Grave Undertaking (10 page)
“We have the economy of scale in buying equipment and supplies,” he explained, “and we’re vertically integrated.”
“Our clients are all horizontal.”
“That’s corporate-speak to mean our funeral homes are both profit centers and markets for our products. Hoffman owns significant shares in the companies whose products we buy. We try to pay ourselves at every level of the industry.”
I broached the subject that most concerned me. “What are your staffing plans—short term and long term?”
“A fair question, particularly since you’re a multigenerational business. Like I said, we’ll want a contract with you. Initially I don’t see any changes. Your uncle will probably retire soon anyway, and you have a part-timer.”
“Freddy Mott,” I said, anxious to make him more than a personnel slot. “He’s been with us over ten years.”
“A smart way to run,” agreed Sandiford. “Pay help as needed. Any staff additions or replacements will then come from our intern pool.”
“Intern pool?”
“Hoffman has relationships with mortuary science colleges across the country.”
“Like summer jobs?”
“Year-round job training,” he said. “They get course credit for working at one of our operations for a semester. Everybody benefits.”
Especially Hoffman. Free or near free labor. But, it was real-world experience and I couldn’t fault the practice.
At eleven, we were joined by an employee from a funeral home in Marietta, outside of Atlanta. She went through illustrations of how the central business office made administration so much easier. I was vulnerable to her dog-and-pony show after spending two weeks preparing year-end reports.
The Vice President of Operations treated us to lunch at a restaurant whose menu was pricier than any evening dinner in Gainesboro. He wanted to know the ratio of indigenous family funerals to those of relocated newcomers, both in terms of number and the average expense per funeral. Those were statistics I’d never dreamed of compiling.
When we returned to the conference room, I found my folders neatly stacked on the table. Beside them lay a sealed manila envelope.
“You don’t need these files?” I asked Sandiford.
“We’ve made copies. I’m sorry. I should have cleared that with you.”
“It’s all right,” I said. I picked up the nine-by-twelve envelope. It was about an inch thick. “What’s this?”
“Some general information for you to review this weekend. The products we use, our stock-option plan, 401-k benefits, health coverage, the usual personnel packet.”
“What happens next?”
“I expect I’ll be in touch the first of the week.” He looked at his watch. “It’s nearly two. Unless you’ve got questions, I’m good to let you head back. Can’t have you late for the visitation.”
Sandiford walked me to my jeep. The vehicle was coated in muck and salt from the road.
“Guess you need four-wheel drive.”
“Yes. We’ve got families living alongside logging roads.”
“Approval should be no problem.”
“Approval?”
“Normally we buy our funeral directors a Cadillac or Lincoln. We can make it a luxury SUV. Then you can have whatever you want for a personal car. Me, I’d love a convertible in the mountains.”
I thought about Sandiford’s hairpiece blowing off as he tooled around a hairpin curve.
As I hit the first ascent beyond Greenville, I thought about Susan and me driving through Pisgah Forest in a red Miata convertible. I reached out, patted the manila envelope beside me, and wondered what Hoffman Enterprises gave their Funeral Director of the Year.
Although it was only six when I returned to Gainesboro, the short-lived December sun had long left the sky. The street lights in front of the funeral home, laced with the green and red Christmas decorations the town hung every year, cast enough light to show puddles of water dotting the sidewalk. These remnants of melted snow threatened to become hazards as the night temperature plummeted.
Icy spots would also form in patches on the backcountry roads traveled by the McBee family and friends. Uncle Wayne and I needed to use diplomacy to end the visitation early so mourners could beat the hard freeze home.
I found Mom and my uncle in what we euphemistically called the Slumber Room. Mom mixed some of our stock greenery with the few floral arrangements delivered earlier, and Wayne bent over the casket, making last-minute adjustments to Claude’s final wardrobe.
“How was your trip?” asked Mom.
“Good. Hoffman is a big operation. They know how to put the business in funeral business.”
“They make an offer?” asked Wayne.
“They bought me lunch. I guess that’s a good sign. We’re supposed to hear something the first of the week.”
“Did you like them?”
“Ted Sandiford seems like a regular guy. The others are corporate types. Not enough personality to like or dislike.”
“Corporate types,” repeated my uncle, with the same inflection the Tucker brothers used for “No-Reb Caleb” and “Turncoat Turner.” Uncle Wayne wouldn’t be in the promotional video.
“What can I do to help?” I asked.
“We’re in good shape,” said Mom. “Did you eat? There’s meatloaf I can reheat.”
“I stopped at Bojangle’s in Hendersonville. Wayne, if you don’t need me in here, I’ll spread rock salt on the walk. Don’t want to be sued for any broken hips.”
“Fine. First, take a look, would you?” He stepped back from the body. “Family’s coming at six-thirty for their private viewing.”
I studied the old gentleman resting peacefully in the silver-gray casket. He wore a brown tweed sport coat his daughter had chosen and a string-tie now only in style for bluegrass fiddle players. A green sweater vest was sandwiched between his coat and western cut, pearl-buttoned white shirt.
