The Funeral Makers

by Cathie Pelletier

  Marvin, who had been quiet, spoke up since it was clearly time for the male Ivys to show their professional worth.

  “As I told you already, Junior and I will take care of the details of the burial. We’ll go by and have a chat with the local funeral director, just to let him know he’s not dealing with amateurs.”

  “I can imagine what embalming methods they’ve got up here in the sticks,” Junior said, his mouth full of chocolate cake. “They probably use a chain saw and a shovel!” Junior had developed this habit even as a child, and it irritated not only strangers, but those people closest to him—he was the author of very tasteless jokes, as well as the only one who laughed at them.

  “In the meantime, while we’re all gathered,” Marvin continued, “it would be wise to decide on the memorial now.”

  “A memorial?” asked Ed. “What has Marge done to deserve a memorial?”

  Marvin smiled patronizingly but held back in earlier memories of Ed’s temper, especially when sparked by a few beers.

  “Ed, you probably call memorials headstones, or maybe even tombstones.”

  “A tombstone? Well, that’s different,” said Ed. “For a minute there I thought you meant a memorial.”

  Marvin had started to sweat. He removed his navy suit jacket. The underarms of his white shirt were dark with perspiration, partial eclipses under his pits. Family after hysterical, mourning, hair-pulling, nail-biting family had come through his parlor doors and not one of them had unnerved him. Not even the stingier ones who sometimes accused him of padding the bill and not the coffin. But Ed Lawler, equipped with a silly college degree, still had the power after all these years to make Marvin lose his professional sangfroid.

  “We’ve been doing business with the Rockveil Monument Company for years and they’ve given us no reason to complain.” Marvin pulled a booklet from his jacket pocket with a picture of the sphinx on the cover and large letters saying ROCKVEIL MEMORIALS. He passed it to Sicily, who was afraid to touch it.

  “It won’t bite you, Sicily, for crying out loud,” said Pearl. Her family’s reaction to Marvin’s profession was still a prickly issue. If she hadn’t forgotten her own initial reactions to the Ivy Funeral Home, she might have shown Sicily a bit more understanding. But Pearl had made a habit out of remembering only the things she could use to her own advantage. To tell Sicily she had vomited when Marvin first took her into the casket showroom would be of no advantage to anyone but Sicily. So Pearl kept it buried, under the charred remnants of Marvin’s discarded law books and the heap of other undesirables she had tossed into her subconscious mind. She snatched the booklet from Sicily and, opening it to a certain page, turned it around for the rest of the family to see.

  “This is the Gates Ajar model. This would be perfect except it’s a double monument, or for a family lot. Now here’s the one we thought would be just right for Marge. It’s the Calvary model.” She turned the book again to the family’s view. Thelma and Junior were in agreement with Pearl, while Sicily was still uncomfortable when faced with selecting something that was to actually go in a graveyard. It was clearly not as frivolous as choosing drapes, and the notion unnerved her. She would have looked to Ed for support, but he had predicted that morning that the Ivys would drag along the tools of their trade and “peddle their wares,” as he had phrased it.

  “Rockveil will pay the freight charges and even offer an easy payment purchase plan if necessary,” Marvin added. Pearl finished showing the monument to the family and began to read its vital statistics.

  “‘Excellent taste is embodied in the selective design of this stately tablet, with the highly polished face and smooth sides. Thirty letters inscribed without additional cost, extra letters and numbers seventy-five cents each.’ Now this is model 285, which weighs four hundred pounds and it’s only $121.50. Does anyone have another model in mind instead of the Calvary?”

  When no one spoke, Pearl zeroed in on the person she had meant all along.

  “Sicily, how does the Calvary model 285 suit you?”

  “It’s all right with me, Pearl,” said a pale Sicily.

  “All right now,” Pearl went on, “here is a little extra something that I, for one, think is really classy. A couple of Marvin’s customers ordered it and one was a doctor. It’s a porcelain picture of your loved one on the memorial of your choice. Listen to this: ‘Like seventeenth-century enamel, the picture is heated at eighteen hundred degrees in an electric furnace to ensure everlasting permanency.’”

