The only glitch for me was arriving at the Cincinnati airport to actually do our job. I felt a rush of apprehension as we followed signs to the cargo area.
Grabbing the clipboard lying between the seats, I looked to see whom we were picking up: “Everette Linville. Eighty-two years old. Coral Gables, Florida.”
I was glad he was old. “It was his time to go,” as Granda would say.
Once we arrived, Julie enjoyed whipping the hearse around and speeding in reverse toward the loading dock, causing everyone to scatter. She kicked her door open.
“We’re here from Kilner and Sons Mortuary,” she announced in a deep, authoritative voice. “You have a body for us?”
The guy working the loading dock wore navy coveralls with RAYMOND stitched in white across the top of his pocket.
“Shouldn’t you guys be wearing dresses or something? Most guys picking up bodies at least wear suits,” Raymond said.
“I didn’t know there was a dress code, did you?” Julie asked, turning to me, in my denim cutoffs and peasant blouse.
“Didn’t know,” I said.
“She didn’t know. Next time we’ll be in our Sunday best. Where is this guy?” she asked, handing him the clipboard.
Julie took on a whole new personality at work. She was “don’t fuck with me” brilliant. Authority brought out what I thought was the “Julie of the future.” I could easily see her running her own company or becoming principal of a high school someday.
Raymond spoke into his walkie-talkie, and two men rolled out a cardboard box shaped like a coffin, lying on a gurney. Julie and I jumped onto the dock while the men unclipped the four black belts wrapped around the box and sliced open the clear packing tape running down the center.
“Expensive casket.” Julie nodded, looking inside. Raymond was opening the coffin.
Regardless of how many bodies we would eventually pick up, I’d never get used to the popping sound the casket made when it was unsealed, or the lid opening to reveal a human lying there. Mr. Linville wore a brown suit and a gold tie and had thick white cotton covering his face.
“What’s the cotton for?” I asked Julie.
“It holds their features in place while being jostled around on the plane. It also keeps the makeup from smearing and absorbs liquid that might seep out of the nose or mouth.”
Liquid seeping out of the nose or mouth? Disgusting.
We looked at the body. Julie pulled off the cotton, and Mr. Linville looked really good. No liquid.
“Shitty makeup job,” Julie commented. I looked at him again. He still looked pretty good to me. We checked his hands and clothing, making sure his shoes, jacket, tie, wedding ring—all the items listed on the manifest—were there. They were. Raymond placed the ten-by-ten piece of cotton back on Mr. Linville’s face, and I wanted to yell, He can’t breathe! and snatch the cotton away. But I was working, so I just stood there.
Raymond sealed the casket again and rolled it to the edge of the loading dock. Julie backed the hearse closer, and an iron lift attached to the dock lowered Mr. Linville down. We all grabbed the handles on the sides of the casket and shoved him into the back of the hearse. Dead people were heavy. Julie slammed the door.
“Well done,” Julie said. She turned to Raymond. “Later, Tater,” she said, changing back into her casual self as we hopped in and drove away.
On the way back to Elk Grove, we always stopped at the Hardee’s drive-through, where Julie asked for fries, “for the guy in the back.” This killed us laughing, even though the girl with the vacant eyes working the window never reacted.
Our new job suited us, but there weren’t enough people dying out of state to make it lucrative. We picked up a body only once a month, and sometimes not even that often. The real problem was that people needed to be picked up during the week when we were in school. Neither one of us could handle a full-time job with all the studying and extracurricular activities we had going, so we took whatever Dave could give us on the weekends.
When money became hopelessly tight, I called Mom in Dayton. “How am I supposed to pay for my books and gas and everything?”
“Ask your dad,” she said, as if it were obvious.
Mom didn’t give me money, even though she finally had a small income from Wright State, where she was now doing some teaching. She’d also received a good amount of money in the divorce settlement. But I was off her radar.
