Ashes (10 page)

Gaines went through a curtained passage off
one wing of the dais. The back room always calmed him. This, too,
was a place of peace, but a peace of a different kind. This was
where Gaines was alone with his art.

The sweet aroma of formaldehyde embraced him
as he opened a second door. Faint decay and medicinal smells clung
like a second skin to the fixtures: a stainless steel table, sloped
with a drain at one end; shelves of chemicals in thick glass jars;
rows of silent metal gurneys, eager to offer a final ride; garbage
bins gaping in anticipation of offal and excrescence.

Here, Gaines practiced the craft of
memory-polishing. Each guest had loved ones counting on Gaines'
skill. The sewing shut of eyelids and lips with the thin,
almost-invisible thread. The removal of uncooperative intestines,
kidneys, and spleens. The draining of viscid blood, that fluid so
vital in life but a sluggish, unsightly mess when settled in death.
The infusing of embalming fluid, siphoned through thin hoses.
Anything that suffered the sin of decay must be cut out and
removed. Otherwise, it would be an affront to the solemn and still
temple of flesh that the loved ones worshipped prior to burial.

After the eviscerating came the makeup.
Gaines prided himself on the makeup. Of the three generations of
Wadells that had worked in the business, Gaines had been most
praised for his delicate touch. Just a tinge of blush here, some
foundation there, a bit of powder under the eyes to blend out that
depressing black. The right shade of rouge on the lips, so a loved
one might imagine the wan face breaking into a smile.

Stony Hampton was handsome under his green
sheet. The wrinkles caused by sixty-odd years of gravity and
grimaces were now smoothed. The face, though stiff to the touch,
looked relaxed. Stony might as well have been dreaming of a
three-day drunk or a '57 Chevy.

Gaines pulled the sheet off the corpse and
rolled the casket to the corner of the room. He pulled back the
pleated vinyl curtain of the service window, then nudged the edge
of the coffin onto the lip of the window. The coffin weighed nearly
eight hundred pounds, but the smooth wooden rollers made the work
easy. Gaines only had to give a gentle push and Stony Hampton was
on the bier, under the soft lights of the viewing parlor.

Gaines checked himself in one of the mirrors
that lined the wall. He adjusted his tie and joined Stony in the
parlor. Stony was in the spotlight, the star of the show, buffed
and polished and ready to receive tribute. The viewing was even
more important than the actual funeral, because the loved ones
would be examining the guest, and therefore Gaines’ craft, at close
proximity.

The first loved ones came in the parlor and
signed the memorial book with a brass-plated pen. Gaines watched to
make sure the last signer returned the pen to its holder, then went
over to greet them, putting on his funeral face as he went.

More loved ones came. Stony had a lot of
friends, relatives, and drinking buddies. Gaines solemnly shook
hands with each. As they began filing past the guest of honor,
Gaines stood against the wall with his hands clasped loosely over
the lowest button on his black suit. His eyebrows furrowed in the
proper mixture of sorrow and reverence, his jaw clenched so that
his smirk of satisfaction wouldn't blossom like the lilies and
tulips that girded the dais.

Their tears, their joy, their final respect,
all their emotions were due to Gaines' handiwork. This guest, James
Rothrock "Stony" Hampton, was fit for heaven. This was a man they
were all proud to have known. This man was one of God's finest and
most blessed creations. As the organ music fed through the
speakers, not an eye remained dry.

Afterward, Stony's wife came up and gripped
Gaines' elbow. Her eyes were wet and bright from too much spiritual
uplifting. "He looks mighty fine, Mr. Wadell. Mighty fine."

Gaines bowed slightly, tilting his head the
way his father had taught him. "Yes, ma'am. We hate to see him go,
but our loss is the Lord's gain."

"You're so right," she said, dabbing at her
face with a crumpled tissue. "And it won't be long till we're
together again, anyway."

"That will be a joyful reunion, ma'am,"
Gaines said politely, "but don't you go and rush things."

