The Last One to Let You Down

by K. L. Hiers

“Date of birth?”

  “March third, nineteen ninety-eight.”

  Tom swallowed back a mouthful of bile when he did the math in his head. “So, he’s twenty-two?”

  “I told you, he’s a kid.”

  “And the date of death, is that today?”

  “Yessir. Hospice pronounced him at one o’five.”

  Frowning, Tom asked, “Hospice is there?”

  “Yessir. Kid had some sort of cancer.”

  Tom eyed Miss Wheel frantically wringing her hands and refocused on the conversation. He cleared his throat again. “I take it then you already have a doctor’s name for the death certificate?”

  “Yessir. That’ll be Doctor Thompson. He’s one of the Hospice With Hearts physicians.”

  “And I’m assuming that the death occurred at Mr. Dresser’s residence? Where he was on hospice?”

  “Yessir.”

  “Nothing about the manner of his death is suspicious?”

  “Nossir.”

  “Well, Officer, forgive me for asking, but then why are you there?”

  “Right.” Officer Fester laughed. “Because the mama, Mrs. Dresser, she attacked the hospice nurse when she pronounced. Mr. Dresser, the father, not the dead kid, he’s trying to keep her all locked up in the bedroom until you get here. We need you guys to come pick up the body as soon as possible.”

  Tom grimaced at the officer’s casual attitude, but he was used to it. Not everyone had a lot of empathy when deaths occurred, no matter how tragic. He knew it was a common defense mechanism, but he also thought some people were just jerks.

  He took down the address and other pertinent information such as the deceased’s weight, and he promised they’d arrive within the hour.

  After he’d hung up, he turned to Miss Wheel. “Home death, under hospice, first floor, no steps. Family has been combative, that’s why the cops are there.” He handed her the complete first call form.

  “Oh, thank you, Tom!” Miss Wheel gushed. “Thank you. I’ll get the paperwork ready right away.”

  “Want me to go find Scott and Bosco? They’re working today, right?”

  “Well, Scott is out on a call at the hospital. Bosco’s here somewhere, though.”

  “Okay,” Tom said, standing up to give Miss Wheel her desk back. “If you’ll get the paperwork ready, I’ll go find Bosco.”

  Scott and Bosco were two of their removal technicians. Their primary job was to help pick up the deceased, and they also assisted with dressing and casketing as well. They weren’t licensed, so they didn’t meet with families or embalm, but they were an integral part of the funeral home staff.

  “You don’t wanna wait until Scott gets back?” Miss Wheel asked politely.

  It was well known that Tom didn’t like making removals. He was much happier being in the prep room, but this was still part of his job when the need arose.

  “I’m already in a suit, and there’s no sense in keeping the family waiting,” Tom said with a strained smile. “Aaron was about to go to lunch anyway. I’m gonna go find Bosco.”

  Outside smoking by the garage bay doors was where Tom finally tracked him down, calling out, “First call.”

  “What is it?” Bosco was a giant, by far the biggest man Tom had ever met in his entire life. He absolutely filled a door frame, and he had to duck to pass through without hitting his head. He had a crooked face and a deep, rumbling voice.

  “Twenty-two-year-old male, hospice, home removal, no stairs,” Tom rattled off. He knew Bosco would only want minimum details.

  “Weight?”

  “Not too little, not too big,” Tom replied, echoing what the officer had unhelpfully told him. “He’s on the first floor in a hospital bed.”

  “Okay,” Bosco said, flicking his cigarette butt out into the parking lot. “You got the paperwork?”

  “Miss Wheel is putting it together.”

  “You get that, I’ll get the keys to the van. Meet me back here in ten?”

  “Sounds good.”

  Two people always went on a home removal. There were too many potential obstacles for one person to perform safely, unlike picking a deceased up from a hospital morgue or the medical examiner’s office that only needed one. They used small minivans to do their pickups, ones specially modified with a tray in the back for the stretchers to load into.

  After Tom got the paperwork from Miss Wheel, he joined Bosco in the van to get going. They plugged the address into the GPS, and Bosco began to drive. He wasn’t a big talker, never had been, but Tom knew Bosco would take the lead talking to the family when they got there.

  Bosco had been doing removals for years, and he had such a gentle touch with grieving people. His mother was from Mexico, and he spoke fluent Spanish, which was also a huge help when they were dealing with Hispanic families. Being the size of a small house made moving even the largest deceased people a breeze. Despite his wealth of experience, Tom still wanted to give him a head’s up.

  “Cops are there,” Tom cautioned.

  “Thought you said it was hospice.”

  “It is, but apparently the mom is not ready to let her son go.” Tom grimaced. “She went after the nurse.”

  “I’ll handle it,” Bosco said briskly. Despite his sharp tone, Tom knew he’d meant the comment to be reassuring.

  It wasn’t common, but sometimes families could become violent during a removal. Grief was an awful thing, and there was no telling what they might run into. Tom had experienced everything from being pushed or shoved to having a beer bottle thrown at his head.

