After I bought a few pairs of pants, some brown fall boots and then picked up more groceries than I think I needed, I stopped by the funeral home.
I hate funeral homes. I faintly remember being in one when my mom passed. Visions of my father slumped down over her lifeless body, crying uncontrollably, remains with me. I remember the smell of the place – like a mixture of cinnamon candles, black licorice and, well, death. And the people that work there...they almost look like zombies. Their eyes are always wide open. They wear black. They look creepy and maybe it’s just the stereotype of folks who chose this line of work because, in my mind, I cannot figure out why anyone would pursue a career working with dead bodies on a consistent basis. Then again, I guess somebody has to do it.
Anyway, after forcing myself to get out of the car, I walk in and immediately, a tall, old white man who, no lie, looks like he could be Frankenstein’s daddy, greets me. I proceed to introduce myself and tell him that I’m picking up my father’s ashes.
“Oh yes…Mr. Alfred…he was such a lovely man,” he says in a shaky, haunting voice.
“Thanks.” I smile reluctantly. Who uses lovely to describe a man? A dead man?
“I’ll be right back with your package,” he advises.
Package? Since when is a dead person’s ashes considered a package? Maybe he has me confused with someone else.
“Um, excuse me. I just wanted to make sure you knew I was here to pick up my father’s ashes.”
“Yes, Mrs. Knight. That would be Alfred Knight, correct?”
“Correct.”
“Okay. I’ll be right back with the package.”
He’s killing me with this package nonsense. I watch him walk away this time and after waiting in this spooky, uncomfortable sitting area for close to eight minutes, he comes back with a cardboard box.
Okay, so it is a package...
“Here we go,” he says, setting the box on the counter.
I notice the box is taped shut. “So this is it?”
“Yes it is. Now, just so that you’re aware, your father’s ashes are in a clear, plastic bag. The bag is inside of a marble urn and the urn is protected by this cardboard box. We know the difficulty some people face with having to carry the urn home with unpackaged ashes. Sometimes the urn rolls around in the trunk or in the seat of your vehicle and then, oops, ashes are all over the place. Here at Evergreen Funeral Home, we take the time to make sure you don’t have a spill on the way home...would hate to have to vacuum your loved one out of the car, now wouldn’t ya?”
What a freakin’ weirdo... I’m so ready to get out of here. “Um, do I need to sign anything?”
“Oh, yes,” he says, handing me a pen that has their company name on it – Evergreen Funeral Home, and a slogan that says, Death done right...the first time.
The first time? Was there a second?
I scribble my name and reach for the box but, to my surprise, the ashes are quite heavy. Feels like I’m trying to carry a fifth grader to my car instead of ashes. I never knew they could weigh so much.
“Need help with that, darlin’?”
“No,” I say, struggling. “I think I can manage, but thanks anyway.”
If I can just make it to the door...
I finally do and when I’m outside, I set this box on the ground and pull in a breath, getting this sickening smell out of my lungs. Then I pick up the box again, stagger to my car, unlock the doors and place the box in the back seat.
Finally, I’m on the way back home. It’s a little after four and I wonder if Wyatt is there. If he is, what is he doing? Sitting around, watching TV? What were we supposed to do in the house? Why did my father want us there together? Maybe he was also intoxicated when the will was drafted up. That would explain a lot.