Fran Rizer - Callie Parrish 06 - A Corpse Under the Christmas Tree

by Fran Rizer

  Daddy’s eyebrows lifted in that way he does sometimes when he’s surprised. The rest of us laughed at the thought of Daddy with a new baby. “And I might just do that someday, but a new wife would be just that—a new wife, but not a replacement, and I’m perfectly happy with the kids I’ve got, though a few more grandchildren would be nice.” With that, he cut his eyes toward me.

  At that moment, James Brown embarrassed me by shouting from my bosom.

  “Hello,” I answered.

  “This is Otis. What’s the chance of your coming back by here when you finish dinner with your family? Didn’t you transfer all the prepaid funeral files to the computer?”

  “I did.”

  “Where are the original folders?”

  “In boxes upstairs on the second floor.”

  “Frank Patterson is coming over, and we’re going to need to access some files. It’ll be easier if you’re here and can pull this stuff up on the computer instead of having to dig out the box and paperwork.”

  “I’ll be back soon. We’ve finished eating, and Daddy’s going over to Miss Lettie’s again.”

  • • •

  Otis may have needed me to find what he wanted on the computer, but when I arrived, he was bringing a big box of files down the stairs from the upstairs room that had been casket storage until recently and the Middletons’ living room before then.

  “What’s going on?” I asked.

  “Have you heard of that new natural burying ground?”

  “The one in the green cemetery where we buried that lady’s husband and planted the crape myrtle tree?”

  “No, this is even newer. They advertise that ‘you can be your own undertaker’ and not involve anyone except the owner of the ground.”

  “What’s the name of this cemetery?”

  “It’s not a cemetery! It’s a field where they’re burying people without caskets, not even those cardboard or basket ones; no vaults of any kind, not even concrete blocks around the body to keep the earth from sinking; no memorial markers, don’t even plant a tree; no service at all. The burying ground man just digs a hole, dumps the body in, and covers it up. The family doesn’t pick the spot. He’s got them lined up and ‘planting’ bodies side by side, back to front, so he doesn’t drive his tractor over an existing grave because he’s packing them in as close as possible. It’s a field, just a common field. Go look it up on the Internet. I think it’s called Fields of Flowers Green Funeral Services.”

  I did as I was told. Fields of Flowers had a webpage fit for a rock star. Across the top in sparkle letters was, “Save $ and our environment with natural burial.” Below that, a picture of beautiful wildflowers served as background for bold goldenrod-colored letters: FIELD of FLOWERS NATURAL CEMETERY. For under a thousand dollars, Field of Flowers would sell a plot and provide opening and closing of the grave. For an additional one hundred dollars plus seventy-five cents a mile, they would transport the body from place of death or the morgue to the cemetery with no stops. Since embalming, caskets, vaults, and memorials weren’t allowed, those were the only choices. They also provided (for one dollar) a brochure explaining how to obtain death certificates. As each section of the cemetery was filled, the owners would plant it with wildflowers. Sweet, simple, and cheap without having to pay a preacher or musician either.

  I have to admit that if I wasn’t involved in the mortuary industry myself, it would sound pretty good to me, but I’d been with Middleton’s long enough that I believed in the value of a funeral service where the family and loved ones could be comforted by their pastor and remember the deceased together.

  Would places like this take over the business? I wondered. I’d assumed that Otis was exaggerating and Fields of Flowers would turn out to be a funeral home and cemetery that was simplifying the funeral business by cutting out the “extras,” things like catering and jewelry, but I’d had no idea that it would be cut as drastically as it was described. They should have named the place “Bare Bones” because that’s what their amenities were stripped to and that’s what their “cemetery” would hold quite quickly as they buried unprepped bodies either clothed or wrapped in natural fibers like cotton as the webpage specified.

  “Precious Memories” announced Mr. Patterson’s arrival, so I closed out the Internet and went to meet him at the front door.

  “I don’t have time to waste on this. Just refund my money. My mind’s made up. When Emma Lou dies, I’m going to bury her at Fields of Flowers.”