  He hoped this wouldn’t be one of those times, but it was impossible to predict. Knowing the mother was so upset put him on edge. It was already hard enough knowing they were picking up someone so young.

  Of all the terrible things Tom saw in his line of work, children and infants were always the worst. It didn’t matter how they died; they were all sad. It seemed like such a waste, and it was always the young ones that followed him home long after he’d left work.

  He’d forgotten most of their names, but he could still see many of their faces. Too few years on this planet to wind up on his embalming table, he’d think to himself. They’d barely had a chance to even live.

  Like this young man they were going to pick up—had he ever been drunk? Had his first kiss? Fallen in love?

  Not that any of those specific things were necessary for a quality life but to be denied the opportunity…

  “Get out of your head,” Bosco said abruptly.

  “Sorry.” Tom must have looked as depressed as his thoughts had been.

  “We’re here.”

  The residence was a small ranch house with three steps leading up to the front door. There were several cars already in the driveway, including a police cruiser.

  “No stairs, huh?” Bosco noted with a grimace.

  “At least there’s only three?” Tom tried to smile.

  “Let’s go.” Bosco’s grimace deepened. He got out of the car, paperwork in hand. He waited for Tom to join him before approaching the front door.

  The steps were brick, and both Bosco and Tom casually tested the edges to make sure none of them were loose as they walked up.

  Stairs of any kind could be quite tricky and very dangerous. Even the smallest cot by itself weighed about eighty pounds, and with the added bulk of the decedent, any trip or fall could be very harmful—not to mention the horror of potentially dropping a decedent in front of the family.

  A middle-aged man opened the door, tired and red-eyed, greeting them both. “Hi. You must be from the funeral home?”

  “Yessir,” Bosco replied, shaking the man’s hand with a gentle smile. “I’m Bosco Lark, and this is Thomas Hill. Please accept our condolences.”

  “Thank you,” the man tearfully replied. “I’m Howard Dresser, Brady’s dad. His father. Right. Uh, my wife isn’t taking this too well.”

  “It’s all right, Mr. Dresser,” Bosco soothed. “We’re not in any hurry. Did you and your w
ife need more time with your son?”

  “No, no, we need… he needs to go. We’re ready.”

  “I have a little bit of paperwork to go over with you if that’s okay.”

  “Sure, sure. Come on in.”

  Tom always marveled at how in control and compassionate Bosco was in these situations. He never heard Bosco talk as much as he did with families, and he had a gift for putting people at ease. It felt so natural and sincere, and Tom wished he had that sort of charm or whatever it was.

  He felt fake when he told families that he was sorry for their loss. He really was sorry someone had died because it was always sad, but was he really sorry that specific person had passed? He hadn’t known them, so how could he be?

  Tom argued with himself inside of his head that this was exactly why he didn’t wait on families. They would see right through his anxiety and out him for being some kind of phony saying what they wanted to hear. His skills were better utilized in the prep room and not risking making a jackass out of himself in an arrangement conference.

  Following Bosco inside the home, he carefully closed the door behind them. He saw the young man bundled up in a hospital bed right away, set up in the middle of the living room in front of a large television. Two officers were hanging out close by, chatting amongst themselves. They nodded at Tom and went back to talking.

  Tom stood fast at the door while Bosco took Mr. Dresser over to a small breakfast nook to sit down and review the paperwork.

  These preliminary documents were simple: verifying the spelling of the decedent’s name, birthdate, and everything else they’d taken over the phone. It would include checking that same information on a plastic identification bracelet that they would place on the decedent’s ankle and taking an inventory of any items they’d be taking back with them to the funeral home, such as clothing and jewelry.

  From the front door, it was a straight shot right to the hospital bed where the young man had passed. Tom could see him now, quite thin and his mouth slightly open, his eyes closed as if he was asleep. He looked peaceful.

  One bottle of arterial conditioner, one bottle of water corrective, two bottles of a twenty-five index arterial fluid…

  Tom was already thinking of how he would embalm the young man. He couldn’t help it. It popped into his head unconsciously, and he didn’t even know if the young man would be embalmed. Listening in to Bosco’s chat with the father hinted at cremation, but that didn’t necessarily rule out embalming.

  Not that anyone had to be embalmed. It wasn’t required by law, but many families chose to embalm, have a traditional service, and then cremate afterwards.

  “Time to go,” Bosco grunted suddenly, startling Tom with his presence right beside him.

  “Oh, right. They’re ready?”

  The man stepped away into another room, the door shut, and there were immediately sounds of a woman screaming.

  “Ready,” Bosco hissed, practically pushing Tom back outside so they could get the stretcher out of the van. “Gotta move fast. He’s gonna keep the wife in there so we can go.”

  “Okay,” Tom said, scrambling to grab gloves for them both as Bosco pulled the stretcher from the back. Tom quickly took hold of the foot end, and the two of them effortlessly guided it up into the house.

  One step.

  Two steps.

  Three steps.

  There was no sign of the mother or father inside, although Tom could still hear a woman crying hysterically. They were going to move fast, and their only audience was the disinterested police officers. They hadn’t said a word to them, but that wasn’t so unusual.

