Deathbed Confessions of the Criminally Insane

by Jack Steen

  I never had nightmares. Not like that. My dreams were often full of death…I’d dream about those in our basement, fantasizing about how they died. Especially if their bodies were mangled, cut up, they’d had an autopsy or on the few occasions…shot.

  My mother abhorred us having any part of the funeral parlor. She was forever lighting candles, praying over us, doing her best to shield us.

  Not my father. He was proud to be a funeral director. He wore that honor like a mantle and he expected us to feel the same.

  He’d once confessed to me how ashamed of my brother he was.

  He never understood Preacher. Not like I did.

  I miss him. Preacher.

  He reminds me of a time when life was simpler, easier. I miss those days. It’s easy to look back, to think back to when days were my own and I wasn’t locked up in here.

  I do get nightmares now. Of death being there, in front of me, but I’m unable to welcome it, unable to honor it like I’d been taught because my hands are always chained, I can’t move and there’s a feeling of unworthiness that floods my mind the moment I awake.

  5

  CHEF TO ME:

  * * *

  Do you get nightmares, Jack? Do you wake up in cold sweats, your voice hoarse from screams, tears running down you face from things you’ve done here?

  No answer? Hmmm…I think you do.

  You’re rather fascinating, Jack. You’ve been here longer than most. Why? What does working in an asylum like this fill in you? What voids there must be inside your soul? What penance are you living? What have you done that makes you believe working here is the best you can ever do?

  Or maybe that’s not it at all. Maybe…maybe working here fills the void that would otherwise place you in here as a prisoner. Maybe there’s a need inside of you…

  You really are quite fascinating.

  There’s something about you…it’s like trying to catch that fleeting glance out the corner of your eye as you walk down a hallway, that ghost of a memory you never quite grab on to…you show us only what you want us to know, don’t you?

  Yes, yes. All right, then. This is my time to talk, about me, not you. I see that frown. Fine then, I’ll continue.

  6

  CHEF:

  * * *

  My father was an awe inspiring man. I grew up in a small town, the type where everyone knows each other by name, where our doors were never locked and as kids we could run around anywhere and everywhere, until the wee hours at night and know we were safe.

  Everyone loved my father. If you needed help, if you were on rough luck or had a problem, you knew my father would be there to help you. It got to the point where rather than call the preacher for help, people would call our home in the middle of the night. We had two lines installed in our home - one for the funeral parlor and one as a personal line. My father always answered both, regardless of the time it rang.

  I remember my mother unplugged both phones one night. She’d had enough of being woken up, of my father leaving and not returning home for hours. My mother hated those phone calls. She would never go back to sleep, not until he returned and instead would stay up, cleaning the kitchen or baking some bread, waiting…always waiting.

  That night, she unplugged the phones without telling my father.

  Four in the morning woke us all up with a large thud-thud-thud on our front door. There’d been a three car crash along with a house fire and they needed my father’s help. Desperately.

  My father was responsible for helping to organize the calls for help in our small town. The police chief looked to him to take care of that small detail and when he wasn’t there, balls were dropped.

  No one’s fault really. Except my father hadn’t been available when he’d been needed.

  I’ll never forget the look on my mother’s face when the police chief stood at the front door and said if we’d had just one more pair of hands, little Elizabeth Michaels wouldn’t have died in that house fire.

  Elizabeth Michael had been such a sweet little girl. She loved to sit on the front porch with my mom on her way home from school, eating as many cookies as my mom would allow before heading home to her older sister who watched her before her father came home from work. Elizabeth Michaels mother passed away from cancer a few months before.

  My mother blamed herself after that and never unplugged the phones again.

  It wasn’t long after that, my mother died.

  She passed away in her sleep, the way mothers should go.

  I was just a child. She’d tucked me in one night with a bed time story and a kiss.

  We read out of the children’s bible storybooks a door-to-door salesman had sold us one time. I liked looking at the photos while my mother read the story.

  That night, Preacher climbed into bed with me and our mother read us story after story after story until Preacher was asleep and I could barely keep my eyes open.

  She carried Preacher to his bed, tucking him in ever so gently and stared at him for the longest time. By the time she came and sat beside me, tears ran down her face and she could barely speak, holding my hand instead.

  I remember the sweet smell of her as she bent down to kiss my forehead.

  I remember the soft touch upon my head.

  I remember the wet tear drop on my face before she stood.

  She whispered goodbye to us both before she left the room.

  Goodbye.

  At the time I thought I’d heard wrong. She must have said good night. But looking back, the way she read us extra stories, the tears, the gentleness…she knew that would be the last time, the last time to tuck me in, to say goodnight, to kiss me goodbye.