  “I’m sorry, sir, but I don’t make any decisions or handle business here. You’ll need to talk to one of the Middletons.” I smiled and turned. “Follow me, please.”

  I led Mr. Patterson to Otis’s office. Otis was seated at his desk with the big file box in front of him. When we entered, he appeared to be frantically going through the files, but he stopped and stood when he saw us. “Let’s go down to a consulting room,” he said in his Funeral Director 101 voice.

  “I demand my money back right now!”

  Otis ignored him until we were seated at the conference table. “Now, sir, before we can discuss refunding your money for the prepaid funeral, I need some information.” He took a clipboard from a small table beside the chair and placed it in front of him. “Your name?”

  “I’m Frank Patterson, and my wife was Emma Lou Riley.”

  “Was? Then your wife is deceased?”

  “No, but she’s dying, and I’ve decided to put her in that flower place they advertise on television where it costs less than a thousand dollars. Emma Lou tells me her first husband prepaid Middleton’s for both their funerals before he died. She says all I have to do is call you people when she kicks the bucket and you’ll take care of everything.”

  “If her services have been prepaid, that, sir, is all you’ll need to do. If she’s in the hospital or a nursing home, please tell them to call us as soon as she’s pronounced. We’ll remove her and then you can finalize the arrangements.” I cringed when Otis said, “We’ll remove her,” because that’s one Funeraleze word I don’t use. The term “remove” is what most morticians use to refer to bringing the body from the place of death or medical examiner’s facility to the funeral home. I use the term “pick up.” I don’t know exactly why, but it sounds more respectful to me. When I die, I’d rather be picked up than removed.

  “Can’t you understand what I’m saying?” Patterson sputtered. “I want the money back. I’m not going to use your services.” His face turned dark red.

  “I believe, sir, that if you read the contract, you’ll find that the prepaid services are not refundable except under certain conditions.”

  “Emma Lou doesn’t know where the papers are. She told me to check with you about them, but I’m telling you I want the money back.”

  “You’re going to need to talk to my brother Odell, but I assure you that there can be no refund to you if you’re not who bought the service.”

  “He’s dead. I told you that her first husband made these arrangements. You buried him almost ten years ago. I’m her husband now. The money comes to me.”

  “Not unless she’s dead, and even then, for you to get a refund for a prepaid funeral, the person must not only be dead but also have no remains to be interred.”

  “Now, how is Emma Lou supposed to be dead but have no remains?”

  “Sir, that’s to cover situations like when the deceased is lost at sea or dies in an explosion—something like that.”

  “She’s not even able to get out of bed. She’s certainly not going to be out in a boat or anywhere there’s a bomb. I just want my money back.”

  “It’s not your money until you inherit from your wife. Then it will become yours, but right now, you have no say at all.” This sounded rude coming from Otis. He stood and said, “Call tomorrow and make an appointment to see my brother Odell. He can explain this better than I can. You need to read the contract.”

  “I’ve already told you, I can’t find the contract! You have to give me another
copy.”

  “I can’t do that. The prepayment belongs to your wife.”

  “She’s a dying invalid.”

  “Call and make an appointment with Odell.”

  “Can’t you make the appointment?”

  “No, sir. It’s time for you to leave now. It’s past closing time.”

  “I didn’t know funeral homes ever closed. Isn’t someone here all the time?”

  “Not anyone who can handle money matters.” That was an unspoken lie. It would lead the listener to believe that someone was always on the premises, and it used to be law in South Carolina that someone was always at funeral homes, but that law changed years ago. Now if we have no decedents, we put the phones on call-forwarding and go home at night. Of course, we’re always available and if a pickup call comes in, Otis, Odell, or one of the part-timers goes immediately to bring the body to Middleton’s. I’ve even been on a few pickup calls myself.

  Without touching Mr. Patterson nor telling him to come on, Otis led him to the door and locked it after Mr. Patterson left.

