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Chapter 4
I fell asleep that first night pretending to read Embalming: History, Theory, and Practice. Actually I was rereading Dorothy Sayers's Whose Body?. I woke in the morning when Jeffrey slammed the front screen door on his way to school as only a running six year old boy can do. I jumped at the noise, yelled in the middle of my dream about embalming Bob Hope prematurely, and the heavy textbook fell from the bed to the floor.
“Mom?” Karen's voice drifted down the hall. “You alright?”
“Fine, dear,” I mumbled, smearing the drool from my face.
The clock on the night stand told me it was 7:30. That meant Rick had been gone an hour, as had Jimmy, and only Karen waited on my motherly ministrations. I'd need to rise at 5:30 to get the jump on this family and make them a hearty breakfast. I tripped down the hall, dragging the tail of my bathrobe belt behind me. Karen was propped on Pillow Mountain, staring at a mug cradled in her hand.
“Rick always makes me coffee,” she said.
“That's nice.”
“Coffee makes me sick,” she added. “So I wait until he's gone to throw it out.” She held it out to me. “In the bathroom sink.”
I obeyed. “Why don't you tell him you hate it?”
“Oh, I do. And then he researches new coffee blends that are supposed to make sick people feel better.” I sat on the edge of her bed. “So I stopped telling him, because he was spending too much time looking for a new brew for me. I just tell him this one is fine. It makes him feel better.” We both laughed.
“That's kinda sweet,” I said. “I smooth her comforter and hold her hand. “Green tea?”
“Yeah.”
“Honey?”
“No. Just plain, especially in the morning.”
“Breakfast?” I asked. “Oatmeal?” Something bland seemed wise. “Cheerios? Grits? Eggs?”
She slid down in the bed. “Ugh – no eggs.” She seemed to turn a bit green. “And no milk in anything. I can't do milk.”
“Toast?”
She smiled. “And butter.”
I stood up to go, but she asked, “What fell on the floor this morning?”
I paused, fabricating a plausible falsehood. “Last night's reading that I left on the bed,” I answered.
“Oh?” Karen was always looking for a new read. “Anything fun?”
“Dorothy Sayers. Whose Body?.”
“Oh, ugh, Mom! Not more dead body reading!”
I laughed. “Honey, this is just your average murder mystery. Nothing close to a mortuary science textbook. I couldn't help the smile that twitched teasingly at the corner of my mouth. Karen frowned.
After toast and tea, she rested. I cleaned the bathrooms and mopped the kitchen. A note for Rick on the counter, propped beside a tasty turkey sandwich, applesauce, and a slab of cinnamon spice cake, completed my duties. Karen was sleeping deeply when I left the house at 11:00, heading for Pine Street.
Peace Valley Funeral Home is the only funeral home in the county, outside of Newberry, the county seat. Although located downtown, the unassuming, one-story brick building is on the outskirts in a wooded area. Live oak trees and skirted magnolias crowd the sidewalks, and mosquitoes drone among the leaves. The other buildings on Pine Street are mostly Victorian two-story homes in various stages of gentle decay. True to my natural clutziness, I tripped on a tree root that shoved up the brick walkway leading to the door. I composed myself and walked inside.
A skinny, nervous, 60ish woman with flaming orange hair sat behind the desk.
“May uh hepp yoo?” she asked in languid Southern drawl.
“Hi, I'm Ivy Monson,” I said as I reached my hand across the desk toward her. It was met with a claw of terrifyingly long fingernails, slathered in bright pink polish. I gingerly touched her wrist with my fingertips and retreated. “Is the funeral director in?”
“Emery's in the back,” she replied, shoving her gum into her cheek. Her eyes studied me quizzically and twinkled a bit. “He's havin' his noon whiskey.” She stood up. “Just a sec.” She disappeared behind a curtained doorway. “Mistuh Plott! There's a woman out heuh to see yoo!” she called.
I discovered Emery Plott to be a true, old-fashioned Southern gentleman, such a rare man in our modern world. He sat behind his desk, portly, mustached, single, intelligent, non-commital, and around 80 years old. His health and longevity have depended on drinking three snifters of neat whiskey each day: one between lunch and his nap, one between dinner and his evening cigar, and one in the middle of the night if he is working in the morgue. I began by telling him why I was in Peace Valley, to which he merely nodded. I like to study people, and found him to be a fascinating specimen. From his penetrating eyes I guessed he might feel the same about me. I had never interviewed to be a mortuary assistant before and felt I was doing an awkward job of it. I tried not to drift into morbid detail about my untidy life and focused on my zealous interest in funeral work.
When I finished Mr. Plott leaned back in his rolling swivel chair with a long creak from its ball bearings. He closed his eyes. “So you finished your studies in Georgia?” His soothing, elegant drawl fell on my ears like an old, beloved tune.
“Yes, sir. Outside Atlanta in Decatur.”
“I know it well,” he said, his eyes still closed. “Gupton-Jones. And you performed acceptably on your licensing exam?”
“I did.”
His eyes popped open and he studied me. He crossed his fingers and tapped his fingertips together lightly on the edge of his mustache. I knew he was pondering some important idea that he'd been wrestling with for a long time.
“Mrs. Monson,” he began, “I would like to see your documentation.” He cleared his throat. “The work here,” and with one hand vaguely waving through the air he included it all – the scuffed oak desk, the red-headed receptionist, the elderly gray cat snoozing in the waiting room, the caskets, the chapel, the morgue, the refrigerators – “has been my life's commitment, a trust, a fidelity to my neighbors.” He sighed. “I feel it is coming to an end.” He paused and wagged a finger at me. “Not quite yet, of course, but coming.” He was silent for a while and studied a file of papers on his desk.
“I need an assistant, Mrs. Monson,” he said quietly and slowly, “and I would be willing to consider you, contingent upon viewing your documentation and license.” He looked up and smiled, and his blue eyes twinkled. “Are you interested?”
Mentally, I had to rewind his last words and listen to them again in my brain before I could process them. He was offering me a job. I simply couldn't believe it!
“Yes, sir. Yes, sir!” I replied. “I am definitely interested!”
So began my new career at Peace Valley Funeral Home and my new adventure with Emery and his long-nailed, red-headed secretary, Patty Goyle. I was terrified and thrilled. It seemed that my new life was actually happening! Mr. Plott walked me back to the reception area.
“Miss Goyle, this is Mrs. Monson,” he said in that reverent, patient voice I would learn to know so well. “She will be returning in the morning with some documentation for me.” Miss Goyle's head snapped around in my direction and she pierced me with her gaze. “I believe we have found some assistance for our labors, Miss Goyle, and I am quite thankful.” He turned to me and shook my hand. His hand was limp and cold, and he barely held mine as he waved it listlessly back and forth a few times.
“Thank you, Mr. Plott. I'll be back in the morning.”
Karen was mortified.
“Mama! No! That creepy place is just five blocks from my house! What will my friends say? Now I can't lie and tell them you're a nurse!” Karen had moved to her afternoon position on the front porch. A fan overhead and a glass of iced green tea in hand make a deep, Victorian front porch nearly perfect in the spring, especially for people-watching. She and I were observing her neighbors do yard work.
“Hush, Karen. They'll hear you.”
“Hear me! With the Instant Grapevine Communication in this town, they probably already know!” she retorted.
“Well,”I replied. “Maybe they'll be happy to have somebody besides Mr. Plott handle their loved ones' arrangements when they die.”
She leaned back in her chaise lounge and plumped her pillow. “Ha!” she said. “That old geezer? Emery Plott will probably be the first person you bury.”
copyrighted by M.K. Christiansen
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