  I’ve never told anyone her final words. Not Preacher. Not my father. Not the pastor who came to visit us the next day.

  The next morning, all was quiet. Preacher and I walked into the kitchen, both rubbing our eyes, expecting to be greeted with the smell of eggs and bacon or pancakes and the sound of my mother’s voice calling us sleepy heads.

  Instead, it was our father who greeted us at the table with toast and honey.

  He didn’t say much. His face was raw. Bare. Cold.

  As we ate our toast, he told us our our mother was gone, that she’d died in her sleep, that it would be just us boys from now on.

  I don’t really remember much of those early days.

  I remember the breakfast.

  I remember how cold our home was.

  I remember the people who came to the front door with casserole dishes and desserts and offers to help in anyway needed.

  I also remember my mother’s death mask.

  I slipped into that back room in the funeral parlor every chance I could, knowing soon I’d never see her again.

  I tried to imagine what her final thoughts had been.

  She died from an overdoes, something I found out years later. But in that moment, I honestly thought she’d died from heartbreak and grief.

  I would dream about her, she was always crying, hands held out to me saying she didn’t want to say goodbye but she had no choice.

  A few times, I’d wake up with my pillows soaked from my own tears.

  Every morning since then, I eat toast with honey for breakfast.

  My father changed that day. I don’t know if the task of being the town savior plus being responsible for raising two young boys was too much but there it was. He didn’t go out as much and eventually the phone calls in the night stopped. People let him be, like they knew how hard things were for him now.

  Preacher and I started to help out more in the funeral home. I didn’t mind, in fact, I thoroughly enjoyed it because it gave more more reasons to be down in the basement.

  Preacher…he hated it.

  7

  CHEF TO ME:

  * * *

  Ahh, I see that glint in your eye Jack. One mention of the funeral home and you’re like all the others. What, do you think I’d spill all my secrets at once? Do you think you know the secret
s I’m about to spill? I don’t think so.

  Maybe I’m just an ordinary old man accused of horrendous acts.

  I’ve never admitted my guilt, have I, Jack?

  I thought you, of all people, would look at me different.

  Guess I was wrong.

  No, no, don’t bother apologizing. It’s all right.

  You might not be after a fancy degree or think you can pick apart my brain but you did warn me, didn’t you…you wanted a story.

  I have a story to tell.

  But you’ll let me tell it the way I want it told. Guess I should be saying thank you.

  I’m more than what everyone thinks I am. That’s what my story is about.

  8

  CHEF:

  * * *

  Our funeral home was quite famous.

  We were one of the first in the country to have a crematorium when they first became popular. The first to properly burn corpses with government approval.

  Death has always been a fascination for our family. Not because it’s morbid. Not because we fancy ourselves to be more than we are…but because we understood that in death, there is life.

  Think about that for a moment. Death is never the end. It’s only the beginning. A new beginning for the soul that passed on and a new beginning for those left behind.

  When people thought of my family, we weren’t just the funeral directors. No, we were more than that.

  For decades, we were the ones that helped those family move forward. Death had the ability to stop you from living but it shouldn’t.

  Death should be the catalyst for you to yearn for life.

  My father always told me that it was our job to help those families to see the light through all the darkness, to be their friend, to care for them as if they were our own.

  That’s all I ever grew up wanting to do, you know? Be like my father. Care for others who came my way.

  What’s so wrong with that?

  Preacher and I helped dad and the few staff he had on hand after school and on weekends. Preacher hated it and he’d always take his time, find one excuse after the other about why he couldn’t help until Father made it mandatory.

  Caring for the dead and their families was our responsibility, he’d say. It’s not a request.

  In the beginning we’d help clean the rooms, set up the chairs for the services or stack them in the back. Once in a while, Father would let us in the private rooms, the ones were the bodies rested, so we knew what would be expected of us.

  The general rule was we were never allowed downstairs, in the basement, where the examinations were held, the bodies cleaned and prepped.

  We were for sure never allowed anywhere close to the furnace that burned the bodies.

  My father personally handled all the ashes, placing them in the urns, writing notes to the families that he tucked inside the box.

  I used to peek into the rooms while the families were there. There was one spot, in the corner at the edge of the heavy curtain where no one would ever see me. Father did, of course, nothing slipped past him, but he never scolded me. Only asked what I’d seen, what did I learn and such.

  I saw my father in a different light then.

  I saw him care for the families. I saw them embrace him as their own, lean on him and need him.

  I wanted to be needed like that too.

  Growing up, I did everything I could to make sure Father knew he could lean on me. I knew Preacher hated being in the funeral home, hated the smells, the tears, the stuffy clothing we had to wear, so I worked extra hard to give him a break. At sixteen, I had taken on so much that Preacher only came when he was really needed, if there were multiple funerals or an especially large gathering.