  “Why didn’t you want me to make a copy of the contract?” I asked.

  “Because I can’t find it. I first wanted you here to see if you copied it into the computer when you converted these files. Then I decided that from the way he’d sounded on the telephone, insisting to come this evening and all, I’d rather Odell handle the whole thing.”

  “Where is Odell?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine. I’m on duty and he’s not answering his cell phone.”

  Before I left Middleton’s, I pulled up the prepayment file for Emma Lou Riley on the computer. The prearrangements had been finalized and paid for almost twelve years previously. Plans were for a very expensive casket, quality vault, and top-of-the-line accessories. Of course, the price that had been paid wouldn’t touch that service at today’s prices. I printed out copies of the front and back of all the planning forms and the contract for Otis before I went home.

  Big Boy didn’t meet me at the door like he usually did. He looked up when I talked to him and rubbed his head against my hand when I petted him, but he stayed on his special rug and seemed too tired to play.

  I lay awake trying to read, torn between worry that Big Boy wasn’t acting normal and that Patel hadn’t called back since saying he would. I was also angry with myself that I hadn’t remembered to buy myself more chocolate MoonPies. Sometimes life sucks, I told myself, but it’s a little more bearable when I have a MoonPie to nibble.

  I couldn’t believe it! I stepped off the back stoop and stuck my tongue out as far as it would go while Big Boy dang near knocked me over trying to get back into the apartment. My dog’s lethargy from the night before was gone. He’d tried to climb up on my bed before I even thought about getting up. He obviously felt much better as he licked my face, and I’d ignored him as long as I could before pulling on a pair of jeans, sweatshirt, and Nikes.

  When he was a puppy, I sometimes let Big Boy sleep beside me in bed, but now that he was pushing one hundred fifty pounds, he was too big. Besides, he’d had that surgery. I didn’t want to risk my dog hurting himself even more. Since I’d brought him home from the vet’s, there’d been times when he’d moan and whimper when he moved certain ways. I’ve never had surgery, and if I ever do, it won’t be by choice. I’m scared of the knife, or should I say scalpel? That’s why I wear my inflatable bras instead of opting for augmentation surgery. Being cut on has to hurt.

  I’d clipped Big Boy’s leash to his collar and dragged him to the back door. He’d pulled back, trying to get to the front door where he usually went in and out.

  When I pushed the door open, Big Boy jumped out, obviously in a hurry for his morning bathroom break, but as soon as he saw and felt something falling from the sky, he turned around and almost knocked me over getting back into the apartment.

  My yard was beautiful—looked like a Christmas card!

  South Carolina doesn’t get much snow. Oh, it snows occasionally up toward Greenville, and once in a long while, the middle of the state around the capital city Columbia has an inch or so, but on the coast, it’s very rare. This morning my yard was covered with snow. To be honest, it probably wasn’t more than half an inch, but there was enough of the wonderful stuff to hide my dead grass.

  The few times I’d seen real snow before, it had fallen during the night, and I’d awakened to see it the next morning. This time was different. It fell all over me as I stood there with my tongue stuck out, hoping to taste the white flakes.

  Then it hit me. Dalmation! Miss Lettie wasn’t going to be happy about this. The only people on the coast of South Carolina who can drive with even a minimum of ice or snow on the roads are transplanted folks from up north. Even the smallest accumulation creates holidays for everyone. Officials cancel schools for the day and close government offices. The only activity on a snow day would be at the grocery stores where customers immediately bought a month’s supply of batteries, peanut butter, bread, and milk in case the weather created power outages or the roads became impassable. Actually, for us, any snow or ice at all makes driving hazardous. Not only because we can’t drive in it, but because other folks on the road can’t either.

  Miss Lettie wanted a big crowd for Mr. Morgan’s funeral. She wouldn’t like anything interfering with her plans.

  I thought about that for a few minutes before deciding there was nothing I could do about Miss Lettie, so I might as well enjoy this unexpected blessing. I knocked on Jane’s door, and when she didn’t answer. I hammered it as hard as I could.