  “Maybe we should just put Marge in an electric furnace and crank it up to eighteen hundred degrees,” said Ed, who was on his fourth beer and becoming a bit more rebellious over his captivity.

  “Ed, please,” said Sicily, who now wished he hadn’t come to the meeting.

  “All I meant was that we should maybe think about cremation,” lied Ed.

  “Cremation?” Sicily hoped Marge hadn’t heard this. “She’s not a pile of leaves or old newspapers.”

  “I’ll go ahead and finish reading this,” said Pearl. She had not looked Ed Lawler in the eyes for almost twenty years, and when they were in the same room she pretended he was not there. In a group, no one really noticed this. Especially Sicily. And Pearl did not want Sicily to know. But if Ed Lawler and Pearl McKinnon Ivy were left alone in a room, something Pearl never let happen, she would refuse to speak to him. And then everyone would know how she felt about her brother-in-law. Pearl knew very well that Ed was aware of her dislike of him. And hell could freeze over before she would let any barb he threw at her pierce her skin.

  “‘Time will destroy valued paper photographs, but a Rockveil porcelain portrait will last forever.’”

  “What will they think of next?” asked Sicily, who forgot her anger at Ed, as well as her fear of death, long enough for a glimpse of the model. It was of a gray-haired motherly woman with a beneficent smile and rosy lips and cheeks, as if even the grim reaper himself could not mar the lifeblood.

  “‘An individual lifelike monument portrait is individual from all other monuments in the cemetery,’” Pearl read.

  “Marge would appreciate that,” Ed said.

  “That would sure stand out in Mattagash,” added Sicily.

  But Pearl was not done.

  “‘Note. For each additional person on same photo add 50% to the price of the original photo.’”

  “Additional person?” said Ed, looking for the first time at the model in the booklet. “Is Marge planning to take someone with her?”

  Pearl read the fine print carefully, straining to catch each word.

  “‘When ordering pictures in natural coloring, be sure to state color of eyes, hair, and clothing. Your original photo will be returned.’”

  “Marge’s eyes are a yellow right now.” Ed was feeling the anger of years of having been associated with a family he didn’t like, because of a marriage he’d been tricked into. And the feeling was like having a horrible umbilical cord twist tighter and tighter around his neck. He really didn’t dislike Marge as much as his comments indicated. It was the whole family he was beating his words against. And he was especially hoping that Marvin might come to Marge’s defense so that Ed could stick a pin in his sore spot. But Marvin knew better and remained as silent as his pride would allow.

  “Maybe we could send her hair coloring in as dark brown, the way it used to be. Or at least the way she’ll look in heaven,” said Sicily, who had moved next to Pearl and was studying the woman in the picture. “You know who she looks like?” she said, tapping the page. “One of the clerks at Penney’s in Watertown.”

  “OK, Thelma,” said Pearl. “Write down Calvary 285, porcelain picture. Now does anyone have any idea about the epitaph?”

  “How about ‘So Long, Marge’?” asked Ed. The beers had now started talking too.

  Pearl thought of all the times she had lain awake at night and cried beca
use of how her family viewed her husband’s profession. And yet here was the college man they all fawned over. Mr. School Principal. “Mr. Alcoholic with a big belly and red nose,” she thought. She would tell Sicily later how rude she thought Ed was, would say it as a kind of retaliation for the way Sicily had treated Marvin, afraid to shake his hand or touch his clothes. And at first she was always saying, “What’s that awful smell in here?” every time Marvin came near her. But Pearl said nothing. It was best that Sicily found out Ed Lawler was a big failure all on her own. Pearl passed the Rockveil booklet to Thelma, who took it and turned to the list of epitaphs.

  “‘Our Little Bird of Love,’” she read.

  “No, that’s the epitaphs for kids. Read the grown-up ones.” Pearl was irritated that Thelma appeared so scatterbrained in front of Sicily and Ed. While Thelma looked, Pearl took the opportunity to pile a few goodies on a paper plate, which was the only reason she relinquished the booklet in the first place. It was a good weapon to have, that booklet, and she hated to see it go. In her hands it was as good as having something shiny on the end of a string, like hypnotists do, because the whole family kept their eyes on her. Biting into a slice of mincemeat pie, she turned to Sicily and said, “This looks like you been busy in the kitchen.”

