A few days later, Dad and I went to Bigelow’s Men’s Store in downtown Armadillo. He said if I was going to help them with visitations and funerals, I’d have to dress the part.
Dad picked out five suits for himself—two black, two dark blue, and one gray—plus several white oxford shirts. Then I followed him to the young men’s section. I tried on several combinations of coats and slacks before we found the right sizes. He told me to choose two suits that I liked—one black and one dark blue—and he grabbed three white shirts, made just like his, but in my size, off the rack.
We made our way over to the ties. Dad said he preferred paisley prints and stripes, but I could pick out my own. Since my parents had given me no choice but to move—and were now going to make me wear stiff, itchy suits—I decided this would be a good chance to make a statement. So I dug through the bargain bin until I found the five ugliest ties ever made: a dark green one with a painted-on, piranha-looking fish head; one in neon yellow; another in the same throw-up purple as my bedroom carpet; one with pinto beans printed over an orange background; and a black one with a white stripe down the center, like a skunk’s back.
Dad never said a word when I dumped the ties on the counter. He did look kind of sick, though, when he heard the total. Still, he pulled out his gold card, handed it to the clerk, and said if you’re going to be a funeral director, you’ve got to wear a nice suit.
On the way home, we stopped at the Cow Palace and ate lunch. Through the window beside our booth, we could see cows out in the field and, up the hill, a big gray barn with a metal roof. I ordered the quarter-pound Cow Pattie with Cheese and a small Herd of Fries; Dad got the Big Steer, through the garden, with the large Herd of Fries.
We ate in silence for a long time. Then after the server gave Dad a refill on his Big Trough Dr Pepper he took a big gulp, as if the drink would clear his throat and his thoughts.
“Kev, you’ve been a lot of help to us,” he said. He set the heavy glass down on the table. “Your mom and I appreciate it.”
I nodded, my mouth full of cheddar and Cow Pattie.
“When I was a kid, Dad—I mean your granddad—was in the army. We had to move all the time. I decided I’d never move my kids around like that. I hated moving.”
“Well, it’s been interesting.”
Dad put his elbows on the table, rested his chin in his hands, and looked down at his plate. For a second, I felt sorry for him. Maybe he hadn’t wanted to move. He was, after all, more worried about the family finances than Mom. Besides, Mom was the one who wanted to be a funeral director.
“I’ve been thinking,” he said. His eyes were fixed on his last two fries. “I wish we’d let you in on everything from the beginning. I told your mother not to say anything to you about our plans to live in the funeral home.”
“Why?” I hadn’t expected Dad to be the one to keep a secret from me.
“I didn’t want to tell you because I knew you wouldn’t like it. That wasn’t fair. Even if you didn’t like it, at least we should have been honest with you.”
“Well, Dad, you’re right. I don’t like it. It wasn’t fair. And I wish you’d been honest.” There, I thought. I may have to live where you want to, but now you know I am old enough to express my opinion, whether you like it or not. I took another bite of my burger.
Dad stirred his drink with his straw. “If your mom and I don’t take a chance and make a change in our lives, we’ll both be stuck at dead-end jobs. We wanted to work together, and we decided running a funeral home would be our best option, since I already had my degree and some experience.”
My jaw dropped, exposing a mouthful of smushed beef. Dad was an undertaker too? I thought I knew everything about my parents. Dad motioned at me to close my mouth. I swallowed.
“When did that happen?”
“I met your mom during my last six months of school. I was already apprenticed.”
“Why’d you quit? If you spent all that time and money to go to school and be a mortician, why did you go to work at the factory instead?”
Dad gazed out at the cows. One of them, along with her calf, moved close to the window. The calf nuzzled her mother’s udder and began to drink.
“I changed jobs a few months after your mom and I married. Before you were born. But that’s in the past.” Dad sat back and turned his face up to the light fixture made of cowbells that hung over the booth. He exhaled as if he’d been holding his breath for years. “We have you, and we need to plan a future for ourselves now.”
Dad’s eyes were red, and he rubbed them with the heels of his palms like he does whenever he has a headache. I didn’t understand what he meant about changing jobs being in the past, but I felt awkward about asking for an explanation, so I didn’t.
“I don’t mind helping you or Mom,” I said. “I do like my room, and Mom was right about how nice the living area is. But how can I ever have friends over? Who would want to visit me in a funeral home? And I’ve never even seen anyone dead before. Living in a house with dead people sounds like something out of a creepy old movie.”
The longer I talked, the more edgy I felt—and the more droopy and tired Dad looked. I didn’t want to spoil his apology, especially since it seemed sincere. So I paused for a moment and calmed down before speaking again. “It’s going to be different, that’s all. I’m just not sure about it yet.”
Dad reached into his pocket, dug out some change for the tip, and placed it on the table beside the ketchup bottle. “Whether we like it or not, death is a part of life.” He looked out the window again at the cow. Her calf had finished drinking and was trotting up the hill on spindly legs. “We have to learn to deal with it. Now we’d better get back home. I’ve got to explain to your mother why I let you buy those wild ties and make her promise not to return them.” He slid out of the booth and walked over to the cashier to pay the bill.
“That’ll be $11.29,” the cashier said. She made eye contact with Dad and smiled. “Say, you’re the guy who just bought the Paramount, aren’t you? It’s the only funeral home in the county, you know. White County only has one, too—in Gleason, the county seat. The Paramount’s been here as long as I can remember. The old owners seemed to lose interest in it. I guess the jobs at the new power plant across the river were too tempting.”
“The advantage of working with the dearly departed, ma’am,” Dad answered with a straight face and a tip of an invisible hat, “is that I don’t worry about getting laid off. There’s always a job for an undertaker!”
As he and the cashier laughed over his lame joke, I stood by the gum-ball machines at the door and wondered if it was normal for morticians to kid around about their work.