Suzanne Worthington arrived in a blue Cutlass, probably a year old. She pulled into an empty spot close to the side entrance of the Home. The driver’s side of her car was in full view from my office. I had my eyes on the car door, primarily in order to get a quick fix on her before meeting her in person.
I’d learned that by clocking a person for a few seconds before we sat down I could get a slight edge. The make and model of their car, their clothing, how they carried themselves. Were they listening to music as they pulled up and, if so, what type? In the case of women, if they were made up and had their hair carefully coifed and were dressed in such a way that suggested they took time in selecting the outfit, they would be harder to talk into pricey funerals. On the other hand, let a woman show up looking distressed, eyes bloodshot from crying, wearing little or no make-up, hair uncombed or covered with a haphazardly tied scarf and conveying an unashamed grief, I would have a great chance of negotiating an expensive funeral.
As I waited for the driver’s door to open, suddenly a movement in the back seat caught my eye. It was as if someone had been lying down in the back and had hurriedly gotten up. Then, the left rear door swung open and the blur was on the edge of the seat, sliding out.
It was a teenage girl.
From the gawkiness of her figure I guessed her age to be fourteen. She wore kelly green Italian combat boots, black baggy shorts and a Metallica T-shirt, also black and shredded. Her red hair was pulled into a bun, only the bun wasn’t taut or perfectly rounded. Instead, haphazard wisps of hair hung loosely, like threads from a disentangled spider web. She had on a pair of cheap aviator sunglasses and wore no make-up. Her lips, without gloss or lipstick, were a whitish pink. And her face was swollen, undoubtedly from crying. Overall, she had a sad, distressed aura about her.
I knew that she was in genuine grief. If Suzanne Worthington looked the same, I would most likely be negotiating a substantial deal. I breathed a sigh of relief and my hopes lifted, but my joy was temporary when I got my first glimpse of Suzanne. She moved with an almost offensive jauntiness and authority. There was definitely a bounce to her stride. People in mourning don’t bounce. They lumber along in a zombielike gait. Just as the young girl with her exuded an inner sorrow, she radiated impatience and a let’s-get-this-over-with-fast attitude.
She struck me as being somewhere in her late thirties to early forties with a burgeoning weight problem and the vestiges of a youthful beauty beginning to fade. She wore a loose-fitting, floral print sundress. She called out to the young girl who had gotten out of the back seat and had started walking towards the Home. “Wait for me. We’ll go in together!”
The girl shot Suzanne a dirty look, which she did not see, and waited for her. I assumed they were mother and daughter.
The instant they crossed out of my sight I walked briskly to the rear entrance. As I made my way I squirted a spray of Binaca into my mouth. By the time I got to the door, Suzanne was pressing the bell.
We exchanged greetings that were more businesslike than polite, me saying, “Mrs. Worthington?” and she saying a curt, “Hello” then introducing the girl as her daughter, Quilla. Seeing her puffy face and bloodshot hazel eyes close-up, I gave a comforting smile to the girl. She made momentary eye contact with me, then glanced down. “Right this way,” I said, opening the door.
They stepped inside, Quilla following her mother. It was a pleasant enough looking room with muted colors, a classic mahogany desk that had belonged to Lew’s father, two oxblood leather chairs, matching sofa and a couple of innocuous framed prints of sailboats on the off-white walls. We called it the Counseling Room because it was where we brought people to discuss funeral arrangements.
To give the room an aura of dignity we had a couple of fake Tiffany lamps and three-glass encased mahogany book-shelves filled with two different sets of long out of date encyclopedias and several books by three writers: Herman Melville, Ernest Hemingway and John Steinbeck. The books had been in the room since before I’d been associated with the Home and I have no idea who chose them or why. I once asked Lew and he didn’t know either. They’d been there since he was a boy. Lew guessed that his father had probably obtained them from an estate sale.
Suzanne sat in one of the chairs across from the desk. Her daughter plopped on the sofa and immediately picked up one of the throw pillows and clutched it to her stomach. Because there was no insurance, I assumed it would be a quick meeting.
I began this meeting as I always do: “How many nights of viewing would you like?”
“None.”
“Bullshit!”
Mother and daughter glared at each other.
“I mean,” Suzanne continued, taking in the girl’s icy stare. “I would like to have some kind of memorial service, but considering the condition of her body… even if it weren’t in such a bad way… I don’t know if there’s anyone who would even come to pay their respects.”
“One never knows about such things,” I said. “Word spreads. Old friends and acquaintances pop out of the woodwork. Co-workers. You’d be surprised.”
“I don’t anticipate many people,” she said curtly. “So if my husband and daughter and I and a few friends will be the only ones it doesn’t make sense to have the coffin there because it would have to be closed and the thought of knowing that my sister… or what’s left of her being in a coffin a few feet away from me… I don’t know, Mister Coltrane. This is so difficult. I’m not good at death.”
“Lots of people would come to see her,” blurted Suzanne’s daughter in a voice that was inappropriately loud and assertive. “Aunt Brandy was very popular.”
Suzanne glared at the girl, then tersely, almost with a tinge of intentional cruelty, said, “The kind of men she was popular with aren’t the type who pay respects.”
“Who cares if she liked to have a good time?” the girl stated firmly. “She had people who miss her and care about her and would come to see her.”
