The Undertaker's Daughter

by Sara Blaedel

  “Let’s see if she comes out of it first,” Artie said. Carefully he lifted her head and stuck a pillow underneath. Her short dark hair, damp from the cold, clung to her forehead. He rubbed her arms.

  “She’s not really conscious. It’s like she’s in and out. I’m calling.” Her hand was on the phone to call 911.

  “Wait!” Artie ordered. “She’ll make it. It’s not life threatening until the body is under seventy-nine degrees; that’s when you need special treatment to survive. The important thing is to warm the body carefully.”

  “I’m not taking responsibility here; we’re calling an ambulance. If you’re afraid we don’t have insurance to cover this, I’ll pay for the hospital. She’s not conscious. This is irresponsible.”

  She lifted the receiver, but before she could call, he shocked her by wrenching the phone out of her hand. “We’re going to wait.”

  Sister Eileen stirred, and Ilka hesitated. “Okay. But being cooled down this way can kill you.”

  He nodded. “Go up and see if there’s a hot water bottle or an electric blanket in your father’s room, and fill the bathtub with hot water.”

  Artie kept rubbing the sister’s arms, as Ilka remembered her mother doing when she’d been out sledding and came in freezing, her cheeks red and fingers tingling from the cold.

  “Right now the important thing is to get her own heat regulation going,” he explained when Ilka came down with a heavy electric blanket. “But we have to be careful. Her skin can be numb from being cooled down. Make sure the blanket isn’t too hot.”

  She went out to fill the bathtub. When she came back the sister had lifted her arms, and she was moving her fingers one by one, as if she were making sure they were still there. She stared at a spot behind Artie’s shoulder, her eyes fluttering as if she’d just woken up.

  “How in the world did this happen?” Ilka asked. She squatted down and massaged the sister’s feet. “It’s way too unsafe if the door locks automatically when it shuts.”

  “It doesn’t,” Artie murmured. “The door only locks when you push the red symbol in on the doorknob outside.”

  “So what does that mean?”

  He stared at her, his eyes doing the talking: The nun hadn’t locked herself in the cold room.

  “We need to call the police.” She got up to call, but the sister spoke, asking her to come back.

  Ilka sat down again beside her. “What happened?”

  Sister Eileen tried to sit up using her elbows. Her body wasn’t cooperating fully; her movements lagged behind. She groaned and lay back down, and Artie tucked the electric blanket around her.

  “Did you see who it was?”

  The sister shut her eyes again, but this time her voice was clear. “Forget about it. It was an accident, and everything’s okay now.”

  “What are you talking about?” Ilka said. “You could have frozen to death in there if we hadn’t found you.”

  “Let’s just drop it.” Artie stood up. “If Sister Eileen doesn’t feel like being questioned by the police, she shouldn’t have to. Right now, the most important thing is to warm her up.”

  He slid both arms under the nun and helped her sit up. “I’ll walk her out to the bathtub; you can get everything ready for Shelby and her daughter. They’re coming at five.”

  Ilka wasn’t sure whether what had just happened was the last straw, or if she’d already made her decision after leaving the old crematorium. But instead of preparing for the two women’s farewell to Mike Gilbert, she went into her father’s office and plucked out of the wastebasket the transfer agreement Phyllis Oldham had brought.

  She smoothed it out and dabbed at the oily spots that came from its lying in the trash. Luckily there were none on the back side where Phyllis Oldham’s signature was written in steep, loopy handwriting. Ilka thought it almost looked like it had been written with a fountain pen. She reached for a cheap plastic pen with their logo on it and signed her name on the dotted line. The document now had both of their signatures.

  “Are you sure?” Artie said from the doorway.

  Ilka hadn’t heard him. “Yes. I’ll have to sell sooner or later anyway, and now I guess it’s going to be sooner. I’ve had enough of the funeral home business.”

  The thought of driving around to schools in Copenhagen and photographing students was more attractive than ever to her.

