My Mom's A Mortician

by Patricia Wiles

  Second, Stiller was less of a nuisance. I was determined to keep my promise to Dani, and so whenever Stiller started up his old tricks, I ignored him. If he tried to annoy me, I walked away. A few times I even tried being pleasant, smiling and saying hi if I saw him in the hall. But I don’t think it was my change in attitude that affected him. I began to think more about what Dani said, that maybe Chuck Stiller did have problems.

  Stiller had never looked clean to me. Of course I was kind of a neat freak, but I wondered if I judged him too harshly. Sometimes he looked like he just needed to wash up. But lately bathing and washing his hair hadn’t ranked very high on his list of priorities. Some days he wore the same clothes to school three days in a row. And that was on the days he showed up. By the time spring break rolled around, Stiller had missed more classes than he’d attended. It didn’t hurt my feelings, but I never said anything to Dani. It made my promise to her easier to keep.

  Three days before the wedding, Mom and Dad brought in the body of the Armadillo postmaster. Irene Goodacre, a widow who lived on Fiddle Creek Road just off Highway 9, went to get her mail that afternoon and saw the mail truck sitting outside. She found the postmaster dead in the front seat, his arm stuck out the window and inside her mailbox, still clutching her mail—which included her monthly Social Security check. When my parents arrived, the old woman was throwing a fit because she’d had to wait so long for someone to get the check out of his hand that the bank had already closed.

  Everyone in Armadillo knew the postmaster, so we were busy during those three days. That, plus preparations for Marcy’s wedding, was enough to make Mom need medication.

  There were only going to be seven people at the wedding—the bride and groom, our family, and Marshall’s mother and grandmother. In the beginning, Marcy made Mom promise that she wouldn’t go to a lot of trouble. So Mom told Marcy not to worry, she would order a small cake from Walmart and be done with it. She ordered the cake, and also bought two cans of party peanuts, a box of pastel mints, plus two liters of lemon-lime soda and a half gallon of orange sherbet to make punch. Mom seemed satisfied with that. Then the day before the wedding, she insisted she had time to fix all those dainty reception foods, like cucumber sandwiches and ham rolls on toothpicks.

  I thought Dad had a great suggestion. “Let’s have some barbecue brought in and be done with it,” he said. “Everyone stays for supper, and we’ll all have a great time.”

  Mom said if Dad didn’t have any more class than that then we might as well feed everybody TV dinners. Dad replied that TV dinners would taste better than eating white bread with cream cheese on it.

  Mom’s right eyebrow raised until it looked like an inverted V. “Are you saying I can’t cook?”

  Dad tried to dig himself out of the hole, but without meaning to, he dug it deeper. “Well, Freda, even if you had the time to fix all this food, you’re not quite ready for the Pillsbury Bake-Off.”

  He was trying to make things easier, but he might as well have told Mom she could ruin a recipe for pig slop because that was the way she took it. She locked herself in the bedroom.

  Dad shook his head. “Your mother tries to do too much sometimes,” he said. Then he gave me a lopsided grin. “It’s just because she has a big heart. That’s why I married her.” He then called the manager of the Cow Palace and reserved the private dining area so we could all go there for a reception dinner. The manager even agreed to let us bring our own cake.

  On the morning of Marcy s wedding the National Weather Service issued a severe thunderstorm watch for Sherman and all surrounding counties until 6 P.M. I didn’t take it too seriously since the sky was clear, but Dad said he was glad the postmaster’s funeral was going to be early. We’d be through by noon, in plenty of time to help Mom with Marcy’s wedding at four. Maybe by then the storms would move to the northeast.

  During the postmaster’s funeral service I set up chairs for the wedding in the sitting area. All the bulbs we’d planted in the fall were blooming—huge bunches of daffodils and tulips lined the walks and bordered the wall. The last of the crocuses popped through the mulch like multi-colored popcorn, and the hyacinths stood proud with buds erupting in bright Easter colors.

  I set up the chairs and tied on the white bows Mom had fixed the night before. The garden was so full of life; you’d never imagine you were standing just outside the doors of a funeral home.

