Judith Merril - The Year's Greatest Science Fiction & Fantasy 2

“Tell, don’ tell,” chanted Rhoda.

“It was the damnedest thing ever happened to me in my entire life. In fact, God damnedest,” said the undertaker.

“Eat your meat.”

“Rhoda, listen. Because this is it.” He took a breath and swallowed before continuing. “I had an argument with a corpse today.”

“Eat a few vegetables, at least, if not meat.”

“Did you hear what I just told?”

“Yes.”

“Well, there’s more. Not only I had this argument with this corpse, but I lost the argument, what’s more.”

“The feature goes on 7:10,” replied Rhoda. “But if you wanna catch the newsreel an’ cartoon, then ten to.”

“I just as soon.”

“All right, then, don’t dawdle. Salad?”

“Yes. Look, I can’t seem to put my point over. Oh! You think I’m affected by the—but no, Rhoda. I take an oath, I raise my hand. I know what I’m talking of and this is the God’s truth what I’m on the verge to tell you.”

“All right, Arthur. But eat meanwhile.”

“Now the stiff I had the run-in with, the corpse, is Stanton C. Baravale. Was.”

“The department store.”

“That’s him. Last night he died, in the private wing of Summit General. 10:53 p.m.”

“I read it, yes.”

“This morning they brought him in early; in fact, they were waiting out front when I got there.”

“Because you got a late start, I told you. You wanna watch that.”

“You’re one hundred per cent wrong, Rhoda, but I got no time to argue because I don’ want to lose my thread. So they brought him in and we laid him out careful in the big room, and just about we were getting ready to go to work, Thor says to me, ‘Mr. Roos, could I be excused?’”

“I like to see you excuse him for good,” said Rhoda. “That dope.”

“No, he’s a good boy. But he says further, ‘I slammed out with no breakfast an’ I like to go to the Whelan’s get a bite to eat.’ ‘Go ahead,’ I says, ‘only I hope no trouble home.’ So Thor tells me how again his mother starts on him regarding learning the embalming game. How it makes her nervous he’s an embalmer’s apprentice. Some people!”

“How’d she like it there was nobody doin’ the type work?”

“The very point I made to Thor, darling.”

“An’ what’d he say?”

“That it was the very point he made to her.”

“I should think so, f’God’s sake!”

“Anyway, he goes to the Whelan’s, an’ I start in gettin’ the stuff prepared. An’ I was whistling, I remember well, because I was whistling ‘There Is Nothing Like a Dame’ an’ I was havin’ trouble to recall the middle part which slipped my mind.”

“Ta da da da da da da!” sang Rhoda, helpfully.

“Yes, I know. It came to me later. But while I was whistling, I heard this noise. Like the clearing of a throat. Well, I turned.”

“An’ what was it?” asked Rhoda, interested for the first time.

“It was the clearing of a throat.”

“What’re you saying, Arthur?”

“I’m saying that Stanton C. Baravale was sitting up, looking terrible sick.”

“Why shouldn’t he if he was dead?”

“Wait a second, Rhoda. Let me get on with it. The man sat there an’ he looks at me, then he looks around, then to me, then he says—but soft, he was so soft I could hardly hear ‘im. Like this. He says, ‘Who’re you?’”

Rhoda stacked their plates, pushed them aside, pulled the pie tin toward her and began cutting it, carefully.

“Arthur, are you telling the truth?”

“As God is my judge.”

“Then go ahead,” said Rhoda. “Only speak up while I get the coffee off.”

“In twenty-eight years,” shouted Arthur, “it’s happened to me twice only. The other time, you remember, the Winkleman boy how he came to in the shop an’ it was in all the papers, an’ he’s still around, I believe. Since nineteen twenty-eight.”

Rhoda returned with the coffee-pot, sat down and poured two cups.

“He’s still around,” she said, “and a very mean job he turned out. All the time in trouble.”

“So when Stanton C. Baravale said, ‘Who’re you?’ like that, I told him. Naturally. An’ where he was an’ he asks me how come. So I said, ‘Well, the fact is, Mr. Baravale, you died last night. 10:53 p.m.’ ‘I knew it must be something like that,’ he says. ‘I feel light as a feather. An’ cold, too,’ he says. ‘I must have a temperature of below zero.’ So I says, ‘You just relax, sir, an’ I’ll get Summit General on the phone in one second.’ ‘Don’t do that,’ he says. ‘It’ll just cause talk, an’ I’m goin’ out again in a minute.’ “

“Think of that,” said Rhoda, sipping her boiling coffee.

“Darling,” continued the undertaker, “I want to tell you, I just stood there. I was in a state of shock. Next thing, he was talkin’ again. ‘What was it?’ he says, still whisperin’, y’know. ‘There was something worryin’ me I didn’t settle, that’s why I came back. I know,’ he says, a little louder. ‘You!’”

“You?” echoed Rhoda.

“That’s it. He says to me how like a fool he never specified any burial details, an’ just left it general. That it was the last thing he was thinkin’ about before he went off, an’ some kind of leftover power in his brain must’ve brought him back for long enough.”

“Arthur, I don’t begrudge you that extry slug. Not for one moment.”

“ ‘Now then,’ he says to me, ‘what’s it going to cost?’ ‘I really couldn’t say,’ I says. ‘You better,’ he says. ‘The way that fool Immerman drew the damn thing it reads “after all funeral expenses have been paid,” and so forth. Well, hell,’ he says, ‘that can mean anything. Moment like this, my kids feel bad, they’re bound to spend more’n is necessary and what’s the sense to that? Now what’s the cheapest?’ he says. ‘All depends,’ I answer him, ‘how many persons, cars, music or no, casket.’ At this he leans on his elbow an’ he says, ‘Six people, one car, no music, cheapest box you carry.’ So I says, ‘But what if the instructions I get—’ He never let me finish. ‘God damn it,’ he says. ‘Give me some paper an’ pen’n ink.’ I give it him, he writes a page, then he says, ‘You have any trouble, show that!’ Well, Rhoda, by this time I was comin’ to myself a little more. An’ I says, ‘Please let me use the phone.’ ‘No,’ he says, ‘just give me your gentleman’s word you’ll handle it my way.’ ‘But, look,’ I says, ‘this paper’s no good. You’re legally dead as of 10:53 p.m. last night. ‘That’s why I put last week’s date on,’ he says. ‘An’ it’s in my handwriting, no mistake about that.’ Then he says to me, ‘What’s the time now?’ ‘Eight thirteen a.m.,’ I says. ‘Well, let’s make it 8:15, officially,’ he says, and lays down again and says the date. ‘January five, nineteen fifty-six,’ he says. Thank you, Mr. Roos,’ he says. ‘Been nice talkin’ to you.’ An’ then, Rhoda, he just by God went out!”

“Well, I never,” said Rhoda. “Gimme a hand here, will you, Arthur, please?”

Together they cleared the table, replaced the lace centerpiece and the wax-fruit bowl. In the kitchen, he washed, she dried. They worked for a time with swift efficiency, without speaking. Finally Rhoda asked, “What’re you goin’ t’do?”

“Y’got me there, dear.”

“You mentioned to anyone? Thor?”

“Not yet, no.”

“They ordered up anything yet?”

“Doggone right. Man brought a letter from the lawyer’s place. Big chapel, minimum three hundred guests. Organ and string trio. Thirty cars. Canopy and chairs. Memorial reception after, main hall. Organ and string trio. Refreshments. Rhoda, one of the biggest things we’ve ever handled. I mean it’s between seven, eight hundred clear profit no matter how you look.”