“They’ve got him bundled up,” I said.
Wayne chuckled. “That was his daughter Darlene’s idea. She brought it this afternoon. Said he was always cold at the nursing home.”
“He looks good.”
“I darkened his moustache. Took a few years off him.”
A family’s reaction to a loved one in a casket is impossible to predict. We liked to get a favorite recent photograph as a guide, but that wasn’t always possible. Wayne was particularly sensitive to moustaches since he had once shaved the stubble of a man who had been sick for a week before he died. When the widow peered into the casket, she fainted. Wayne had inadvertently shaved off her husband’s moustache, and the shock of seeing the strange face knocked the poor woman off her feet. Smelling salts for the wife and spirit gum and hair trimmings for the husband saved my uncle from disaster.
Promptly at six-thirty, a four-wheel-drive pickup and two cars pulled into our parking lot. Eight adults and a five-year-old boy piled out of the vehicles. One of the men immediately lit a cigarette and sucked on it while coming down the walk. I met the family on the steps of the front porch to ensure no one tripped.
Darlene Anderson, Claude’s married daughter, must have been around sixty. She was escorted by her younger brother, Claude Junior. The other six were an assortment of the deceased’s grandchildren, and a tyke who was a great-grandson. The only one I remembered was grandson Stony McBee because Tommy Lee had warned me about him. I had to stop him at the door and coerce him into finishing his cigarette outside.
Wayne and I stood a respectful distance away while Darlene and Claude Junior led the family to the casket. Only the upper half of the split lid was raised, and the relatives huddled close together as everyone wanted to see at once.
“What’s wrong with Paw-Paw’s legs?” asked the child.
Wayne and I exchanged a smile. Nine times out of ten, a youngster wanted to know why the casket covered the lower half of the body. Usually, a grownup explained the family’s preference not to put the entire length of the loved one on display.
“Yeah,” said Stony McBee. He glared at me. “You didn’t take his shoes, did you?”
His accusation stunned me. “No,” I said, louder than I should have.
“Hush,” said Darlene to her nephew.
“No. I wanna see.” Stony grabbed the edge of the lid and tried to lift it.
“Stop it,” Claude Junior told his obstinate son.
“It’s locked,” Stony said. “Why would they lock it? Paw-Paw ain’t getting out.”
Wayne stepped closer. “It’s not locked, it’s latched.” He slid two bolts and lifted the lower half.
Claude McBee’s trousers were neatly pressed and his brown shoes tied and buffed to a soft shine. Even the argyle socks were stretched tightly over the old man’s thin ankles.
“Happy now?” snapped Darlene.
“You can’t be too careful. Daddy, I’m going for a smoke.” He turned, glowered at me, and headed for the porch.
The room was silent. Then Darlene sighed.
“I know what’s wrong.”
Wayne and I edged nearer. What had we forgotten?
“Daddy needs his pocket watch.” She reached in her leather handbag and pulled out a gold watch and chain. With practiced skill, she looped the chain through a vest buttonhole and slid the watch into a pocket. After studying her father for a few seconds, she extracted it. She opened the case and set the hands to match the time on Claude Junior’s wristwatch. She wound the stem and replaced the watch in the pocket.
No one spoke. The steady click of the second hand sounded from the casket.
“There,” she said.
Over the next hour, about twenty people came to offer condolences and view the body. Preacher Calvin Stinnett met with Wayne and me to go over last-minute details for Saturday’s service. I asked him if he would suggest to the family that we conclude the visitation a half-hour early given the road conditions.
After the last visitor left, Wayne invited the family to view the body one final time. Preacher Stinnett joined them and offered a prayer.
While Mom and Uncle Wayne went for the family’s coats, I stood with Darlene and Claude Junior as they reviewed the Those Who Called register. I told them I would bring it and the flowers to the church the next day.
Then Darlene returned to the casket.
“It’s gone,” she screamed. “Somebody’s done stole Daddy’s watch.”
Each of us ran to join her, as if her eyes weren’t good enough to see it.
“You’re responsible for this,” Stony shouted at me.
I gently grabbed Darlene’s arm to comfort her. “Quiet,” I said.
Stony stepped beside us. “Don’t you tell me what to do.”
“We need quiet,” I repeated firmly.
Darlene looked up at me, and I saw comprehension dawn in her eyes.
“Shut up, Stony,” she ordered. “Everybody stand still.”
The room fell silent. Then, like a distant radio station growing stronger, the tick of the watch broke through.
“I hear it,” said the three-foot kid, and he leaned his ear against Stony’s sport coat.
The man’s face went pale as his family stared first at his ticking pocket and then at him.
“Stony!” cried Darlene in horror.
“You planted it on me, you son of a bitch.”