"Well, this old heart can't stand up to much
more. About worn down from ticking." Her skin had a slight gray
pallor and was stretched tight around the bony angles of her
face.

Gaines figured she would be dead within the
year. Another guest, another memory to be polished for loved ones,
another star born. What Father said was true: The repeat business
may not be all that hot, but at least the customers never
complained.

He said goodbye to the last loved ones, then
locked up and returned Stony to the back room. Gaines removed his
jacket and tie and hung them beside a mirror. He looked at his
reflection, into the eyes that were the same color as Mother's. His
face had the same oval shape as hers. But the blood, the liquid
that his heart pumped behind the face and throughout his body, was
all Wadell.

Heart
. What was it that Alice Hampton had said?
Worn down from ticking.

Mother had heart problems. But her doctors
wanted to install a pacemaker. That would probably guarantee that
she'd last another twenty years. Plenty of time to sell the funeral
service and move away. Long enough to demolish everything that
Gaines had trained toward since he was six years old.

Gaines looked down and saw that his fists
were clenched. He spread his fingers and willed them to stop
trembling. Laura Mae Greene was waiting on a gurney in the walk-in
refrigerator. She needed his skills. He would not disappoint her.
Or her loved ones.

He reached for his apron and mask, then
slipped rubber gloves over his eager hands.

"I'll be late tomorrow," Mother said. "I have
to drive to Asheville for a checkup."

"Do you want me to drive you?"

"No. I know you have the Hampton funeral. I
wouldn't want to take you away from your 'work.'"

Gaines put down his fork.

"What's the matter?" Mother said. She divided
her filet mignon with delicate sawing motions.

"Just thinking, that's all," Gaines said.

"Let's not start." She sipped her wine. Sixty
dollars a bottle. False pride.

"Next year I was going to buy some acreage,"
he said. "Carve it into burial plots. Get into monument brokering
as well. Make Wadell's a one-stop shopping center for all the
aftercare needs."

Mother slammed her knife onto the table.
"Stop this nonsense. You're going to go out and find an honorable
profession. Why, with your talents, I wouldn't even complain if you
went to art school."

"I'm not going to art school."

"Why are you breaking your poor mother's
heart?"

"Are you going to sell the house, too?"

The big fine house stood near the parlor.
Grandpa had saved a fortune by building the parlor on property he
already owned. Of course she would sell the house. So what if three
generations of Wadells had walked these halls and slept in these
rooms and dreamed in these beds?

"It's for your own good, don't you see that?"
She pushed her plate away. "All this terrible death and funerals
and corpses. How can you stand to do that to those poor people?
Your father didn’t have brains enough to have any choice in the
matter, but you’re different."

"Not everyone shares your convictions,"
Gaines said. He'd lost his appetite. Not from handling the guts of
Laura Mae Greene or touching the cool smoothness of her marbled
skin. No, his mother was the aberration. "I know you want to be
cremated. That's your choice. But other people need the hope of
eternal rest. They need a peaceful image to carry in their hearts
as they say good-bye to a loved one."

"It's all so horrible. Even if the money is
good."

"Poor Father. All those years, thinking you
loved him."

"I did love him. But you're as hard-headed as
he was. He could have sold the Home and got on with life, instead
of keeping himself buried alive here."

"So now that he's dead, it's okay to betray
him?"

She stood suddenly, tipping her chair over.
Her face was tight from anger, almost a death-mask. "How dare you
say that."

Then she gasped and clutched at her chest.
She gripped the edge of the table and leaned forward. "Don't . . .
do this . . . to your dear mother," she said.

Gaines rushed to her side. He found the
nitroglycerin pills in her purse and put one under her tongue.
"There, there," he said, giving her a glass of water. He led her to
a padded chair in the living room.

She recovered after a few minutes. The color
returned to her face. She asked for her wine. Gaines brought it to
her, and she sipped until her lips were again pink. "Why are you
breaking your poor mother's heart?" she said.

Gaines said nothing.

"Why can't you give me one thing to be proud
of?"

He had given her plenty. He was an artist,
well-respected in the community. He gave people their final and
most important moments. He polished memories.

