My father and I wheel Mr. Purvis into the parlor with its faded rose carpeting and two floral couches. Pop finds this room comforting, but I think it’s stale, like a club you don’t want to join.
We set up the casket under pink lighting to give Mr. Purvis a healthier complexion. Often we have music playing—either from a portable CD player or the upright piano—though everyone knows we don’t keep it tuned. Mrs. Purvis, however, has requested that there be no music. She says the people coming today won’t be able to hear one another if there’s background noise.
As my father puts Mr. Purvis’s name on the placard outside the room, I set up bouquets near the casket—fragrant carnations, mums, lilies, all designed to mask the smell of death, an illusion we can only continue for so long. After the funeral, what were once favorite flowers of the dead or bereaved will become reminders of the sorrow and the vague smell of formaldehyde and rot.
Little things bother me today: a picture on the wall tilts to the left, but when I try to straighten it, it tilts to the right. The casket is also off center but too heavy to move. I keep feeling like I’m hearing the phone, hoping it’s Robert so we can clear things up.
The room is chilly but my father is careful about our heating bills. I call to him as he arranges rows of folding chairs in front of the casket.
“Pop, do you really want it as cold as the prep room up here?”
“The room will heat up when it fills with people.”
“You can’t try to squeeze pennies everywhere.”
“When it’s your business,” he says, “you can run it any way you like.”
Such a comment used to send me into a panic. I never wanted to inherit the funeral business, or even be a part of it for this long. But like most who stay in Petroleum, my vision of the future has narrowed. Pop and I each grab an end of a metal table, move it to the corner of the room, and unfold the legs.
He passes me one end of a peach-colored cloth, and together, we spread it over the table. Then we set items on top—a framed photo of Mr. Purvis, a guest book, and a brief biography of the man, as written in his obituary. There are bereavement pamphlets, prayer cards, and details concerning the burial this afternoon. There is also a platter filled with small chocolate bars, always the most popular feature of our services.
Soon, we see a hand with a pocketbook hanging from its wrist reaching through the velvet drapes we use to partition off the parlor. The viewing isn’t to begin for another twenty minutes, but the widow has come early. She is so slight, the curtains seem to push back against her.
Pop weaves through the chairs.
“Mrs. Purvis,” he says in a way that expresses everything he’s learned about grief and comfort and welcoming guests into this space.
He takes her gloved hand so very gently.
“Are you ready to see him?” he asks.
They walk in short, slow steps toward the casket. As she gets closer to her husband, she begins to tremble. Pop stays only a moment before giving her time alone.
He’s told me how he likes finding the balance each customer desires between consoling and offering privacy. And he knows the only pain he can take away is the overwhelming demands of those first few days; the rest has to run its course, and often its course is a lifetime.
Mrs. Purvis touches her husband’s hand, withdraws, then gingerly returns. As Pop finds the tie he’s tossed on the parlor couch, I walk over to him with a carnation to put in his buttonhole. After I pin it, I pat my hand against his chest—this is how I apologize for being cranky with him earlier—and he nods, approving of the flower’s color.
Another elderly woman squeezes through the heavy velvet, complaining of the chill.
“I told you,” I whisper to Pop.
As he greets her, I part the drapes and tie them at the sides of the doorway.
The widow is still beside the casket, holding her husband’s hand. The second woman holds the widow at the crook of her arm. Together they look at Mr. Purvis.
“Is he smiling?” the second woman asks. “Oh, dear Lord, he’s smiling.”
Guests file in. I direct them toward the registry book and let them know they can leave a message for the family there. I’ve laid out a number of ballpoint pens with our funeral home’s name and number stamped on them in large, gold letters, hoping some will disappear into purses and breast pockets. Every gathering is an opportunity to advertise. Our only real competition is the funeral home forty-five minutes east. Even though their embalmer often leaves people looking badly taxidermied, their business offers cheaper rates, and we can’t afford for them to take away potential customers.
My father greets the guests at the back of the room, but mostly it’s a silent affair, brief whispers and hands touching, offers of condolence, some sitting and praying. Several cluster around the chocolates. Mr. Purvis’s smile is the talk of the room.
The doorbell rings, and Pop discreetly leaves the service to answer it. I poke my head into the hallway and see Robert. He looks weary, rattled.
I listen to hear if he asks for me.
“It feels like it might be soon,” he tells Pop. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”
“Sometimes there’s nothing to do.”
“She’s not afraid of dying,” Robert says, looking embarrassed but desperate to be sharing this. “She’s afraid of suffocating.”
My father, who can still surprise me, invites him in, presses his hand to Robert’s, and says how sorry he is.
“She doesn’t want to go to the hospital,” he says, “but it’s the only thing I can think to do.”
“Yes, I understand,” Pop says. “How about I stop by after the service? I’ve let too many days go by without a visit to Doris.”
I hear in his suggestion the need to get back to Mr. Purvis’s viewing. Robert finally notices me and looks only briefly. The force he displayed earlier is gone, but I’m still hurting too much to approach him.
My father looks at me as well, then over my shoulder at the curious guests. When he turns back, there are quiet words between them and then Robert is on his way.
“What did he want?” I ask, as if I hadn’t been listening.
“It’s not an easy thing to watch someone’s last days,” he says, walking back to the parlor.
Most of the guests, if they’re not in the hallway, are gathered by the velvet drapes. The widow, however, holds a vigil beside her husband. She has taken out her hearing aids, set neatly on the casket, so that nothing else interrupts their final moments together.