  “She’s going to be all right,” he assured her. “It will help when she gets into the warm water.”

  For a few moments, they looked at each other. Then she walked over to the desk for the keys to her father’s car. She stuffed the transfer agreement in her bag and left the office.

  32

  Ilka drove into the enormous parking lot behind Golden Slumbers Funeral Home. The spaces closest to the building were taken, so she parked facing Lake Michigan. Across the street, a flag hung at half-mast over the door of a building, and she hesitated at the prospect of going in during a funeral service. But she got out anyway and headed for the employee entrance Artie had used on their previous visit.

  She walked down the long hall decorated with family portraits. The soft, deep blue carpet engulfed her sneakers with each step, and the pungent odor of the embalming fluids was every bit as nasty as it had been the first time she’d been there.

  She took the few steps up to the desk, where the nun wearing the same garment as Sister Eileen had greeted them the other day. Now the desk was cleared and the chair empty. She looked around, then walked on to the office. Just before reaching the door, she noticed someone with his back to her, looking out over the river. Ilka recognized the youngest son, Jesse. He didn’t seem to remember her, because when he turned he simply smiled politely and said it was going to be a beautiful evening on Lake Michigan.

  Ilka asked if he knew where she could find Phyllis. Jesse pointed to his mother’s office and walked up the steps.

  The door was open, and she knocked on the doorframe. Phyllis was sitting behind an old mahogany desk. She gave a start when she saw Ilka. She must have been lost in thought.

  “May I come in?” Ilka asked.

  After a moment of silence, Ilka walked to the chair across the desk from Phyllis and laid her bag on the floor. “I’m sorry I behaved so badly earlier. Now that I’ve thought about it, I can see the right thing to do is sell the business to you.”

  She smiled apologetically and tried to show that she knew she had behaved childishly. But Phyllis Oldham sat staring straight ahead, stiff and unresponsive. Petrified. Had she heard Ilka?

  Ilka fumbled around and finally brought out the transfer agreement she’d signed. She laid it on the desk; then she saw the woman was shaking her head.

  Phyllis Oldham was dressed in an elegant blue suit with a blouse underneath buttoned up to her neck; a heavy gold cross rested on her breasts, and her slightly wavy hair was perfectly brushed. In short, she resembled herself. But when Ilka looked closely, she realized that in reality, nothing was the same. The pale woman seemed older than the last time she’d seen her, only a few days earlier. What really struck her, though, was Phyllis’s stare—was she even aware Ilka was in the room?

  “Phyllis,” she said, but the woman didn’t answer. It was almost as if she wasn’t there. Had she gone into shock? Maybe that made sense, given that she’d just admitted to paying Mike Gilbert to leave town.

  Ilka said her name again, and suddenly Phyllis looked at her. She reached for the transfer agreement and tore it in half, and without a word she swiveled her chair and turned on the shredder under the window. Before Ilka could react, she’d stuffed the two halves of the agreement in the machine. A second later they were reduced to confetti.

  Ilka watched silently as the agreement she’d just gathered the courage to sign disappeared into a wastebasket.

  “My offer no longer stands,” Phyllis said, her voice flat and a bit rough edged. “I’ve decided to sell the family business. From now on Golden Slumbers Funeral Home will be a part of American Funeral Group. I
t’s best you go now.”

  Ilka opened her mouth, then closed it as what Phyllis Oldham had just said sank in. “But I don’t understand—”

  Phyllis waved her hand. “No questions. I’m not at liberty to speak about the deal, but you’re welcome to contact the new owners.”

  Ilka simply stared at her, unable to move, while thoughts of her own situation and the future of her father’s funeral home ran through her head, now that selling to the Oldhams was no longer possible.

  “This is my last day at the office,” Phyllis said. “I’ve been told that I mustn’t remove anything, not even personal belongings. Not even the family portraits. No one coming in should suspect new ownership.”

