeral home door, the door flew open, nearly knocking him over.

  “You’re . . . here.” The funeral director stood in the doorway, neither coming through nor stepping aside. His flabby face betrayed some serious thought, but after a moment, he continued. “Uh, go ahead with this cremation. I’ll bring the paperwork by after Richard Hannah’s funeral. There’s no graveside service for him, so I’ll be back shortly after noon. You’ll be done by then, won’t you.” It was a statement, not a question.

  Kennet sensed a lot of tension from the man, but he didn’t feel it was directed at him, for a change. “Should be.”

  “I hope so.” Grinold added, “No special precautions on this one.”

  “Sure thing, boss.”

  Grinold shut the door in Kennet’s face. Kennet thumbed his nose at the door.

  He pulled the bagged corpse from the cooler, wheeled the lift to the crematory, donned the face shield and gloves, and then opened the oven door. He slid in the deceased, closed the door, and watched through the porthole as the body bag melted and furled away. Despite her damaged face, as the mass of blonde hair like yellow Easter grass took flame, he recognized her.

  The woman who had returned Grinold’s cufflink.

  What was her name? Delores something. He remembered her calling him honey, crinkling her nose, eyeing his crotch. What did she die of? Without the paperwork, there was only one way to tell.

  • • •

  When the cool-down timer beeped, Kennet located the metal skewer, impaled two puffs, and then raised the crematory door. He toasted the marshmallows to a perfect golden brown and got them in his mouth before the revelation swept him.

  His throat tightened. His lungs felt as if they had shrunk, lost their ability to draw air. The skewer split into two, then three images. His vision swam and his head grew woozy. He staggered backward and leaned against the processing table until his head cleared and he could breathe again. He felt shaken.

  Poison.

  The knowledge came to him as strong as paralysis had come for Rhoda Osgood. His stomach curdled, and he swallowed hard to keep down the bile. And the marshmallows.

  What kind of poison affected your breathing? Kennet had no idea, but he was utterly convinced that his discernment was accurate. The death perception game was becoming not so much fun.

  When he fully recovered, he snatched the Jet-Puffed bag and threw it in the wastecan beside the work table. Ms. Costa had a gas stove. If he ever wanted another marshmallow, he’d cook it at home—for as long as he lived there. He grabbed the stainless steel catchtray and began cleaning out the oven.

  • • •

  At ten after noon, Grinold returned with the manila envelope in hand.

  Kennet asked, “This your friend Delores?”

  Grinold’s face flushed. He seemed perturbed. Kennet envisioned a whirlwind of static around the man’s head. “Only an acquaintance. She was killed in a car accident the other day. Unfortunate.”

  “Car accident?” Kennet said, funneling the last of the cremains into the processor. “No way. She was poisoned.” No sooner had the words left his mouth when Kennet realized what he’d done.

  Grinold looked alarmed. His gaze darted about, but stopped when he took in the skewer propped against the processing table. He stiffened, then handed Kennet the paperwork. “The pathologist concluded that she died from physical trauma of the accident.”

  Kennet nodded profusely. “Just a guess, Mr. Grinold. And a bad one at that.”

  He accepted the envelope from Grinold’s pudgy hand and went about his business, penciling the account number on the circular graph. He didn’t look at Grinold’s face again, but he could sense bolts of negative energy shooting from the funeral director, who simply stood there staring at him.

  Go now, please. Go.

  Kennet sealed the urn liner and then pulled off the plastic gloves, tossing them in the wastecan on top of the marshmallows. It seemed like forever, but Grinold finally turned and retreated into the funeral home, closing the door silently behind him.

  • • •

  Grinold shut himself in his office and collapsed onto the leather chair behind his desk.

  He knows. That little bastard knows how she died. But does he know I did it?

  Grinold wasn’t positive, and he hated that. He liked sure things. He’d had enough uncertainty the last few days, with the trip to Winston-Salem, that dreadful meeting with Delores, and the horrid business on the highway afterward. Talking that podunk moron, Mabon Swann, through his options for Delores’s disposal had frayed his nerves to tatters.

  He’d led Swann, naturally, to the only safe conclusion: cremation. There would be no body to exhume if someone grew suspicious of what she was doing when she died or how she ran off the road. But Mabon Swann didn’t suspect a thing. He was truly devastated and had turned to the nearest funeral professional to take care of heartbreaking business. What a stroke of irony.

  But that was over and he thought he was scot-free. Until Kennet had to indulge in his tasteless game again. Grinold rubbed his forehead. Obviously, Kennet’s gift was genuine. He said he was always right. Is he?

  Kennet said it was only a bad guess, but he sounded quite sure of himself. His self-deprecation was merely an attempt to deflect attention from the fact he was toasting marshmallows again.