  “‘Death Loves a Shining Mark,’” read Thelma, with enough fervor and interpretation that it could have been the opening line of Romeo and Juliet.

  “Sounds like a younger person,” Sicily said as she passed Pearl another brownie. This part was more literary and she enjoyed it as much as if it were a recital.

  “‘Til Morning Breaks and Shadows Flee.’”

  “I don’t understand that one,” Sicily said, and Thelma took it as a sign to go on.

  “‘The World Is a Better Place for Her Having Lived,’” Thelma soliloquized. There was a tremendous silence in the room. Not even Ed attacked that one and Thelma, finally taking the hint, moved on to the next.

  “‘Asleep in Jesus’?” she asked.

  “That’s enough for me,” Ed said. “She’s not asleep in Jesus. She’s asleep in her bedroom and I’m done planning a funeral for someone who is still alive.” Taking a jacket from the rack behind the kitchen door and a beer from the refrigerator, he went out in the night.

  Sicily finally spoke up.

  “A lot of pressure at school,” she told the Ivys.

  After more discussion, the family voted unanimously for “Not Our Will, But Thine Be Done.” And the meeting was over. Marvin got a ride back to the motel with Junior. Pearl wanted to visit Marge. She had stopped in briefly that morning, but now, with Sicily, would take the time to pay what last respects she had to her older sister. When she went to use the bathroom, Sicily glanced at the Rockveil Memorial booklet that was left lying face down on the coffee table. She picked it up and read the back cover. DON’T PLAY WITH FATE, it warned in heavy black letters that hung on the page like rain clouds. HAVE YOU NOTICED THAT THE THINGS WE THROW AWAY ARE THE THINGS WE NEED SOON AFTER, AND THE THINGS WE KEEP ARE NOT NEEDED FOR MANY YEARS TO COME? KEEP THIS CATALOG. SHOW IT TO YOUR FRIENDS.

  Sicily was still looking at the warning issued by the Rockveil Monument Co. when Pearl finished in the bathroom and came down the hall toward her. Listening to her footfalls come closer, Sicily tried to visualize Pearl as she was years ago. The memory of her, suitcase packed and waiting for her ride to Watertown to catch the Greyhound to Portland, came to Sicily in a flash. The Reverend Ralph McKinnon was already in China saving souls the day Pearl left. Sicily, who had only been twelve years old at the time, was busy looking for her calico cat along the river. She had run past the front porch where Pearl waited for old man Gardner to take her in his pickup to Watertown for a dollar. That afternoon forced itself on Sicily’s mind. She almost remembered that Pearl was crying. But all her mind could pull back about that ancient day was that Frisk the cat was missing somewhere in the wild roses along the shore and she was afraid he’d drown.

  “I can still see you sitting on our front porch with that dollar in your hand the day you left, Pearl,” she said. Pearl sat on the sofa beside her and patted her hand.

  “I saved that money to get me to Portland and into school by picking berries and canning them and selling them to anyone who’d buy them. Remember how stained my fingers always were? I used to visit other girls in their rooms at school when we were up late talking and I’d keep my fingers curled in like a fist so no one would see how discolored they were.”

  “Frisk has been dead so long I hardly remember him,” Sicily thought then said, “I should have hugged you, Pearly, the day you left for Portland. Someone should have hugged you.” The tears that had built up to a dangerous roar inside her loosed themselves as Pearl put her arm around Sicily and held her tightly.

  “Poor baby,” she said. “Poor little Sissy. I was always afraid that never being held and never being loved would hurt you the most someday.”

  “Pearl, my life is such a mess. My family is in a shambles.” Sicily blew her nose on a Kleenex from her pocket.

  “We’ll have some coffee and you’ll tell me all about it,” said Pearl.

  Sicily nodded but knew she would never be able to open up more of her private life to Pearl. It just wasn’t done that way.

  When Pearl went out to the kitchen to make coffee, Sicily picked up the Rockveil Memorial booklet. DON’T PLAY WITH FATE, she read again. KEEP THIS CATALOG. Before Pearl returned to the living room, Sicily had already tucked the booklet safely under the cushion of the sofa.