  “Who is it?” A soft voice from inside.

  “It’s me.” Okay, I know that the grammatically correct statement would be, “It is I,” but to say that around the Low Country would sound pompous and preposterous.

  “Put your clothes on and come out back,” I added. “I want to show you something.”

  “Oh, no, don’t tell me you found another body.”

  “No, it’s a good thing.”

  Jane stepped outside wearing a purple terry-cloth bathrobe over pink flannel pajamas and fuzzy slippers. “It’s cold,” she said as the delicate flakes touched her face.

  “It’s snow!” I shouted.

  Back when I went to the University of South Carolina in Columbia, we’d had rare accumulations of an inch or so of snow, but this was the first time Jane and I had experienced it together.

  “Tell me what you see,” Jane commanded and danced around, doing her version of a victory dance, though in her case, it must have been a hippie dance because I remembered her mother jumping like that when she was very happy, and Jane’s mom was as hippie as hippie can be.

  “Be careful. You’ll slip and fall. The ground is slick,” I warned my friend.

  “I want to build a snow man.” Jane continued her joyful dance.

  “Not enough yet, but if it keeps falling, we might be able to make snow angels.”

  When Otis Middleton walked into our back yard, Jane and I probably looked like full-blown idiots. There wasn’t enough snow for a snowball fight, so Jane and I were gathering up handfuls of the powdery stuff and smashing it into each other’s faces like some brides and grooms do when they cut their wedding cakes.

  “So, here you are,” Otis said. “I’ve been trying to call you. When I couldn’t get an answer, I drove over, checking out the ditches on the way to be sure you hadn’t run off the road on the way to work. I’ll drive you. I’m in one of the family cars, much heavier than your Mustang.”

  Work? A hundred and one dalmations! I’d forgotten all about it.

  “I’m sorry. Just give me a few minutes, and I’ll be ready,” I apologized.

  Otis nodded in agreement and then turned his attention toward Jane.

  “You need to go inside and put on a coat,” he told her. “It’s too cold to be out here in what you’re wearing.”

  Jane shivered, obviously exaggerating the motion. “You’re right, Otis. There’s fresh coffee inside if you want to come in for
a cup while Callie gets dressed over at her place.”

  They went into Jane’s while I headed to my door. Big Boy’s bladder had finally won out over his fear of all things that fall from the sky. When I opened my door, he darted outside, looked around for a tree to hide behind, and then gave up and squatted right by the back steps. Of course, the stitches in his abdomen may have made lifting his leg painful, but the truth is that regardless of how big he is, my dog still acts like a puppy. He never lifts his leg, and if there’s a tree or anything to hide behind, he’ll be sure to get on the other side of it, oblivious to the fact his head sticks out on one side, while his wagging tail shows on the other.

  • • •

  I confess that while I felt quite confident that I could drive as well in our scant covering of snow as Otis could, I didn’t mind having a ride to work that morning. No telling when some other Southerner who’d never driven in snow or ice before might careen into me, and I do not want my 1966 Mustang hit. I’ve got a new ragtop on it, but it still has scratches and gouges from vandalism not too long ago, and that’s already too much damage.

  “Are you certain that Miss Lettie will want to have the funeral today with this weather?” I asked Otis as he carefully backed out of the driveway.

  “I’m not sure, but we need to be ready regardless of what she decides.”

  I laughed. “At least we don’t have to worry about this being one of those redneck funerals Jeff Foxworthy talks about.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Foxworthy says you might be a redneck if you wear shorts to a funeral. There’ll be jeans there, but I don’t expect shorts.” In the summertime, we’ve had people wear shorts to funerals. Odell has joked about handing out long pants like some restaurants lend ties to men who don’t fit into their dress requirements.

  On the way to the mortuary, we passed a couple of vehicles that had skidded off the road and landed in ditches, so I was surprised when Otis pulled over to the side of the road for no apparent reason.