William Brown - The Undertaker

Finally, I saw the cemetery workers pick up their long-handled spades and set to work shoveling the loose dirt back into the big grave. Clods rained down on the wooden boxes with a muffled “Thump.” Ashes to ashes, I thought, dust to dust. A “private internment?” Was that what undertaker Greene called it? “Limited to the immediate family?” They have such odd ways of describing things here in Ohio. What a crock. Unless this Mr. Peter Talbott came from a long line of Teamsters or gravediggers, none of these characters were in the family tree.

As the dirt continued to fly, the black suits finally relaxed. Their job done, they gathered around the deputy. I saw puffs of smoke from freshly lit cigarettes and heard loud laughter. Obviously, they knew each other and weren't worried about the graveside humor. As the cemetery workers finished and patted down the low mound with their spades, one of the attendants looked at his watch. He motioned to the others as he ground his cigarette butt into the bare dirt and waved good-bye. The four attendants got back in their hearses and slowly drove away and I figured it was time for me to do the same.

I hurried back to the Bronco and headed for the main gate, hoping to make it around the circle before they did. I beat the hearses back, but not the deputy sheriff. His big brown cruiser lay across the road blocking the exit. The sheriff was leaning against its fender with his arms crossed, the sun glinting off the silver lenses of his sunglasses, watching me as I drove up and stopped a few feet away. Cocky and self-sure, he paused for a moment before he finally pushed his large frame off the side of the car and sauntered over to me. He looked to be around fifty years old, big and beefy with graying hair around the temples. He had colonel's eagles on his shirt collar, a sizable beer gut, and a black nine-millimeter Glock automatic riding on his hip, just what your average hick county sheriff needs to hold back the invading criminal hordes from the city and to bring down the occasional rogue elephant.

Slowly he took off his sunglasses as he stepped next to the Bronco. I rolled the window down and he leaned-in, resting his meaty forearms on the Bronco's window frame. He scanned the SUV's interior then focused his eyes on me, narrow and hard. “You got some kinda problem here, Mister?” he asked.

I looked the plastic nameplate on his shirt. It said Dannmeyer. I smiled my most polite and innocent smile. “Nope, everything's just fine, Deputy Dannmeyer.”

His expression turned even harder. “That's Sheriff Dannmeyer, not deputy.”

“Oh, excuse me there, Sheriff.”

“I know I saw you and this vehicle back at the Funeral Home, and I know you heard Mr. Greene say this here was a private service. He said immediate family only.” He held out his hand. “Now,

lemme see some ID.”

I pulled out my wallet and handed him my driver's license.

He stared down at the card and said, “Talbott, Peter Emerson.” He frowned, peered in at my face again, down at the card, then back at me. “Talbott?” he asked suspiciously. “That's the same name as the deceased. You related?”

“In a round-about-kind-of-sort-of-way.”

He stared at the driver's license again, his face more troubled now. “This here license says you're from California,” he said.

I tried hard to look just as serious. “That's because I'm from California, or I was. I moved to Boston recently, but the license hasn't caught up.”

“Hasn't, huh?” He kept looking at the license. “So whadaya do out there in California or Boston, or wherever the hell it is you're from, Mr. Talbott?”

“Me? I'm an aeronautical systems engineer, a computer programmer. I evolve mathematical constructs for computer simulations.”

He gave me a blank stare. “Sounds interesting.”

“It isn't. What about you, sheriff? Whadaya do?”

“Me? I keep people from getting their noses stuck in places they don't belong.”

“Now that does sound interesting.”

“Sometimes it is. Sometimes it saves 'em a lot of time and trouble.” He seemed to be studying me, not sure. “Like you, for instance. You came all the way here from Boston? That's a long damn way to come for a funeral.”

“Well, you know how close us Talbotts are, Sheriff.” I looked down and saw Dannmeyer had a U. S. Marine Corps emblem and “Semper Fi” tattooed on his hairy forearm. “Semper Fi? Well, goddamn! Were you in the Crotch?”

“Hey, is there anything else?” Dannmeyer suddenly beamed.

“No shit, what unit?”

“Fifth Marines. And you?”

“Me? Oh, I was in the Army, but I just love those cute jarhead tattoos.”

His eyes narrowed. His smile faded and he couldn't quite make up his mind whether I had put him on or insulted him. Whichever, he knew he didn't like it. Slowly he backed his head out of the car and handed me back my driver's license, but those hard eyes never left me.

“The fuckin’ Army, huh,” he said as he spat on the ground, gave me a two-fingered salute, and slowly put the silver-lensed sunglasses back on. “You be real careful driving back to Boston. We had to scrape the last two Talbotts off a bridge abutment out on I-71 and you wouldn't want to put us through all that mess again, now would you?” Then he turned and walked back to his cruiser. He got in and slowly backed the big car away from the gate.

I tried not to smile, but I couldn't help it as I drove on through, turned south, and didn't stop until the cemetery was long gone from my rear view mirror.

A private family funeral? The whole thing stunk even worse now than it had before. Maybe it was Greene and that expression of surprise on his face when he looked up and saw me sitting in the chapel. Maybe it was the callous indifference of those men in the black suits as they stood under the awning, smoking and laughing while clods of dirt thumped down on the two wooden caskets. Or, maybe it was Sheriff Dannmeyer's attitude that got to me most, that look of dim-witted power and arrogance. I turned the car around and headed back toward Peterborough. I wanted some answers, and I figured the best way to get was to put the screws to the good Mr. Greene.

All it takes is one slippery mortician…

It was nearly 3:00 by the time I got back to the funeral home. The parking lot was as empty as it had been when I left. Looking in the far corner, I saw that the five employee cars were still there, but some of those must belong to the crew that had taken the coffins to the cemetery. In any event, the day's business appeared to be finished and it was too early for the evening's schedule of wakes to begin, so I had the parking lot all to myself. I stepped inside. Other than the gaudy floral arrangement in the center of the room, the foyer was still empty. They'd switched off the organ music. Even the sticky-sweet flower smell had vanished. Figured.

I walked down the hallway to the right and found Greene's business office at the far end. There was a black felt sign on the wall next to the door with the usual gold letters that said “Enter,” so I did. There was no one in the outer office. It was well appointed, like the rest of the place, with a beautiful couch and loveseat, two tall wingback chairs, and colonial prints on the wall, straight out of the Ethan Allen catalog. The secretary's big, L-shaped mahogany desk was empty. It had a laser printer, a modem, fax machine, cables, wires, and a large computer with a flat screen. Impressive. And expensive. Greene probably had his own web page too. I could just picture those two hearses outside rolling down the fast lane of the Information Super Highway. Why should that come as a surprise either?

I heard a familiar, syrupy male voice coming through the doorway to the right. There was a bright red light on one of the extensions on the secretary's telephone console, so I walked over and peered around the doorframe. It was Greene all right, the silver-haired undertaker himself, leaning back in an over-sized leather desk chair, feet up on the desk, his eyes closed, talking on the telephone.