  Ilka backed up toward the door. Suddenly the room felt claustrophobic, airless. Golden Slumbers had been the biggest funeral home in town, but it was nothing compared to the bulldozer forcing everyone else out of business.

  “And saying you could take over my father’s business at the end of the month won’t change your mind?”

  For a moment, Phyllis didn’t seem to understand what she meant, but then she shook her head. “It’s too late.”

  Ilka nodded.

  “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” she yelled, on her way to the car. She kicked an empty cola can at a black Dodge parked in front of the building. Then she turned and took one last look at the funeral home. Things hadn’t exactly become easier for her.

  33

  Back at her own funeral home, Ilka parked the car, shut off the engine, closed her eyes, and rested her head against the steering wheel. What she wanted most of all was to call her mother and ask her to come and help her out of the mess she’d gotten herself into.

  She pressed her temples and tried to control her breathing. They were going to be crushed; she had no doubt about that. The smartest thing to do was to look for a new buyer before word got out that American Funeral Group had bought Golden Slumbers. Otherwise no one would dare take over a small operation like hers. And now that the funeral home chain owned a big funeral home in town, they probably weren’t interested in hers. She just didn’t understand why Phyllis Oldham had decided to sell when she so recently had planned on expanding.

  As Ilka saw it, she had only one option left. Determined now, she jumped out of the car and trotted across the parking lot to find Artie. His car was still there; he couldn’t have gone home, she thought. But the hearse was gone, and she found a note on the desk: “We’ve got a pickup. I’ll try to be back before Shelby and the family arrive.”

  Ilka had forgotten all about them. It was almost four thirty, and she hadn’t opened up the chapel or prepared the music.

  She rushed in and switched on the light. The room was cool; the curtains had been left closed. Ilka wasn’t familiar with the stereo system, but she pressed the CD button. Soft Muzak streamed out of the hidden speakers. She found a box of matches and walked over to the candles to be placed around Mike Gilbert’s open coffin. Even though the rear section was closed off, the room seemed much too big and impersonal. They should have a room even smaller, Ilka thought. Then she shook that idea off; it wasn’t her problem, or at least it wouldn’t be.

  A car drove in. She went outside to give Artie a hand.

  “That was quick,” she said, as he got out of the hearse to open the garage door.

  “It was just down at the nursing home. She died yesterday; it was expected. The family was there today to say their good-byes.”

  “When do we meet with them? Are they coming here, or do we go to them?”

  “No meeting necessary. They’ve said their good-byes; they just want to know when to pick up the urn.”

  Ilka stared. “So we won’t be involved? Except for the pickup?”

  “And the cremation.”

  Here we go again, she thought. She started to walk over for the casket carriage, but Artie stopped her. “She’s there on the stretcher; there’s no coffin.”

  Ilka gave up and simply waited. “Is something wrong?” she asked. “Isn’t this just something to get over with?”

  Artie looked in the back of the hearse at the body covered by a white sheet. “Irene was only thirty-four years old. She was born with a mental handicap, and it’s been years since she recognized her parents. She’s been in the nursing home the last fourteen years. She was too much for the family to take care of at home.”

  “That’s so terribly sad.” She walked over to the hearse. “Shouldn’t we put her in a coffin? We can’t have her lying there like that.”

  Artie looked at her. “Incredible how much you remind me of your dad.”

  Ilka pointed over toward one of the coffins by the wall. “Can’t we use one of those?”

  “Yeah, why not? Irene might as well get some use out of it before the Oldhams take over and clean everything out.”

  Ilka stopped. It took a moment for him to realize something was wrong. “What?” asked Artie.

  “The deal is off. Phyllis tore the transfer agreement up and shredded it.”

  Artie started laughing. “She’ll come around; she’s just trying to show you who’s boss.”

  “No, she won’t. She just sold Golden Slumbers to the American Funeral Group.”

  Though he was thirty feet away, she saw his face fall. “She didn’t!”

  Ilka nodded. “They’re taking over immediately. We won’t be selling. Unless we sell to them.”