Whenever I needed money, I waited until the last possible minute when my gas gauge was approaching empty or I couldn’t afford lunch that day, and only then did I drive to Dad’s store, my gut soured from worry.
When he saw me pull in, he knew why I was there. By the time I got inside, the divorce papers were spread out on the counter, immediately putting me on the defensive.
His customers (who hated Mom and us for throwing poor Dad out on his ass) were sitting at the counter.
“What is it this time?” he asked. His customers chuckled, their fat asses hanging off the backs of the stools, their overalls covered in dirt.
“I need money to attend the Ohio State Speech Finals in Cincinnati,” I said, shoving my hands into the back pockets of my Levi’s. “We’re spending the night. I won both Sectionals and Regionals and have a shot at going to Nationals now.”
“Well, let’s see if that’s something I have to pay for.” He took his time running his thick finger up and down the clauses and sub-clauses while I stood awkwardly on the other side of the counter.
Finally he declared in a loud, pleased voice, “I don’t have to pay that. That’s your mom. Good-bye.” He waved his fat hand, shooing me away, my face burning red.
“Forget it. I should have known.” I turned to leave.
“Cry to your mom,” he scoffed.
“Mom doesn’t care, Dad. I won’t go to the state finals even though I have a chance to win a trip to Texas…. This is bullshit.”
“Your mother walked out on me. I didn’t make this happen.”
“You didn’t make this happen? You made everything happen. Why are you taking it out on me? I’m the one still standing here.”
“With your hand out,” he screamed. “I’m tired of beggars!” Dad tossed the divorce papers back under the counter and stormed off to the back of the store.
I reached over the counter, pounded the cash register with my fist, and took all the twenty-dollar bills.
One of the assholes on the stools yelled, “Glen, I think you better get out here.”
By the time Dad made it back up front, I was in my car with the doors locked.
I could’ve killed someone. I was a great student, a conscientious person who never drank or got in trouble. I succeeded in everything I set out to accomplish, and they didn’t give a shit.
I rolled down my window just as Dad stuck his head out the front door.
“I’m going to find a way to compete at the state competition, and I’m gonna win,” I yelled.
I turned on the car and saw Dad laughing through the large front windows of his store.
I threw the car into reverse, backed right up to his front steps, put it in drive, and floored it. I struggled to keep control of the wheel as the car skidded in the gravel. I heard a satisfying spray of tiny rocks peppering the front window and saw him bolting for the front door.
“I HATE YOUR GUTS! I HATE YOUR GUTS!” I screamed as I sped away, tears streaming down my face and onto the front of my shirt.
Twenty-dollar bills scattered all over the floor on the passenger side. Meaningless. Everything was meaningless. Especially me.
I drove around crying until the sun went down. There was nowhere to go. I finally went home to a dark, empty house.
Two weeks later, I felt a painful, pressing feeling in my lower back. I had chills and there was blood when I peed. Mom had driven down from Dayton to pick up some clothes, and when I saw her headlights pull in, I was relieved. She might be obsessed with Jim, but she usually came through when we were sick.
“I thi
nk something’s wrong,” I told her when she walked in. Julie and I were sitting on the stairs leading up to my room. “I feel terrible, light-headed and hot. There’s blood when I pee.”
“You’re probably catching the flu. You need to get rest. I can’t stay. I’m just getting a couple of things,” she said, walking into her bedroom.
Julie and I looked at each other in shock. I rubbed my forehead with the palms of my hands.
“I might need to see a doctor tonight,” I said in a loud voice so she could hear me from her room. She came storming out.
“How do you manage to pick the most inopportune time to come up with this shit?” she yelled.
“I don’t try to,” I told her. The truth was, I was frightened. I’d never felt so ill and it wasn’t a familiar feeling. It wasn’t the flu or a bad cold. It was worse.
Julie stepped in. “Don’t worry, Mrs. Peterson. I’ll call my mom and she can take Monica to the emergency room.”