  It wasn’t until I was eighteen that I was allowed into the back. Where the ovens were held. Until then, it was off limits, locked with one and only one key - a key my father kept on him at all times.

  The day he opened that door for me…my life changed in ways I could never imagine.

  9

  CHEF TO ME:

  * * *

  I see that question on your face, Jack. What if he hadn’t opened that door, right? What if I never walked behind the curtain? Would I have ended up here?

  My father always told me I was a natural, that this life was in my blood.

  Ever heard of the term Death Eater? No, not that kind that’s in those books everyone loves so much. They’re not mythical creatures or demons or anything remotely scary.

  Death Eaters are people like you and me. Society has always needed us, Jack.

  Always.

  Death Eaters are those who live among the dead, who help prepare others for what life entails following death.

  My father was a Death Eater. It’s why people gravitated to him like they did. He took the darkness so they could walk in the light. He made their fears less…scary. He helped people see that they could survive following the demise of a loved one, that their world didn’t need to end either.

  It weighed on him, being a Death Eater. But it’s who we are as a family. Every male member in our family, going back centuries, were Death Eaters.

  We’ve all found ways to deal with that weight.

  We’ve all found ways to carry the burden.

  We’ve all found ways to make it our life without destroying us in the process.

  That’s what I was convicted of. That’s what I was found guilty of.

  I will never admit to it being a sin, a crime, something punishable like our legal system decrees.

  This story … it’s not an admission of guilt. It’s a story of acceptance. It’s a story of life beyond death.

  It’s a story I know you’ll understand, Jack. I know because you’re just like me. A Death Eater. We all find our own ways of coping. I found mine. You have yours.

  What is yours? This. Recording my story. Giving me the time and space to tell it.

  Does that make you as guilty as me?

  Time will tell, won’t it.

  10

  CHEF:

  * * *

  Funeral homes have always fascinated me.

  When I was twenty-one years old, I went on a road-trip through through our state, visiting all the funeral homes, meeting with the directors. My father sent me with a personal note for each one. He always told me how crucial it was in our line of work, to remain on good terms with the other parlors in the area.

  There were a few similar to ours, with a private home behind the parlor.

  Many however, were separated. The funeral home was one building. The directors lived somewhere else. Almost as if needed the separation.

  Almost all were quiet, gentle, the decor soft and friendly.

  They were all bland. But then, most people don’t want to remember their time visiting a funeral home. In fact, the majority of people have only been in a funeral home once or twice in their life.

  They’re not really scary and for the most part, they can be quite homey and comforting.

  Out of all the buildings I’d visited, I liked ours the best.

  We lived right behind the funeral home. There was a small walkway that connected our home to the parlor, but essentially, it was like living in two large homes.

  Except one of those homes was full of dead people and happened to have a crematorium attached to it. But other than that…well, it was home.

  Father’s office was in the front with a large window so he could see when people were about to enter. He wanted to ensure everyone was welcomed the moment they came into the parlor with a friendly face because you never know the reason for their visit.

  It could be to purchase a casket, to plan a memorial service, to visit with their deceased loved one or for an actual service.

  Regardless of the reason, they were to be treated like family with a warm handshake, a gentle smile and a shoulder to cry on if needed.

  I was my father’s shadow for many years, always in the background, watching him closely for the slightest sign he needed my
help.

  It wasn’t until I was sixteen that he permitted my help in the kitchen.

  We had a large space in the parlor for families to meet and have a luncheon following a memorial or funeral service. There were a group of church ladies that offered to prepare the meals. They were mostly cold cuts, salads and cookies but my father always made sure to have a few warm dishes on the table as well.

  These he made himself. Prepared in our kitchen.

  My first real memory of my father was him in the kitchen, making a meal for a grieving family. Even then, at my young age, I knew whatever father cooked, it wasn’t for us. He usually cooked at night, after our own meal was finished and mother had cleaned the kitchen.

  He was always the happiest when he made these dishes. He had a special recipe box that he would go through, wanting to make sure he made the perfect dish for each family. He would often find out their preferences, what kind of casseroles they liked and would make two containers full - one for the meal with family and friends and one for them to take home to eat afterwards. Sometimes they were the same dish. Sometimes they weren’t.

  The last thing they want to do is cook, my father would always say.

  11

  CHEF TO ME:

  * * *

  I know what you’re thinking, Jack. I can see it on your face. This is where I reveal our family secret, right? This is where I admit all the things people claim about me.

  Well, you’re wrong.

  Was it really so evil that my father would cook these dishes for the families we helped?

  Was it really so despicable that we placed the families first?