  I remembered what Dad said the day we ate our first lunch at the Cow Palace: Death is a part of life. But just one part, I thought. Love is a part of life. So are friendships, weddings, and babies. Change is a part of life too. Even unpleasant changes like moving, or losing your old job and starting a new one. Even sad changes, like death. There were so many parts of life I’d never given any thought to before, not until we moved to the Paramount.

  Marshall’s mother and grandmother arrived after lunch. Mrs. Cartwright was friendly enough. But Granny Allen, who looked to be a couple of years shy of a century, was superstitious and scared out of her mind. She walked around clutching her cane to her chest as if it were her only defense against evil spirits.

  “It’s bad luck for them to marry here,” she said. “I’m tellin’ you, these young ’uns are temptin’ the Devil himself if they say their vows in this place.”

  The first clouds appeared around 3 P.M. I checked the local forecast, and the radar showed a line of thunderstorms headed for Sherman County and Armadillo. Mom was braiding Marcy’s hair. She started to cry.

  Marcy patted her hand. “Don’t cry, Mrs. K. Nothin’s gonna ruin my wedding. God can send a tornado if he wants, but I’m having my wedding outside.”

  By 3:30, the temperature had dropped ten degrees. A blanket of black clouds threatened overhead. Marshall begged and Granny Allen wailed about curses being brought upon our heads, but Marcy refused to move the ceremony indoors. So Dad and Marshall got out one of the tarps we used for graveside services and set it up in the garden. It was navy blue with white trim and the name PARAMOUNT screen printed in white on both sides. President Carter had agreed to perform the ceremony, and he arrived just as Dad hammered the last stake into the ground.

  At six minutes till four we gathered under the tent—everyone, that is, except Granny Allen. It was bad enough to get married at a funeral home, she said, but if you’re going to stand under the graveside tent to do it, then you just might as well ask Lucifer to let you have it, and she wasn’t going to be party to the ruination of her grandson’s marriage. She dug in her orthopedic heels and there was nothing Marshall or his frustrated mother could say to make Granny budge from the kitchen doorway.

  Mrs. Cartwright said, “Mama, you can stand there rooted like an old mule if you want, but I’m gonna see my baby get married. And it don’t matter if he’s getting married in a funeral home, a nursing home, or the county jail. Just stand there and be stubborn. I don’t care. Come on, Marshall.” She grabbed his arm and yanked him out the door. Granny Allen shook her head, rolled her eyes up to heaven, and muttered prayers under her breath.

  The timer on my watch signaled four—my cue to turn on the CD player. Mom stepped around Granny Allen and took her place in front as the matron of honor. I heard the plop of a large raindrop as it hit the tarp.

  Dad reached inside the door and guided Marcy out. The guy who said angels had to have wings would have changed his mind if he’d seen Marcy float out in the cloud of white lace that was her wedding dress. She slipped her arm through Dad’s and kissed him on the cheek. He covered her hand with his, and they started down the aisle. Granny Allen pleaded with God to spare us of His wrath. Marshall kept his eyes on Marcy, and a single tear ran down the side of his nose. Sweat beaded his forehead, and he looked as if any minute he would melt into a big blob with a tuxedo on top.

  President Carter spoke solemnly. “Who gives this bride away?”

  Dad turned to Marcy. “Her mother and I do.” They hugged, and Dad shifted over to stand beside Marshall as his best man. Marcy hugged Mom too,
and gave her the bouquet of Easter lilies to hold. The raindrops began to hit louder and faster. Marshall took Marcy’s hand. A sudden gust of wind blew two of the white bows off the chairs.

  Mother Nature decided to illuminate the vows with some of her own fireworks. A bright flash electrified the sky. President Carter said, “If there be anyone who believes this couple should not marry, speak now or forever hold your peace.” Ground-cracking thunder followed.

  “Oh, Lordy Lordy Lordy,” wailed Granny Allen. “The Lord is wreaking out His vengeance on us today!”

  Marshall moved closer to Marcy. Mom’s eyes bulged out and her neck turned red. Dad leaned out from under the tarp to look at the sky and got hit between the eyes by a big raindrop. He shook his head and wiped the water from his face with a handkerchief.