Suzanne looked at me, sort of half rolling her eyes, then with exasperation said, “Even if there were people interested in coming, they wouldn’t be seeing her. They would be looking at an ugly, depressing closed coffin.”
“But at least they would be near her,” said the girl, lurching forward. “They could touch the coffin and know she’s inside and maybe it would make them feel better and… ”
“What would be inside is nothing but bones with some strands of flesh, Quilla, and I don’t think anyone in their right mind would want to go near it.”
“I would,” the girl said defiantly.
I felt for the kid. Her pain almost oozed out of her. I saw this as an opportunity to make some money. “Mrs. Worthington, we have closed coffin visitations quite often.” Quilla smirked at her mother, then looked at me. “I assure you,” I continued. “That, while it might be disconcerting now to know that your sister’s remains are inside the coffin, once the reality of that fact sets in it’s not as bothersome as you might think.”
Quilla continued to stare at me. In her eyes, bloodshot as they were from crying, I felt a twinkle that she was beginning to consider me an ally. “What’s usually done is to place a photograph of the deceased directly over the coffin.”
“That would be excellent,” Quilla said.
“Seeing the face of the deceased somehow enables people to forget that the person is lying in the coffin,” I glanced at Quilla who stared intensely at me, then added, “There’s another delicate area. It’s the matter of clothes.”
Suzanne leaned back and said, “If it’s going to be a closed coffin, why would clothing even be an issue?”
“It doesn’t have to be,” I said. “But it’s incumbent on me to bring it up. People like to have their loved ones dressed…despite a body’s condition. It’s your decision.”
“I see no point in it,” said Suzanne.
“I want Aunt Brandy to go out in style,” Quilla said firmly. “I’ll pick out what she’ll wear.”
“Whatever,” said Suzanne halfheartedly, giving up.
Quilla smiled confidently.
“I’ll come by later and pick them up,” I said.
“What I’m really interested in most of all,” Suzanne said in a deflated voice. “Is getting this over with.”
“Getting it over with is why Funeral Homes exist,” I said. “We think of the process as helping people get through the first stages of grief and into the healing process.”
Suzanne leaned back. “There is no grief.” She looked at her daughter for a semblance of understanding. “My sister and I were not close when she was alive. When she disappeared I felt a brief sense of sadness, just like I felt the other times she ran away. I assumed that this time she decided not to come back. There was nothing to come back to. Our parents were dead. The only family she had was me.”
“And me!” said Quilla pointedly.
“As you can see, my daughter has this obsession with my sister. It’s gotten worse over the years and… ”
“It’s not an obsession!” Quilla yelled, jumping up from the couch. “I loved Aunt Brandy and she loved me and I’ve thought about her every day since she left and I always knew she didn’t run away and that something bad happened to her, but you wouldn’t believe me!”
Quilla sat back down and started to cry. Suzanne, as if she were oblivious to the tears, continued speaking. “There was a large gap in our ages. The truth is, I barely knew my sister and we didn’t get along. She was twelve years younger than I. When you’re a child, that’s a tremendous gap. But the fact is, she is my sister and I want to do what’s appropriate and I think that the best thing to do is to get everything over with as quickly as possible for all concerned.” She reached for a tissue from the box I kept on my desk and gently dabbed at her eyes, then she turned towards Quilla. “If a closed casket viewing is important to you, alright.” Quilla’s eyes lit up. “But only one night,” said Suzanne tersely. “Then, I want her remains cremated and buried. Fair enough?”
Quilla nodded yes. Mother and daughter’s eyes locked for a brief moment as if some unspoken understanding had been satisfactorily reached.
The next point of business was the choosing of a grave. I explained the various options they could choose from, namely that the cremated remains could be placed in an urn which would then be sealed in a niche in the large mausoleum at Elm Grove, buried in the ground or simply returned to her to either be kept at home or be scattered.
“My parents are buried at Elm Grove,” said Suzanne. “If my sister could be laid to rest by them, that would be fine.”
“That shouldn’t be a problem, unless your parents are interred in a Section that’s completely filled up.” I said.
“I don’t recall where they’re buried. I don’t get out to the cemetery that much.”
“I can find that out easily enough. All that’s left to do now is pick out the exact grave site.”
“I know this may sound cold,” she said looking uncomfortable. “But I’d rather not go to the cemetery. Can you pick something out or is there another way to do it?”
Quilla stood up and faced Suzanne. “I’ll do it. Why should he pick out her final resting place?” She gestured towards me. “A perfect stranger. How do we know he’ll choose the right spot? He could stick her anywhere!”
“Quilla, stop!”
Suzanne and Quilla’s eyes locked again.
“Uh, Mrs. Worthington,” I said. “Frankly, I’d be more comfortable if a family member was involved in selecting the site.” They both looked at me. “If Quilla wants to drive to the cemetery with me we could leave now.”
Suzanne eyed her daughter suspiciously as Quilla examined me with a sense of curiosity. I got the impression that she wasn’t used to adults giving her feelings much credence. “Jesus, if you want to go with him, go,” Suzanne snapped.
Quilla seemed genuinely surprised at her victory. But she didn’t thank Suzanne for giving in. The only indication of gratitude was a softening of the nasty glare she’d been directing at her mother.
The only words Quilla uttered were directed to me: “Can I go to the john before we leave?”