  Was his gift a sure thing? If so, this was one sure thing Grinold did not like.

  He studied the marble bust of the black dog Anubis, Egyptian embalming deity, nestled on a shelf above his credenza. It propped up an original 1878 copy of The Undertaker’s Manual.

  Grinold made a decision then. He would counter with his own thing. A sure thing. Something sure enough that his deed—sending Delores on her final swan-dive over a wilderness ravine—would forever remain a secret.

  He immediately started to plan.

  Chapter 26

  When Kennet arrived home that afternoon, Flavia was crying. So were the other residents. They were gathered in the parlor where Putterman, not pink but pale, sat slu
mped in the ejector seat, his mouth hanging open. His pants were stained dark where his bladder had let go.

  “Oh, Putterman . . .” Kennet stroked the old man’s bristly whitewall hair. He looked peaceful.

  Having declared Putterman legally dead, Dr. Grant, the visiting physician, was on his way out. Jack Dodds and Mike McGaughey were on their way in, maneuvering a rattling gurney into the foyer.

  Still tearful, Flavia herded the rest of the residents out of the parlor with Alex’s help. Jack and Mike began the struggle of transferring Putterman from the chair to the gurney. Sometimes it was easier if rigor mortis had started to set in. Sometimes it wasn’t. Putterman could have used a little rigor, but the men managed to lay him out on the gurney, where they zipped him in a white bag.

  “Sorry about this, Kenny,” Jack said in his gravelly voice. Jack was the only person who shortened Kennet’s name, which was already shortened because whoever had completed his birth certificate had failed to type the final H, forever leaving him one breathy letter short of being complete, at least in name.

  As the men wheeled the gurney out the front door, Kennet retreated to his dark room in the basement. He stretched out on the lumpy cot and let the tears come and, with them, grief and pain and, strangely, relief.

  Putterman had been more like a grandfather than a friend. He always listened. Never ignored. He liked to laugh and freely encouraged Kennet about things that didn’t even matter. But they mattered to him.

  What a colorful character Putterman was. Kennet would miss him terribly. For a moment he worried that telling Putterman he was moving out was the reason the old man had let go. But he brushed it aside, knowing his friend was ready to check out. Kennet sensed this during their talk on the porch the other morning, but didn’t want to admit it.

  Although Putterman never spoke ill of Kennet’s profession, Kennet knew the old coot wanted to be buried. Putterman always reminded him that his final plans were “all paid for and ready to go.” He had a plot reserved next to his wife at the McKeesport and Versailles Cemetery in downtown McKeesport. “Up on the hill,” Putterman always told him, and then usually launched into a tale about Priscilla, who had died twenty years ago of bowel cancer. As one of the pallbearers, Kennet could ride with Grinold or whoever drove the hearse.

  Kennet would miss his friend, but he looked forward to honoring Albert Putterman by escorting him to his final resting place. It was the least he could do for all the good the duffer had done for him.

  With tears drying on his temples, Kennet closed his eyes and dreamed of the father he wished he’d always had.

  • • •

  Flavia sank to her knees before the davenport in her apartment and sobbed her guts out. Why Albert? He was one of the few residents she actually liked. And she hadn’t touched him, had nothing to do with his death.

  But now that he was gone it looked bad, very bad, for her. Too many had died in the past month. Too many to be considered normal, or coincidental. Who was already thinking something fishy was going on? Who would investigate, come knocking on her door, asking pointed questions and taking notes with a grim set to his mouth and suspicion in his gaze? She snatched a tissue from the box on the end table.

  She rested her head on the brocade upholstery and let her tears soak in. No one else must die. Not by my hand, anyway. Not this month or next. Not for the rest of the year. Mustn’t lose it all now. Mustn’t let my retirement slip away. Or my freedom.

  When she stopped sobbing, she stood and cleared her nose, wiped her face, and then retouched her makeup in the bathroom mirror. She popped another Xanax. Then she went back downstairs to do what she always did when someone left the home for his eternal state: calm the fears of the remaining residents who, now more than ever, understood their days were precious and fleeting.

  Chapter 27

  Two corpses were waiting to be cremated when Kennet arrived at the annex the following day. He cremated the first one, a huge woman only fifty-six years old, who needed to go into the oven headfirst. While she burned, Kennet went home for a quick lunch. As long as he showed up at the table with all the other residents, Flavia said nothing, but her stare was as frigid as Alex’s was ugly.

  When Kennet returned to the funeral home, he pulled the manila envelope from the plastic sleeve on the middle cooler drawer. The paperwork belonged to Albert Putterman. What was he doing here? Kennet headed for Grinold’s office.

  “Mr. Grinold, I think there’s been a mistake.”

  The funeral director looked up from his desk, frowning. “I’m not prone to make mistakes, Kennet. What is it?”