Mom was furious. “Right. I’m going to make Joan drive all the way out here and then wait in the emergency room with her.” She turned her back, let out an aggravated sigh, grabbed the phone off its cradle, and dialed.
“Jim? Listen, Monica is sick or something so I guess I’m stuck here for a while.” She slammed down the receiver and turned to me.
“Get in the car.”
I sat in the backseat with Julie. We dropped her off at her house and drove to the hospital.
In the emergency room they took my temperature and a urine sample. I was lying on a gurney when the doctor came in.
“You have a temperature of a hundred and five and a kidney infection,” he said. “I’m going to do an examination. Let me know if you feel any pain where I’m touching.”
He pushed into my back. I flinched. “Why’d you punch me?” I asked, shocked.
“I didn’t punch you. I placed my hand over your right kidney and it hurt so much, you thought I punched you. That’s not good.”
He walked over to the nurses’ station, picked up a white phone, and said, “I need a bed.” He looked over at me. “You’re staying.”
I was in the most pain of my life but happy to finally be in someone’s care. I was relieved. Relieved there was something wrong. Relieved I finally felt as rotten physically as I did emotionally. The physical part could be monitored, controlled, and healed. Unlike my depression and feelings of being completely on my own or in the way, a kidney infection was obvious. Not a secret.
I wished there had been obvious signs of destruction on all of us kids: bruises or burn marks, something that indicated how violent our house was, but words and neglect don’t leave visible marks. And that confuses even the person who knows better.
That night Mom hated me for needing her, and I hated her for the exact same reason.
The next morning while I was lying in bed on an IV drip, a nurse came in and asked me who my guardian was.
“What?” I asked.
“Who is responsible for you?” That was a very good question. When I didn’t answer right away, she rephrased it. “Who takes care of your insurance?”
“My dad,” I said.
“We’re going to need to call him,” she said. “Can you give me his number?”
I didn’t want to, but she insisted.
I turned my head toward the wall. Dad was going to be furious.
I needed to figure out a way to get by financially until I graduated the following year, but I felt too rotten to think about it. I would try to sleep and think of a plan tomorrow.
The following week when I was feeling better, I drove to Dad’s store on my lunch break from school. I parked in the alley until I saw him leave for lunch, then jumped out of the Mustang and walked inside.
Doug Miller worked the tool counter when Dad was out, and he was staring right at me.
“Hi, Doug,” I said.
“Your dad’s not here,” he said, ready for a fight. Doug had been there when I’d peeled out and scattered rocks at the window. I smiled.
“I just have to use the bathroom,” I lied, and walked over to the beige door. I could feel Doug staring at my back. I waited inside until I heard a customer come in. As soon as Doug went into the back to retrieve whatever piece of hardware the guy needed, I walked up front and swiped the divorce papers from under the counter.
I quickly drove to the public library, where I made copies for myself at ten cents a page. When I drove back to Dad’s store, no one was at the counter. I could hear Doug running water in the bathroom, so I furtively returned the papers and ran out to my car. I’d made it.
That night I studied those papers line by line. I sat on my bed with my little green lamp directed right at them. After all I’d been through, the papers seemed benign—no wrath or fury. There was nothing about Dad throwing furniture or Mom stealing money from Dad’s truck. Instead, it was dull and wordy, full of phrases I could barely negotiate my way through. I did understand two things: He was required to pay for my college education and my medical bills.
After that I made sure I needed money only for medical purposes. A doctor’s appointment usually cost around seventy-five dollars, so after asking for that, I didn’t need money for at least a month. Then I needed money to get my teeth cleaned. That was fifty dollars and lasted a while.
I didn’t go to the doctor or get my teeth cleaned, but I had money to live on. I didn’t ask too often or for more than I needed.
Julie and I had just picked up Kimberly Sanders from the airport in the hearse. She was only two years older than us, but had died of cancer anyway. She flew in from Phoenix in a Carrington cherry wood casket with eggshell crepe interior. It was the fanciest (and most expensive) coffin Julie and I had ever seen.