  Just as the happy couple finished repeating their vows, something hit the back of my neck—a stone of pea-sized hail. By the time Marcy said the I do part, the hail had grown to the size of ping-pong balls.

  Dad had been in such a hurry to get the tarp up earlier that he didn’t do a great job of securing it. The tarp started to droop under the weight of the rain and ice, and the poles leaned with the wind. Another bright flash and window-rattling boom, and President Carter shouted, “I now pronounce you husband and wife, and I suggest we go inside!”

  I grabbed the CD player, and Granny Allen prayed over each one of us as we ran into the guest kitchen. Dad was the last one in. He shut the door and turned just in time to see the tarp blow over. The power went out, and the emergency lights came on.

  Marcy grabbed Marshall’s arm and dragged him to the center of the room. “President, you forgot the most important part of the ceremony. You’ve got to tell Mr. Cartwright to kiss his bride! Kevin, turn that music back on!”

  I punched in track five and started the recessional. President Carter tidied his jacket, and then spread his arms out toward the couple. “Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you Mr. and Mrs. Marshall Cartwright. You, sir, may kiss this bride.”

  Marshall lifted the veil, uncovering Marcy s perfect teeth and almond eyes. They kissed. Marshall’s mother cried. Granny Allen praised the Lord and said we’d been spared eternal damnation. Dad stood behind Mom, his arms around her waist. Maybe it was because his clothes were soaking wet, but he looked taller. And there was a softness to his face I’d never seen before—a gentle glow that flowed over his skin like the afternoon rain. And then I heard the voice: Kelsey is here.

  I took the worm out of my right pocket. My parents had cared for Marcy these past few months, and she had cared about us. She was part of our family. Maybe I was hearing the voice wrong.

  Kelsey is here, and your father knows it.

  In my heart, I wished I could see her, if only for a second.

  And there she was, my sister Kelsey, dressed in white, all grown up with long black hair and Mom’s eyes. She stood beside my father, gazing up at him, the same sweet expression of love—and contentment—on her face. But I’d only wished for a second. One blink, and she was gone.

  Then I knew. I knew why Kelsey was there. Dad had accepted her death. Maybe it had something to do with the way my parents felt about Marcy. Maybe caring about Marcy as if she was a daughter made him realize that he still had those feelings for Kelsey, even though she was dead. And having those feelings was OK.

  For the first time, the Paramount felt like home. I felt so much love then for my parents, for Kelsey, for Marcy—heck, even lumpy, dumpy Marshall had a few redeeming qualities. I wished the happiness and closeness to my family I felt in that kitchen, even in the whole funeral home that I once thought would be such a gruesome place, would last forever. And at that moment I knew, without any doubt, that just as we’d taken care of Marcy, Kelsey was being taken care of too.

  My dead friend Cletus McCulley would see to that.

  Chapter Seventeen

  While the newlyweds were on their honeymoon, we had another one of our kitchen-table board meetings.

  “Arlice, we’ve already talked about offering Marcy a permanent job,” Mom said. “I think we should consider hiring Marshall, too.”

  “Why? He’s got a good job in Gleason.”

  “We need him, Arlice,” Mom said. She sighed and drew imaginary squiggles on the table with her finger. “This business is too big for the three of us.”

  I spoke up. “I think it’s a good idea. He could keep the books and continue doing odd jobs for us.”

  “If we don’t offer them something here, then someone else will. Marcy’s been too much help to me for us to let her go. And you have to admit that Marshall’s been handy to have around.”

  Dad nodded. “Without him, we couldn’t have finished those remodeling projects on time.”

  Mom went to the fridge for a ginger ale. “Kevin’s busy with school, and he’ll have more activities. You and I need some time to ourselves so we can get away and not live the business twenty-four-seven. If all Marshall does is handle the bookkeeping, that will take a huge load off our shoulders. It’s a full-time job now to keep the records and pay bills. And I think we’ve established ourselves enough to afford two full-time employees.”

