Todd Harra - Mortuary Confidential - Undertakers Spill the Dirt

I shook my head. “You two. Always discussing the most unladylike things.”

Aunt Millie looked horrified. “Us? Why never!”

I raised my eyebrow and took another swallow of tea. On top of being insipid, it was too sweet.

“We, young man, are the epitome of Southern Manners,” Aunt Millie said, emphasizing her accent.

Aunt Vicki leaned in and winked. “So let us have it, Trey. What’s the secret? Because old lady Wilbur was certainly saggy in life.”

“It’s a secret. I can’t tell you.”

“Come, Trey. Out with it. We won’t tell a soul.” Aunt Vicki crossed herself to prove her point. I guess the booze must’ve been affecting her because the crossing was more like a circular motion.

“Okay then. Since you both promise not to tell.” I put my glass down on the table and leaned in in a conspiratorial manner. They leaned in too. I looked around dramatically and simply said, “Duct tape.”

Aunt Vicki whooped with laughter and covered her mouth and nearly yelled, “Duct tape! Oh, mercy in heaven! Old lady Wilbur would be turning in her grave if she knew!”

“Quiet, you,” I said. “I have Scotch tape, too.”

“What ever do you mean by that, Trey?” Aunt Vicki asked. She snorted a little and took a huge gulp of tea.

I cupped my hands and approximated Pamela Anderson’s bust. “Duct tape.” Then I moved my hands close to my chest so that they were touching and said, “Scotch tape.”

“Why, you little scamp!” Aunt Vicki yelped while Aunt Millie roared with laughter, knocking So-Co-laced tea all over her dress.

I took that as my cue. “Gotta get back to the shop. Don’t forget, ladies,” I yelled over my shoulder as I jogged across the yard, “don’t tell my secrets!”

Contributed by a Girl Scout Leader

The chapel was full of friends and family of the diAntoni family. They were seated, patiently waiting for the service to begin. The air hung heavy with the muted sounds of a crowd trying to be quiet, but not quite being successful.

Mr. Joseph diAntoni, age 91, was laid out in the front of the chapel in blissful repose. He wore a blue chalk-stripe suit with a red silk tie, tied in a Windsor knot as Mr. diAntoni’s son insisted. He had on his favorite Movado watch, and diamond cufflinks his dead wife had given him for their fifty-fifth anniversary. All in all, it was very dignified.

Mr. diAntoni’s family had picked out a solid pecan casket, full couch style, meaning the entire lid of the casket was open. I had put cardboard inserts in the pant legs to give them a crisp, full appearance. Mr. diAntoni looked good for a dead man; I had even managed to tease a small smirk onto his lips during the embalming. Mr. diAntoni’s family loved the way he looked. “He looks ten years younger,” his granddaughter had gushed when she had seen him for the first time. They were pleased, meaning I was pleased.

I made the announcement that the casket was going to be closed for the funeral service, and anyone not wishing to watch the closing was invited to step into the lobby. After I made the announcement, I invited the family up one last time to say their goodbyes. One by one they stepped up, stepped aside, and went back to their seats. I handed them tissues as they returned to their respective pews sniffling.

Mr. diAntoni’s son, Lucas, and his wife, stepped up to the casket last. I stood at attention at the foot of the casket, ready to assist them in the covering of Mr. diAntoni with the blanket. Lucas stepped over to me and whispered, “I have some things I want to go with Dad.”

“Okay,” I whispered, expecting the usual: a photograph, rosary, or something of that nature.

Lucas dug into his suit pocket and held his closed hand out to me. I put my open palm under his and he released the contents of his hand into mine. I recoiled.

In my hand were Mr. diAntoni’s false teeth and glass eye.

Trying not to show my discomfort at holding these items in my bare hand, I said, “We can certainly send these with your dad.”

I went to tuck the items into the pocket of Mr. diAntoni’s suit, but Lucas pressed up against me and whispered loudly, “Sarah, we want those where they belong.”

I glanced over my shoulder at the entire chapel watching me. There were a lot of people in the audience. A lot. “Uh, Lucas,” I stammered, “these teeth can’t go in his mouth after he’s been embalmed.” Theoretically they could, but certainly not at this stage.

“Why not?” he demanded.

His wife tried shushing him, but he brushed her off.

I leaned really close to him and whispered, “The embalming process basically freezes the tissues. His jaw is frozen shut.”

“What the hell is in there now?” Lucas demanded.

“A special mouth guard is in there to give him the appearance that his teeth are in.”

“You got that in, why can’t you put his teeth in?”

“It’s too late to remove the guard and put his teeth in.”

“Fine,” he said nastily. “Put the teeth in his pocket. At least put the eye in.”

“Lucas, I can’t do that either. You should have let me know this days ago, preferably before you gave me permission to embalm him. It’s simply too late now.”

Lucas’s voice had risen to a volume that I knew the back rows of the chapel could hear. “Why can’t you put dad’s eye in so he can go to his glory with it?”

My face was bright red and I was sweating. I was angry and embarrassed. Lucas was being obtuse. I didn’t want to tell him the gritty details of what I had to do to prepare his father for the funeral, but he wouldn’t be placated. “Look, Lucas,” I snapped. “I cannot put his eye in.”

“Then give it to me. I’ll do it.” His face was flushed and he had a wild look as he held his palm out to me as if he expected me to relinquish the eye. Under any other circumstances I would have gladly given him back the questionably clean prosthetic, but I was afraid of what would happen if I did.

“No,” I said.

“Give it to me. Now!”

“Look, Lucas,” I hissed. I dropped my tone down an octave. “Your father’s eye socket is packed to make it look like he has an eye because you didn’t give this to me days ago. If you want to make all these people wait twenty minutes I’d be happy to take your father in the back and see to it that his glass eye gets in. But this is something that I cannot and will not do in front of a crowd of people.” I added, “And something I’m not going to let you do.”

Lucas looked daggers at me. “This is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard!” he announced.

“Do you want me to postpone the funeral a few minutes? I’d be happy to accommodate you,” I reiterated.

“No, don’t bother,” he snapped and stormed back to his seat.

I slipped the teeth and eye into Mr. diAntoni’s suit pocket, hurriedly closed the lid, turned the service over to the minister, and ran into the back to scrub my hands.

I guess the moral of my little (but very public) confrontation is that people sometimes have expectations that can’t be met. These unreal expectations can also come up unexpectedly. You have to deal with them gracefully but honestly—as long as you’re honest, you can’t go wrong.

Contributed by a Rolling Stones fan

The funeral directors at my firm do the makeup on their own calls. At some funeral homes the body comes out of the preparation room as a “finished product.” By that I mean the body is embalmed, dressed, casketed, and cosmetized. And at some funeral homes the women who come in and do the hairdressing also do the cosmetics. That isn’t the case where I work; the decedent comes out of the morgue embalmed, dressed, and casketed. Then, the funeral directors apply the makeup under torchiere lamps in the viewing alcoves. Torchiere lamps have special colored lights in them to compliment the tone of a decedent’s skin.