  “Putterman didn’t want to be cremated. Didn’t believe in it.” He moved into the plush office, tapping the manila envelope against his palm.

  “Flavia said he had the minimum disposal insurance.”

  “That’s not what Putterman told me. He said his arrangements were all paid for. He wanted to be buried next to his wife at McKeesport and Versailles.”

  Grinold leaned back and opened his pudgy hands. “What do you want me to do about it? Flavia’s the one who gave me the information. She should know her own business.”

  “She was upset yesterday when Putterman passed away. He’s been at her place for over ten years.” He moved closer to the desk. “Maybe she got flustered and made an error.”

  Kennet grabbed the black phone and sat down on the corner of the desk to make the call. Grinold bristled. Kennet dialed.

  “Alex? Put Ms. Costa on, please.” Alex started grousing, but Kennet spoke over him. “Just put her on.” After a moment, she picked up the phone. “Ms. Costa, there seems to be some confusion over Putterman’s final arrangements. Why did you give Mr. Grinold instructions to cremate him?”

  “That’s all his burial insurance will cover.” Her voice sounded shrill.

  “He told me a number of times he didn’t believe in being cremated. He wanted to be buried next to his wife. Their plot’s all paid for.”

  Silence on the other end of the line.

  “Maybe you should double-check,” he suggested. “His name’s engraved on the headstone, just waiting for the death date.”

  “I, I’m sorry, Kennet. I checked the records yesterday, and he had the required but minimum arrangements like most folks. Perhaps he was telling you another of his tall tales.”

  Kennet didn’t believe that for a minute. Putterman did tell stories, but this wasn’t one of them. “You can put him in a pine box for all I care, but I know Putterman doesn’t want to be cremated. Don’t embalm him, don’t have a viewing, but at least bury him beside his wife.”

  “Residents make their decisions and sign over their final disposal rights as part of their contract for personal care.” Now she sounded angry. “It’s all arranged ahead of time so there’s no confusion when they pass away.”

  “Bullshit. Putterman had his burial arrangements made, and you need to look into it before—”

  “Kennet! I’ll not have you talk to me that way. I know my business, and it’s within my rights as the proprietor of Costa’s Personal Care Home to dispose of the deceased according to what’s been agreed on. Now, I’m busy, and I don’t want to hear any more about Albert’s alternative arrangements. It’s a fabrication of his own making and, unfortunately, you chose to believe it. You’d be better off using your time to find a new place to live instead of meddling in other people’s affairs!”

  Kennet stood and banged down the phone. “Something’s not right, Mr. Grinold. I know it. Putterman wasn’t rich, but he wasn’t poor, either. He had his plans paid for in advance, and he wanted to be buried beside his wife.”

  Grinold opened his hands again. “There’s nothing I can do, young man. Flavia knows what she’s doing. She says he’s going to be cremated, and he is.”

  “Do you and Ms. Costa have some kind of agreement to cremate her residents for cheap, and then split the difference?”

  Anger ignited in Grinold’s eyes. “That’s preposterous. I work with what she giv
es me. As I said, she knows her business, and Albert Putterman must be cremated.”

  Kennet slammed the envelope on the mahogany desk. “Well, I’m not doing it.”

  Grinold rose and planted his fists on the blotter. “You will if you want to keep your job. I had mercy on you once, Kennet, but my patience is worn through. You were toasting marshmallows just the other day—after you said you’d never do it again. In a moment of pity, I called you and gave you your job back. But not again. Mike McGaughey is willing to learn the process, so I have a replacement, if necessary. You either cremate Albert Putterman, or you leave and never return. Have I made myself clear?”

  Kennet glared at him but said nothing. What could he say? A few choice phrases came to mind, but he held them back.

  Grinold’s face was florid. “Albert Putterman is being cremated, one way or another. You can either do it as a friend to him, or a stranger can do it for him. If I were Mr. Putterman I’d rather have you do it than anyone else. Make your choice this instant.” Grinold’s nostrils flared as he waited for him to answer.

  Kennet snatched up the envelope. “All right. I’ll do it.” He made for the door.

  “And don’t slam that—”

  Kennet slammed the door behind him.

  • • •

  Grinold ignored the slammed door and moved to his credenza. Kennet would end up meddling too deeply, might start talk about his theory of collusion with Flavia. Their arrangement was nobody’s business but theirs. Besides, the difference between the two-thousand-dollar cremation fee and what she paid at discount would not cover the higher cost of burial. Yet if their deal became common knowledge, his reputation would suffer.

  He’d been planning, and now that things were clearly heading in the wrong direction, he needed to take immediate action.

  The cupboard beneath the bonsai tree held a few bottles of expensive liquor for those occasions when he wanted a drink or needed to entertain an associate. It was time to salute his creamer for the last time.