  That’s what Mom said. But I could read her eyes, and they said something else: I couldn’t bear to see Marcy go. Please, let’s give her a job so she’ll stay, and Marshall too.

  I could read Dad’s eyes too. He understood.

  “I make a motion that we hire Mr. and Mrs. Marshall Cartwright,” I said, raising my arm. “Anyone second?”

  “Me,” Mom said.

  Dad slapped the table. “The motion’s been made and seconded. All in favor?”

  “Aye.”

  “That does it. The vote is unanimous. We’ll present them an offer when they come back.”

  Two weeks later Marcy and Marshall returned from their honeymoon—a fifty-mile canoe trip on the Current River near Eminence, Missouri. Marcy glowed, but Marshall was wiped out. The most primitive place he’d ever slept was a Motel 6, which was still better than sleeping in a tent on a riverbank. And he was no Boy Scout. He’d tried to impress Marcy by climbing a tree, but it happened to be a tree covered in poison oak. When they came home, Marshall was covered in itchy, red blisters. For several days, he had to stay in their apartment because he couldn’t stand anything touching his skin but calamine lotion.

  Even in his miserable state, Marshall was thrilled when Dad phoned him with our job offer. He said that he and Marcy had even talked during the trip about how nice it would be if both of them could work for us. So when Marcy left for her finals, it was official—she and Marshall were full-time employees of the Paramount.

  We drove back to our old hometown for Marcy’s graduation. We left early in the morning so we could see our old neighborhood. The factory where Dad had once worked was still vacant. We passed my old school and drove down our old street. We even stopped and talked to the couple living in our old house. I got to see my old room, now a nursery for twin baby boys. The Hot Wheels wallpaper that Mom had put up when I was in kindergarten was still there. My old swing set was still in the backyard, too. But everything looked so much smaller than I’d remembered.

  The speeches at Marcy’s graduation were boring, but it was fun to see her walk across the stage and get her diploma. She drove back home that night to be with Marshall, but we stayed at the Owl’s Nest Bed and Breakfast until Sunday morning.

  As we were driving home Sunday, Marcy called on our cell phone. There had been a call to pick up the body of a nineteen-year-old boy. He’d been drinking, and when a state trooper tried to pull him over, he sped off, forcing the trooper into a high-speed chase. The boy lost control and crashed into an eighteen-wheeler. On Monday morning, the Armadillo Courier’s headline read, DRUNK TEEN DIES IN FATAL CRASH.

  There was a photo of the big truck with a tangled heap of metal piled in front. If that had been a car once, you couldn’t tell. I shuddered, thinking about what that boy must have looked like when they found him. I read the r
eport under the photo:

  The Arkansas State Police and the Sherman County Sheriff’s office were called to the scene of a tragic accident just past the Armadillo exit on Interstate 55. Last night at 2:14 A.M., Derek Lee Stiller was killed after trying to elude police during a high-speed chase north on the interstate. He lost control of his Camaro and skidded into the southbound lane, colliding head-on with a semi driven by Thomas Howton of Pocahontas, Arkansas, who was not injured. Stiller was killed instantly. Tests by the Armadillo Community Hospital and the State Police determined that Stiller’s blood alcohol level was three times the legal limit. Funeral arrangements are pending at Paramount Funeral Home in Armadillo. SEE PAGE A3 FOR COMPLETE OBITUARY.

  I didn’t realize he was related to Chuck Stiller until I turned the page and saw his picture. He had the same smirk, the same sandy blond hair, and the same close-set eyes as the Stiller who’d tormented me for so many months.

  I read the obituary carefully. Derek Lee Stiller was survived by his father, Stan, and his brother, Charles. So this guy was Stiller’s older brother. He was preceded in death by his mother, Anna Leigh Stiller. There was no mention of a stepmother or grandparents. There were uncles, but all from out of state.

  Stiller’s mother had been dead for over ten years. When she died, Chuck was just a baby. Chuck Stiller had never even known his mother.

  I was reading the obituary in the guest kitchen when Marcy came in for some bottled water. She sat down beside me and motioned to the paper. “It was a pretty ugly scene, Kev.”