  He swiped at his forehead, as if he needed to clear his mind. He shook a cigarette out of his pack and lit it, even though they were in the garage.

  “Shelby’s coming in ten minutes,” he said. “You better go in and get ready for her. I’ll get Mike’s coffin. We’ll take care of Irene later.”

  Ilka nodded and went back into the house. She unlocked the front door so the family didn’t have to use the back entrance, as Shelby had been doing. A door slammed and something rolled across the floor; then she watched Artie maneuver the catafalque through the doorway. She went out to start the coffee, fill a bowl with chocolates, and find a new box of Kleenex.

  The doorbell rang, and Ilka walked out to let them in. Shelby entered with her arm around her daughter, who was using a cane. She’d been allowed to leave All Saints Hospital to say good-bye to her brother. Emma was frail, almost translucent. She wore a black cape over her much-too-loose clothing and a scarf over her bald head. A gust of wind could almost scoop her up and carry her away. Ilka knew she was on her second round of chemotherapy; the tumor in her brain was still too big for an operation that Shelby wasn’t even sure she could pay for. It seemed unbearable to Ilka, so different than in Denmark, where it wasn’t a question of money, but of whether a treatment was good enough.

  Shelby was also dressed in black. She seemed more poised than before. “The only one missing is Tommy,” she said, with a long-suffering annoyance in her voice she surely wasn’t aware of. “He’s always late.”

  “Let’s sit down while we wait,” Ilka said. She picked up a small stack of laminated photos of Mike, on which the date of his birth and death were printed. Sister Eileen had been a bit unsure of whether or not it was appropriate, since this wasn’t a real funeral service, but Ilka had thought it was a good idea, that the family would appreciate something to remember him by.

  She had already given up trying to figure out whether or not something was appropriate; American burials were so different from the ones back in Denmark. Her main impression was that nothing could be too much over here when it came to commemorating deceased loved ones.

  Inside the arrangement room, Shelby helped her daughter sit down in the armchair while Ilka brought in the coffee and chocolates, which she set on the table.

  Ilka noticed something different about her. Something lighter, even though in a few moments she would be going in to say good-bye to her oldest child. Ilka smiled and looked away when Shelby met her eyes.

  “Emma is a bit nervous about seeing her brother in there,” she said, glancing affectionately at her daughter. “But I told her not to worry, because
Artie Sorvino has taken good care of him.”

  “He does look very good,” Ilka said. She asked Emma how she remembered her brother.

  At first Mike’s sister stared down at her hands. Should she not have been so direct? Ilka wondered. But then Emma looked up with a big smile on her face. “He always needed a haircut. And he wouldn’t put on a shirt, even though Mom told him to. Isn’t that right, Mom?”

  She turned to Shelby, who nodded. “I’m sure it’s true, even though I can’t remember about the shirts.” She smiled. “But I do remember he always got holes in the toes of his tennis shoes. They’d start fraying, and you knew it was just a matter of time before they’d fall apart.” She shook her head at the memory.

  “I always did like Ashley,” Emma said after a few moments of silence. “She was always nice, and she asked me several times if I wanted to go down to the harbor when they went to look at the ships. Back when Mike hung out with Jesse and the other guys, I never got to go along.”

  Her mother tilted her head, as if she were surprised that her daughter had suddenly spoken about something that had happened years ago. “But you and your brother spent a lot of time together,” she said.

  Emma nodded. “Maybe it was mostly Jesse who didn’t want me along.”

  “Were they together a lot back then?” Ilka asked. “I mean, Mike and Jesse Oldham?”

  Shelby said the two boys had been in the same class, but it wasn’t until they were fifteen or sixteen that the younger Oldham boy started acting friendly toward Mike.

  “And it was only because Mike was the starting quarterback,” Emma said. “Jesse wasn’t any good at football, but he hung around, a real wannabe.”

  She snorted. “But when Mike started going out with Ashley, he stopped hanging around with Jesse.”