Before I could move, Stony’s fist caught me full force on the nose, sending me into a wreath of flowers to land flat on my back. Through the petals draped across my bleeding face, I saw Stony grabbed by two burly cousins. Then Darlene swung her handbag and hit her thieving nephew across the throat. He started coughing for air and struggled to break free. Someone twisted his arm behind his back so hard Stony screamed and lurched onto the casket. The full lid crashed down with a resounding boom that stopped everyone. Claude had spoken.
I saw Mom and Uncle Wayne enter the room, coats on arms and mouths agape.
Welcome to Clayton and Clayton, one of the Hoffman Family of Fine Funeral Homes.
I sat in the den recliner, my head tilted back and mouth open to breathe. Cotton swabs were jammed up my nose and an ice compress lay across my eyes. Uncle Wayne had administered first aid while Darlene Anderson hung over his shoulder, begging me not to press charges against her nephew, the one whose Adam’s apple she had cored. She knew I had been with her when the watch was pilfered.
Stony had been hustled away, his arm wrenched so high behind his back he practically floated out of the room. I figured the family would exact punishment more severe than the legal system.
Uncle Wayne gave the opinion that my nose wasn’t broken, but would swell to Rudolph proportions. Instead of a reindeer, I’d look like a raccoon as both eyes blackened. Mom forced me to take two Tylenol and to promise to stay over. She called Freddy Mott to assist Wayne with tomorrow’s funeral. It was more a precaution against me attacking Stony if he showed up at the service. That he had sucker punched me hurt worse than anything else.
About an hour after the McBees wreaked their havoc, I felt well enough to get ready for bed. The packing in my nose had stopped the bleeding, and I carefully cleared my swollen nostrils. The first breath stung, but the nasal passages seemed in working order. A stranger stared back at me from the mirror. Too bad we were approaching Christmas and not Halloween.
Mom brought a cup of weak tea and a plate of gingersnaps to the bedroom. As she set them on the nightstand, she said, “I used to worry about you when you were a policeman.”
I laughed. “Then I never so much as stubbed my toe. I’m convinced mortuary science courses need to include self-defense.”
“People are just so stressed when a loved one dies.”
“So stressed they rob the body?”
She shook her head. Mom always looked for the good in everyone. Stony McBee proved too much of a challenge. “Well, I’m glad you’ll be staying in tomorrow.”
“I can’t hide from an entire family. I’m only skipping the service to avoid upsetting Darlene.”
“You can sleep late, can’t you? I’m going to the grocery store early and I’ll take your dad. He likes to push the cart.”
“I’ve got some paperwork from Hoffman to go over. And I need to see Susan. She’s going through a tough time.”
Mom sat down on the edge of the bed and looked away. “How anyone could accuse a sweet girl like her of murder is beyond me. Is there anything you can do?”
“Get to the truth. Fight those slurs in the press.”
“Oh, no,” Mom exclaimed, and turned to me wide-eyed. “I forgot.”
“Forgot what?”
“A reporter called this afternoon. The one that wrote that article about Susan in the Vista.”
“Melissa Bigham?”
“Yes. She wanted you to call her. Left me a bunch of numbers. I got so wrapped up with the McBee arrangements and then the fight.”
I thought Mom was going to cry.
“It’s all right. Probably just had a question.”
“I didn’t tell her you were in Atlanta.” The tears began to trickle. “I didn’t want the newspaper to think we have to sell the funeral home.”
I sat on the bed beside her and put my arm around her shoulders. I could feel the tremor of silent sobs. In all the turmoil of the past few days—Dad’s wandering off, Susan’s troubles, and the prospect of selling a huge part of her life—Mom had never let her feelings come through. Now, looking at her balloon-nosed son in the room where he grew up must have broken the emotional dam. I wasn’t sure what the true issue was behind her tears. Probably Mom wasn’t sure either, but the tears were real, and we sat together and let the moment play out.
I looked at us in the mirror, a battered face and a wrinkled face. Mom’s was the more shocking. I realized she had gotten old, and I had no clue how many more years I would be able to wrap my arm around her.
“We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do,” I told her.
“I know. You’re a good son, Barry.”
We sat a few more minutes, and then she stood up. “Well, let me get the numbers for you now. I might forget in the morning.” She smiled. “You’ll know you’re in trouble when your dad has to remind me of things.”
Mom brought back a sheet of paper with four numbers—cell, work, home, and pager. The note “call anytime” was written under them. It looked like Melissa had more than a simple question. I waited until I heard Mom close the door to her bedroom, and then tiptoed downstairs to the office.
Since it was after ten, I tried the home number first.
“Barry?”
Even she had my number in caller ID.
“Yes. Sorry to get back to you so late. I got tied up.”
“I’ve got something for you that might help Susan.”
I grabbed a pen and notepad. “I’m all ears.”
“After my story ran yesterday, I got a call from Annette Nolan.”
The name sounded familiar. “Who’s she?”
“My predecessor at the paper. She worked there for years.”
“Right.”
“Annette retired five years ago. I interned with her the last year and then got hired when she left. Every couple months we have lunch, and I thought that’s why she telephoned. I didn’t return the call until today.”