But Gaines was at ease with the dead. With
the living, who wanted words and emotions and hugs and love, he was
out of his element. He'd been born to the family work. Even with
Mother's eyes, he still had a funeral face.

He left her with her wine and pills and
bitterness and went upstairs to bed, to think and dream.

Gaines was alone in the back room.

Stony Hampton's graveside service had been
beautiful. The preacher hit all of Stony's high points while
overlooking the man's many sins. The loved ones were practically
glowing in their melancholy. Alice Hampton had even thrown herself
on the coffin.

If only she had known that Stony wasn't
inside, she might have become a Wadell customer right there on the
spot. The tractor lowered the coffin and pushed the red dirt over a
four-thousand-dollar casket containing nothing but corrupted air.
The granite marker that said "Here Lies" was itself a lie.

Stony was the proper height and build. The
features were a little off, but that would be no problem. With a
little polishing, Gaines had a face that would work.

He went into the walk-in refrigerator, what
Father had called the "meat locker." Father was a part of the
parlor, as vital to the business as the hearse and the gurneys and
the casket catalog. Gaines wouldn't let his memory die. He would
not allow the name "Wadell" to be removed from the big sign out
front.

He took a special package from the wire
shelves that lined the rear of the cooler. He clutched it to his
chest. Laura Mae Greene was the only witness, and her eyes were
safely sewn shut. He carried the package to where Stony lay naked
and waiting on the stainless steel table.

Gaines worked into the evening, finishing
just as the long fingers of night reached across the sky. The short
trip home was difficult because only two of the four legs were
walking.

"What did the doctor say, Mother?"

"They want to do the operation next
month."

"Wonderful. I'm sure you'll be glad to get it
over with."

"Yes. Then we can leave here."

Gaines nodded from discomfort of the stiff
chair. Mother’s living room was too severe, lacking in personality,
just as the funeral parlor had been under her design. "How is your
wine?"

"Very good. Crisp."

"I'm glad. Can I get you anything else?"

"You're being pleasant. What brought that
on?" Mother's eyes narrowed as she studied Gaines.

"I've been thinking," he said. "Maybe you're
right. If you sell the business, we can start in something else.
You put up the money and I'll do the work."

Mother smiled. "What sort of business?"

"Anything. Insurance, financial services, you
name it."

"I'm so glad you agree.” She looked like she
would have kissed him if rising weren’t such an effort. “It's for
the best, really."

"Yes. I want you to be proud."

"It's what your father would have
wanted."

Gaines' face almost tightened then, at her
pretending to know what Father wanted when the man loved the Home
more than he had ever loved her. But Gaines knew not to let the
rage show. He kept his features calm and somber, drawing on his
years of practice.

"Are you ready for dinner?
I've set the table," he said.
Try not to
smile, try not to smile. Even though this is your best work ever,
your highest art, your most polished memory
.

"Why, thank you, dear."

He helped her from the chair. The dining room
lights spilled from the doorway. Gaines' vision blurred for a
moment. His eyes were moist with joy.

As they turned the corner, they were met by
the smell of meat. Not from the food piled on the plates. No. The
smell came from their dinner guest.

Mother gasped, not comprehending. Then, when
she finally came to accept the impossible sight before her, she
tried to reel away, screaming, but Gaines held her firmly. Perhaps
her heart was already giving out just from the strain of having her
dead husband grinning across the table. But Gaines was taking no
chances.

He pulled on the almost-invisible threads
beside the doorjamb. As the threads tightened in the small
eye-hooks screwed in the ceiling, Father raised his flaccid but
well-preserved hand in greeting and his jellied eyes opened. And
Mother's eyes closed for the final time.

Due to her strict Southern Baptist beliefs,
Alice Hampton would be terribly upset if she knew that Stony was
going to be cremated. But someone’s body had to be in the box that
Wadell Funeral Home shipped to the crematorium in Asheville.
Besides, Alice had her memories, thanks to Gaines and his
craftsmanship.