D. Gilles - Colder Than Death

“It’s your Aunt’s viewing. What if you’re talking to Perry and people come to pay their respects?”

“Nobody’s gonna come,” she said bitterly. “My mother was right. People are such shits.”

Again, the sound of the side door opening made both of us turn towards it. Quilla got a look before I did. What she saw made her face light up. Approximately twelve kids, all roughly Quilla’s age, began filing in. I stepped aside and watched this odd group of miscreants, an equal mix of boys and girls, all wearing variations of the same uniform of torn black jeans with assorted styles of combat boots or Doc Martins or red canvas tennis shoes plus loose-fitting sweatshirts or tight T-shirts sporting the names of different heavy metal and alternative groups.

Each kid gave me a suspicious, cursory glance before approaching Quilla. I wondered if this was the first time any of them had been inside a Funeral Home.

They formed a circle around her. A few began to speak, but did so in whispers and hushed tones. A couple of them kept glancing back at me. As she led her friends towards the Viewing Room I was relieved for Quilla’s sake that someone had come.

I was to experience that relief for the bulk of the evening. Twenty-five more people paid their respects. I didn’t know who most of them were. There were half a dozen more teenage kids and a couple of teachers I remembered from my days at Dankworth High.

Perry Cobb came in around 7:45 with Greg Hoxey who arrived out of uniform in an expensive-looking, dark blue suit, white shirt and no tie. Perry said, “Gonna mill around” and went into the Viewing Room. Greg barely nodded at me. I nodded back. He was sucking on the ever-present green floss. I hoped he would have the courtesy to remove it when he went in to see his “friend” Quilla.

The rest were adults, mostly in their mid-Thirties to late-Forties, mostly couples. I assumed they were all friends or co-workers of Suzanne Worthington or her husband.

About an hour into the viewing one of the young boys who had come in and greeted Quilla approached me. He was tall, well over six feet, and gawky, razor thin, dressed in a nicely pressed black shirt, ripped blue jeans and motorcycle boots. His hair was short, not much longer than a crew cut, and he wore a heart-shaped ring in his right ear and what looked like a wedding band in his nose.

“Mr. Coltrane?” he said softly, shyly.

“Yes?”

“Are you the guy who embalms bodies?”

The question almost knocked me off balance. “I know how to embalm, but we have someone else who does most of it. Why do you ask?”

“Only because I know, like, five people who got buried from here and I thought it was kind of, you know, cool to meet the guy who embalmed them.” He smiled. There was a measure of innocence about him.

“If it was longer than eight years ago I may have been the one, but I seldom do it anymore.”

“If I told you their names would you remember?”

“Probably not,” I said awkwardly.

“I figured it wouldn’t hurt to ask, ya know?” he said. “Quilla said I should talk to you.”

“About that?”

“No. Your line of work. I’m gonna be graduating from high school next year and I’ve been trying to find something to do. So far the only thing that interests me is being a Funeral Director. I was wondering if I could come by and talk to you about it some time?”

“Sure. Why don’t you give me a call over the next few days and we’ll make an appointment. What’s your name?”

“Viper. Viper Petrovitch.” He extended his right hand. I shook it, thinking So this is Quilla’s best friend . “Okay, Viper. See you soon.”

“When I come, would it be possible for me to get a tour of the place? I’d like to see where you keep the coffins and where the embalming gets done and things like that.”

“We’ll see,” I said.

“Cool,” he said, then trotted back to the Viewing Room.

About 8:15 a woman came in. I guessed her to be in her mid-twenties. At first glance one would say she was plain. Other than some subtle lip gloss and rouge, her face had no color. And her light brown hair hung from her head as if she were an odd cross between Buster Brown and Moe of The Three Stooges. Her eyes, a dazzling blue — Paul Newman eyes — were the focal point of her face, despite the fact that in the ten seconds or so that I observed them, they were downcast like those of an extremely shy five-year-old. She wore dark, loose-fitting clothes and earthen colors, as if she were hiding several extra pounds, but she didn’t look overweight.

Overall she struck me as a woman who was trying to not look as good as she could. There was a lot of playing down here. I guessed that she was the type of woman who had never paid to have a pedicure or a manicure.

I nodded politely as she moved towards and past me. “Brandy Parker,” she said softly.

“Straight and to the right,” I said.

She bowed her head as if she were a nun passing a religious statue and started towards the Viewing Room. She’d gone about five feet when she tripped, almost losing her balance, but catching herself just in time. She looked back at me and with an embarrassed smile and said, “I’m so clumsy,” then kept going. I found the smile as appealing as her eyes. I imagined her after a complete beauty makeover and some wardrobe tips. She could be a knockout.

I tried to guess her profession. She could be a librarian, therapist for handicapped children or a college professor of some obscure Literature course like Eighteenth Century Irish Poets. Guessing people’s professions was a quirky little pastime I indulged in to help pass the time during viewing hours. People were always surprised to discover what I did for a living because I didn’t fit into the stereotype of the dower mortician. So I found it equally fascinating to try and guess someone’s livelihood by their overall demeanor, clothing and initial impression. One thing I learned after playing this game for so long was that I was seldom right. The careers of most people, like most people’s true personalities, were hard to gauge.

By 8:30 the majority of the people who had come were gone. Most had stayed about fifteen minutes. Long enough to say a few words to the family and a quick prayer over the coffin. Perry and Greg left at 8:15, but I suspected Perry was still outside, watching from his car or the bushes. Out of sheer boredom I wandered by the Viewing Room and noticed that there were four visitors remaining. Two of Quilla’s friends — Viper and a girl who sat by themselves staring silently at the closed coffin. Sitting between Suzanne and her husband was a plump, attractive silver-haired woman in her Seventies who looked like Marilyn Monroe might have looked had she lived. The fourth was the blue-eyed woman with the nice smile who sat with Quilla, engrossed in what looked like an intense conversation.

Because of the overall quiet in the room I was able to hear Quilla say something to the woman. I couldn’t make out all of the words, but I caught enough to learn her name. “…at the cemetery, Gretchen.”

Gretchen , I said to myself.

Suddenly, Quilla looked up in my direction. She said something to Gretchen, who turned around and also looked at me. Again she smiled. I smiled back, then returned to my post at the door. About five minutes later Gretchen came out of the Viewing Room alone. I watched as she walked towards me. I looked down at the place on the carpeting where she had tripped before. She was heading right towards it. I wanted to warn her, but I didn’t want to embarrass her. I decided to point at the floor and hope she got the idea.

I raised my right hand and gestured downward. She saw it, looked down and realized what I was warning her about. She rolled her eyes, stepped around the dangerous area and approached me. “Thank you.”