Kimberly had always had curly red hair, but when they opened the casket to check her and removed the ten-by-ten swab of cotton from her face, she had no hair and no eyebrows. Only freckles.
We were driving the hearse up and down Main Street, when I saw my dad in the Valley Inn Restaurant. He was sitting at the counter alone, his head bent over a bowl of chili. His shoulders were rounded and his glasses had slid halfway down his nose. Earlier at the store I’d overheard him say he had a dinner at the Elks Club. I wondered why he wasn’t there.
We drove by at least four more times, thinking Kimberly might enjoy one last night of cruising Main Street, and Dad was still sitting there, drinking a cup of coffee and looking around.
We unloaded the hearse and parked it at the mortuary. After throwing Lowell the keys, I drove Julie to her house in the Mustang. On my way home I drove through town. Dad’s truck wasn’t at the restaurant, so I decided to stop by the Elks Club just to see if he’d ended up there. I ran into a couple in the parking lot who’d known Mom and Dad when they were married.
“Hi, Monica,” the woman said.
“Oh, hi.” I didn’t know what to say so I said, “I’m looking for my dad.”
“Oh, we don’t see much of him anymore,” the woman said.
“Why not?” I asked.
“He tends to overstay his welcome, if you know what I mean.” She smiled.
“No kidding,” I said, not understanding.
“Your father is funny for about five minutes, until you realize he’s all surface, no depth.”
I hated my dad, but I could have punched this woman. Her husband took her arm and said to me, “I’m sorry, she’s had a few too many.” As he was escorting her away, she turned and said, “What I’m trying to say is, your father doesn’t wear well, does he?”
They wandered to their car and I stayed put. Maybe Dad wasn’t such a big shot after all. Maybe people had him figured out.
When I got home, I was hungry so I poured a bowl of Rice Krispies and sat down at the kitchen table. I caught my reflection in the small-paned windows. There I was, head down, shoulders rounded, eating a bowl of cereal alone. Dad and I looked nothing alike physically, but our lives were similar. I ate alone, I exaggerated stories, and I didn’t let people see th
e depth in me. Maybe I didn’t “wear well” either.
I pushed the cereal down into the milk with the back of my spoon and thought back to the day when Dad was a good guy.
When we bought our house, I was six years old. Our backyard was mostly a marsh swollen with stagnant water that swirled in the spots where dragonflies and mosquitoes lit. Dad kept saying, “I’m gonna turn that mess into a grassy backyard and build a gazebo back there.”
Every day he came home on his lunch hour, hauling load after load of dirt and leveling it with Papaw’s red Farmall tractor. One Sunday, I was climbing up to the crossbars of our metal swing set, where I could sit and watch Dad rolling back and forth on his tractor. I was wearing a red-white-and-blue-ruffled bikini because we were going to Rocky Fork State Park to swim when Dad was done.
I managed to climb to the top of the swing set but lost my balance and fell smack on the ground, directly onto my back. I couldn’t get up and I couldn’t breathe. The fall knocked the wind out of me, which had never happened before. I lay there panicked, not able to make a sound. Dad must have seen me fall, because he jumped off the tractor, leaving it running, and ran across the yard to get to me. He swept me up in his arms and ran into the house. I was still not breathing.
“Come on, Monica, let some air in there,” he said, pounding on my back. I couldn’t make a sound and my skin was covered in a thin layer of sweat. He laid me on their bed, saying, “It’s comin’, don’t worry, it’s comin.’” He wasn’t kidding: I sat up and projectile vomited all over the bed.
The vomit brought a rush of air, and my lungs sucked in as much as they could get. I was so relieved that I grabbed Dad around the neck and hugged him tight. He patted my back. “You took a big fall,” he said, stating the obvious. I was crying now from the relief of breathing again. “You saved me,” I told him.
I stood up from the kitchen table and put my cereal bowl in the sink.
Driving With Dead People Page 15