Todd Harra - Mortuary Confidential - Undertakers Spill the Dirt

Brad interrupted me. “Just last week I accidentally sent a shipment to the wrong location.”

“This is a little different,” I protested. Once again, I felt about six inches tall. “And not nearly as embarrassing.”

“Hardly. I sent a shipment of beef, the holy cow, to an Indian restaurant. Big customer. My boss was less than pleased.”

I felt better and laughed a little. “That sounds bad, but believe me. I am the king of embarrassment. I could tell you some stories.”

“So could I,” Brad said and rolled his eyes with an I-know-what-you-mean look.

“But this is inexcusable—”

“Like I said, it’s no big deal. You’ve done a lot for my family in the past couple of days. You’re allowed a mistake or two once in a while.” He pounded me on the back. “We’ll just hang tight until you’re ready to roll. By the way, once you’ve finished up, you’re welcome to come back to the country club and have lunch with us.”

“ Er , thanks?” I stammered.

When I climbed back into the hearse my colleague looked at me and said, “How’d it go?”

“Considering the fact that we’re in the cemetery with his mother and no place to put her, he’s pretty calm.” I paused. “He invited us to lunch after we finally get his mother buried.”

My colleague laughed. “Sometimes I think you have a horseshoe up your ass.”

“I’ll tell you this much. I’m not going to that luncheon. I’m going to find a very small, dark hole and crawl into it and stay there for a very long time.”

After we wrapped things up at the grave and the family was leaving, I walked them back to their cars. Brad, as gracious as a human could ever be, sidled up to me. “So Rob, are you going to join us at the luncheon and regale me with reasons why you, and not I, hold the crown for embarrassment?”

As if to prove my point, I tripped over a memorial marker and face-planted.

Contributed by a car enthusiast

Idressed up a woman like she was going out for Halloween when I wasn’t supposed to…but not really. It’s complicated. Let me explain.

I always ask the family for a photo of the deceased if it’s a woman. The photo helps with makeup and hairstyling. Men generally don’t require a photo. You don’t want them to look like they have makeup on so you just use a little color to give them a ruddy complexion. But with women you need to know what colors to use where, how much makeup they used, and what type.

A woman named Karen died and her family came in to make arrangements. When I asked about the clothes, the family told me that Karen’s best friend would be bringing them by the following day. I reminded them to have the neighbor bring in a photo of Karen so the hair stylist would know how to do her hair.

The following day, the friend brought in Karen’s clothes and a photo. The photo had obviously been taken some time ago, perhaps in the late seventies or early eighties. It was a photo of eight women who were obviously at a party. They were lined up in front of a fireplace; all bore the silly expressions of women who had indulged in too many libations and gossip over the course of the evening. I commented on what a great picture it was and the neighbor informed me that the photo was of the founding members of their neighborhood garden club. She added that she was the only living member left of the original group. We talked a little about her departed friends, and I could tell she loved reminiscing about them. As she was leaving, I remembered I had failed to ask which one was the decedent. I called after the neighbor, “Which one is Karen?”

“Third from the right,” she replied and ducked out the front door.

I was pleased that the woman in the photo enjoyed color, style, and fashion. Even though thirty years ago she was in her middle forties, she looked great. She was fit and tan, and leaning on her two friends flanking her, grinning a silly drunken grin. She had great big black eyelashes and light blue eye shadow topped off by a great big beehive hairdo that was Lucille Ball red.

The poor woman must have had a rough time near the end because she didn’t look much like her old self. Her flamboyant red hair had turned gray and she had let it grow down to her waist. I called the family and got permission to dye the hair to the color in the photo. They assured me they loved that photo. In fact, their exact words were, “That’s her. Do whatever you can to make her look like she did in that photo.”

I did.

Unfortunately, the dress they brought in was lackluster compared to the fashionable empire style diamond print mini-dress in the photo. The pastel colored short skirt in the photo featured her muscular legs, and the mint colored sleeveless blouse showcased her ample bosom. The dress the neighbor had brought in was a shapeless brown thing, not even fit for a woman of such style. To say it had no pizzazz would be an understatement; it looked like a monk’s robe. I picked up a mauve silk scarf at Goodwill and a big belt that I placed high around her waist in the typical seventies style to dress her up a little.

She was beginning to look like the photo.

Once the hair stylist dyed her hair, trimmed it up a bit, and styled it in a beautiful beehive hairdo, she looked almost like her old self. I added some fake eyelashes, thick mascara, and blue eye shadow to complete her makeover, but something was missing. I wiped off the burgundy colored lipstick the friend had brought in and reapplied a loud, light pink lipstick just like she wore in the photo.

Perfect! I thought, stepping back and taking a look at the finished product. The family is going to love the way she turned out!

The next day the members of the family came in before the viewing began. I assembled them in the lobby and took them all in. The two daughters and son walked up to the casket and I heard a collective gasp followed by a loud, “What the hell?”

I rushed up to see what was the matter and the eldest daughter turned to me and pointed a finger at me and wailed, “What did you do to my mother? She looks like a clown!”

“I—I—I tried to make her look like the picture! I’m sorry if you’re not pleased—”

The son roared, “We sure as hell aren’t—”

One of the daughters cut him off, “But her hair!”

“You told me I could dye it like the picture!” I protested.

“You idiot,” the son yelled. “It’s red!”

Then it dawned on me. “I’m sorry,” I said. “But your mother’s friend told me your mother was third from the right.”

I pointed to the picture I had left lying at the foot of the casket.

“Oh God,” the son groaned, looking at the picture, “she’s third from the left! You made her look like Mrs. MacDonnell!”

I rushed over to get a closer look at the photo. The woman third from the left, though looking nothing like the decedent, had longish blond hair and wore a simple floral print dress. And though she had the same silly grin as Mrs. MacDonnell, she wore none of the thick makeup. In fact, she wore none at all, except for a trace of burgundy colored lipstick.

The neighbor who had given me the photo walked up to the casket to see what all the commotion was about and recoiled in revulsion. “Who is that?” she demanded.

“You told the undertaker mom was third from the right,” the son said quietly.

The look of horror that crossed the woman’s face was almost comical. I could tell she wanted to run and hide. “Oh dear,” was all she could utter. She looked at me with a look that said, Did I?

I nodded at her solemnly and put my arm around her shoulders. “Don’t worry,” I assured the three children and neighbor. “I can fix this. Give me fifteen minutes.” I ushered them out of the parlor and re-appeared twenty minutes later, my shirt soaked through with perspiration. She looked as close to the picture as I could muster, except her hair was the wrong color for the viewing.