On July 31 at 3 P.M., the Paramount Funeral Home opened for business. The chairperson of the board of directors of the Armadillo Chamber of Commerce, armed with a pair of giant ceremonial scissors, cut the thick blue ribbon that stretched from one front porch column to the other. The ribbon hit the ground, and a small group of business people cheered. The local newspaper photographer took pictures for the Armadillo Courier. Mom and Dad exchanged hugs—and sighs of relief that the days of preparation were over.
The next morning Dad backed the hearse out of the garage and left to pick up our first customer—a man named Cletus McCulley, who had passed away at the Shady Grove Nursing Home and Rehabilitation Center. After Mom and I got the apartment in order, ate a quick breakfast, and cleaned up the dishes, we went downstairs.
Mom’s fingers fumbled through the keys until she found the one that opened the front office. It was time to prepare the new desk for the first batch of paperwork, and Mom seemed excited and scared all at the same time. She sent me to the guest kitchen with orders to fill a cut-glass vase with some flowers from the yard and set it on the counter, stock the vending machines with sodas and bottled water, and start the coffeepot.
As I loaded the cans and bottles into the machines, I wondered why a funeral home would need a kitchen in the first place. Chowing down after viewing a dead relative didn’t sound appetizing. I could understand the drinks, since people do get thirsty. But why have an extra wide refrigerator, a stove, and a microwave? And enough tables in the room to make it look like a small restaurant?
I got my answer a couple of hours later as I centered the last flower-filled vase on the last table. (Mom said to fix one for the counter, but I got carried away.) Groups of women began marching in, bearing bags and boxes of food for Mr. McCulley’s family and friends to eat during the visitation and after the funeral. Soon the countertops were covered with cakes, pies, breads, bags of potato chips, and boxes of cookies and doughnuts. Mom chatted with the women and helped them put the food away.
Dad beeped in on her two-way radio. “Freda, I need your help. Meet me at the service entrance.”
She excused herself and headed for the door. “Kevin, please help these women carry in the rest of their things. I’ll be back in a minute.”
One of the women approached me. She looked to be the same age as Mom, but I’d never seen anyone my mother’s age with hair so white. It was lighter than bleached cotton, and hung down the middle of her back and past her waist in a long, bulky braid.
“So your name is Kevin. Well, Kevin, could I get you to help me bring in a few things from my car?” she asked as she got her keys from her purse.
“Sure,” I said. I followed her to her car. She had two large flower arrangements crammed in the small backseat. I grabbed the one with the baseball-sized white chrysanthemums. A plastic pick with Grandfather in silver letters peeked out from the center of the plants.
She picked up the other arrangement, a spray of pink and yellow roses, and we walked back to the building. “So you’re new in town. Are you ready to start school next week?”
“I don’t know. I guess so.”
“What grade will you be in?”
“Seventh.”
“I guess I’ll be seeing you, then,” she said. We put the flowers on the metal cart in the hall and she held out her hand. “I’m Nancy Goldwyn, the principal at Armadillo Middle. Come by before the first day, and I’ll show you around. After my grandfather’s funeral, of course.” Her eyes were bright and honest blue, and she had the kind of smile that could make you think she never said a bad word about anybody. “It’s been very nice to meet you.”
“Thanks. You too,” I said, and then because I felt like I should, added, “I’m, well, I’m sorry about your grandfather.” But it sounded awkward, and the words stumbled over one another.
Mrs. Goldwyn looked past me, but she wasn’t focused on anything. I noticed the rims of her eyes were soft pink. “Grandfather lived a good life. He’s not sick anymore—probably feels better than he has in years. It’s actually a relief to know he’s not suffering. And he’s with Gran. She died four years ago, and he’s missed her terribly.”
Despite the sad conversation, she smiled, and we exchanged good-byes again.
After the last group of women left, I found Mom pacing up and down the hall, waving her paper and pencil, her tongue clicking like when we packed for the move.
If she was this whacked out for our first funeral, I wondered, how could she handle several funerals in a week?
“Kev, here’s a list of things you need to do. We’ve been over these before. Eventually we’ll get a routine going so we won’t need these lists.
Do these ASAP—I’ve got to get back to the basement.” She stuck the paper in my hand and took off for the stairs, ticking like a time bomb.
The list was made up of simple things that I didn’t mind doing: put all the flowers in the front of the chapel; prepare the seating; vacuum the front hall. So I pushed the cart with Mrs. Goldwyn’s flowers on it through the double doors and down the center aisle between the pews. I placed the flowers on the stands on the left side of the room. I wiped down the backs and ends of the pews with a lemony-smelling dust cloth. The immediate family would sit in the first few rows, so I draped the red velvet covers with Reserved embroidered in gold over the arms of those pews. I checked to see that the padded folding chairs in the back of the chapel were lined up straight. Then I vacuumed the entrance hall.
A van from Armadillo Florist and Greenhouse pulled up to the front door. I showed the deliveryman where to put the flowers, and then I went to the guest kitchen for a soda. Mom said I was entitled to free sodas, so I helped myself to a ginger ale. The smell of the food brought in earlier made my stomach growl. I looked at the clock on the wall and discovered it was after six.
Dad walked in, grabbed a diet soda from the machine, and sat down beside me. “I just ordered some pizza,” he said. He popped the top on his can. “I don’t know about you, but I’m starving. I took a peek in the chapel. It looks good. Have you seen all the flowers in there?”
“I let the guy in to deliver them, but I didn’t see them. I came in here to get a drink.”
“They’re gorgeous. McCulley must have had a lot of friends.”
I thought about what Mrs. Goldwyn had said and decided he probably did.
“One more thing. If you’ll put McCulley’s name and information on the board out front, you can quit for today. I have to go back downstairs and help your Mom finish him up. Then we’ll take a breather too.”
We’d been so busy I hadn’t even thought about what Mom and Dad were doing to Cletus McCulley down in the dungeon.
Suddenly my ginger ale didn’t taste so good, and I wasn’t so sure I wanted pizza for dinner anymore.
“The family’s coming back at eight to plan the service. The visitation starts tomorrow afternoon at three, so I imagine the funeral will be the day after. When you fix the message board, just put the name and time for the first visitation.”
Mom beeped, interrupting our break. Dad drank the last of his soda and got up to leave. “Don’t forget the pizza,” he said. He pulled out his wallet, thumbed through what little cash he had, decided which bills he could give up, and tossed them onto the table. Then as an afterthought, he pitched one more on the pile. “Give the driver a tip.”
Mom beeped again, impatient for Dad to get back to the basement. The pizza guy buzzed in at the front entrance. “Don’t eat all the hot peppers!” I heard Dad yell as he descended the stairs.
I walked down the hall to the front double doors. I could smell the crust even before I turned the doorknob. “One ‘Feed Four for $14.99 Special’ with extra peppers,” said the pizza guy like he’d been saying it all day. “That’ll be $15.89.”
I counted out nineteen bucks and handed it over. “That’s stupid to sell pizza for four for $14.99 and then charge $15.89.”
“Tax,” the pizza boy said, and yawned. “Thanks for the tip.”
I took the pizza and started up the stairs to my room. The bottom of the box was hot and moist, and I could almost taste the Italian sausage. I wondered why Dad ordered enough pizza for four people when there were only three of us in the house who could eat it.