  DRESSING AS AN ART FORM: AMY JOY AS A WADDLER

  “Come Lammas Eve at night shall she be fourteen…

  ’Tis since the earthquake now eleven years…

  for then she could stand alone. Nay, by the rood,

  She could have run and waddled all about…”

  —Nurse (About Juliet), Act I,

  Scene III, Romeo and Juliet

  In her bra and panties with the silk heart that said TUESDAY, Amy Joy twisted on her vanity chair. She studied each angle of her face, sucked in her cheeks to produce cheekbones, and cocked her head provocatively to one side. This, she decided, was her best stance. Her Fuller Brush lipstick samples were in a colorful disarray before her and she studied them as though they were tasty candies. After mystical deliberation, she settled upon Pink and Pouty.

  Dressing was Amy Joy’s favorite ritual. At fourteen, the adolescent’s limbo, it was her only ritual and she threw herself into it with the same fervor as a dying nun about to encounter the beatific vision. Amy Joy worshiped dressing. Once Pink and Pouty had been established as the color of the day, it set the tone for the rest of the outfit. Out of the closet came a white cotton blouse with a large pink carnation sitting above a gold stem with two gold leaves. The slacks were her straight-legged cotton ones, a shocking pink. Her flip-flops were a mediocre pink compared to the rest of the uniform. Amy Joy had cleverly added a dash of white to accentuate the white of her blouse by attaching a tiny cloth daisy to the strap of each flip-flop.

  Her hair, being thick and frizzy by nature rather than answering fashion’s cry for smooth and curly, disappeared into the folds of the familiar French bun. The hairdo was further decorated with a cluster of tiny plastic daisies she had found at J. C. Penney’s dime sale. They were glued to a bobby pin that was painted a bright gold. From months of training, the two pin curls on each cheek fell quickly into place, as though they had sprouted out of skin and bone. A wave of perfume added the final panache, and she stood back to examine the whole. This was Amy Joy McKinnon’s finest hour.

  Opening her bedroom door a crack, Amy Joy peered out to see if the intruders in the living room were still making funeral arrangements. A vision in pink, she sneaked down the hallway and paused at the door to the living room. She could hear her mother’s voice and Aunt Pearl’s, but no others. Thankful that she would not have to slip past her father’s barricade, whic
h was virtually foolproof, Amy Joy made her way out the back door and disappeared on the path that led to the old American Legion Hall.

  Why the subject of death seemed more appetizing to her parents than the love she felt for Chester Lee was not clear to her. Not that she didn’t feel remorse about Marge’s dying. She did. But the hours away from Chester were like years, and each opportunity lost was gone for good. As Marge drew her last breaths, Amy Joy was immersed in loving for the first time, in being caressed and whispered to by a man who seemed to know all the wonders of the world.

  There had been good moments. Evenings together on the porch, while Marge was still strong enough to shell the peas from Sicily’s garden, the two watched those last evenings creep over Mattagash like a shadow, memorized every song the crickets knew. And if Marge fell asleep on the swing, it was Amy Joy’s warm young touch that led her to her bed and sleep. If the promise of Marge’s imminent death was lost on Amy Joy, it was because the fat promise of life had caught her up in its frenzy.

  But there were times, in the stillness of night, devoid of her cacophony of colors, that she’d come awake, drenched in her little-girl flannel gown, and the first sound she listened for was the clock’s ticking in the hallway, as though it were Marge’s weary heart pumping its final blood. And in the deep of night, when Chester Lee’s man smell was no longer with her, when the burn of his whiskers had healed on her face, and the blood to her excited nipples had receded, it was then that she listened for the steady ticking, and only when she heard it could she curl back into sleep, like an embryo feeling the sure thump of its mother’s heartbeat.

  AMY JOY LOVES CHESTER LEE: THE AMERICAN LEGION AS A HOLLYWOOD SET

  “I saw Gunfight at the O.K. Corral three times at the Watertown drive-in. And I got tears running down my face each time. You tell anyone I said that and I’ll black both your eyes.”