  Generally, police stayed until the scene was cleared. That is, they stayed until the body was removed. Their presence was a formality at this point.

  Tom pulled on his gloves and traded the other pair to Bosco for the identification bracelet. He gently pulled the thick blankets back from the deceased young man and placed the bracelet on his ankle.

  “Hello, Brady,” he whispered. “I’m Tom. This is Bosco.”

  “Dad said he just has these pajamas on,” Bosco said quietly.

  “That’s all I see.”

  Hospice had bathed and cleaned the boy up, and he felt so light as Tom and Bosco pulled him over onto the stretcher. Everyone felt pretty light working with Bosco, but this young man was small enough that Tom could have moved him by himself.

  There didn’t appear to be any fluids leaking, his diaper was new, and they opted to wrap a sheet over him instead of using a body bag. They tucked a pillow under his head, buckled him securely into place, and then draped the cot cover over him.

  Neither one of them spoke. Having done this for so long, there was a natural rhythm to it and talking got in the way.

  Tom already knew he would be going backwards down the stairs. Of everything Bosco did, it was the one thing he didn’t like. Tom would get on the foot end of the stretcher because there was an extra rail there to hold onto. They only had three steps to go down, but he preferred to use the rail if he had to go backwards like this.

  Bosco knew that, too, so again there was no need to discuss it. Tom went to the foot end, and Bosco took the head. They rolled their way to the front door, and Tom opened it all the way. Together, they lifted the stretcher, and Tom set the pace for descending the steps.

  “One, two, three, down,” Tom whispered, nodding as he continued to back up so Bosco could keep coming. Once they were both down, they wheeled the stretcher to the van. Tom opened the back door and dropped the end of the tray down so Bosco could load the boy up.

  Tom stepped off to the side while he did so, and he thought he heard the front door of the house open. He heard someone scream, right behind him, and tried to whirl around to see what was happening.

  “Tom!” Bosco’s warning came too late.

  It was a woman, Mrs. Dresser presumably, her face soaked in tears and bright red, snarling, “No! No! You’re not taking my baby! No! I won’t let you!” She reeled back and struck Tom right in his mouth. “You bring him back! Right now!”

  Tom jerked away, grabbing his face and backing up against the side of the van. Bosco was there in an instant, putting himself in between them. He took every slap, every punch, completely unflinching.

  “I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!” Mr. Dresser was out there now, trying to wrap his arms around his wife. “Come on, baby. Come on, we’ve gotta go! Please stop!”

  “Not until they give me my baby back!” she wailed, her hits slowly losing steam. She started to sob, falling to her knees in a miserable heap. “I just want, I just want my baby boy back.”

  Bosco kneeled beside her, whispering something in her ear. Tom didn’t hear what it was, but she hugged Bosco and began to cry on his shoulder. Tom took that moment to get back in the van, covertly checking out the damage to his face.

  His lower lip was split, bleeding, and he felt nauseous from the rush of adrenaline. He hated to see anyone in so much pain, and he hung his head down, fighting against the heat stinging his eyes.

  Fuck, sometimes his job really sucked.

  Even as he nursed his bleeding lip with a napkin from the glove compartment, he knew the worst part of his day wasn’t over yet.

  After all, he still had a drug deal to make tonight.

  “You okay?” Bosco asked as he got back behind the wheel.

  “I’m fine,” Tom muttered.

  Bosco seemed to accept his blatant lie and began driving back to the funeral home. He flipped through the radio before settling on a rap station.

  That made Tom smile. “He liked rap, huh?”

  “Supa Dupa Fly was on top of this stack of CD’s next to the TV,” Bosco explained. He offered a rare smile and turned the volume up.

  It was one of those little things Bosco liked to do. He’d try to figure out what sort of music the deceased liked so they could listen to it on the way back. Most of the time he guessed. It wasn’t part of the normal set of questions one would ask a family when their loved one just
died.

  The effort, however, Tom always found very sweet.

  When they returned to the funeral home, Bosco let Tom get out to go through the flower door to open up the garage bay. Bosco backed the van in so they could then unload Mr. Dresser discreetly.

  Tom punched in the key code for the hallway door and propped it open, pushing the stretcher with Mr. Dresser inside. Behind him, Bosco was already loading up another stretcher to replace the one they’d used.

  “Hey,” Bosco grunted.

  “What?”

  “I’ll handle the paperwork after I move the van,” Bosco said. “Go get cleaned up.”

  “Thanks.” Tom closed the hallway door and left young Mr. Dresser by the cooler. His lip was still throbbing. He didn’t want to see or talk to anyone, making a beeline for the employee bathrooms next to the break room.

  As he rounded the corner to dash inside the men’s room, he nearly smacked right into Earl, who was coming out. “Shit! Hey!”

  “Jesus blessed Christmas, Tom!” Earl snapped, clutching his chest. He was obviously quite startled. “You scared the hell out of me.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Not half as sorry as the piss running down my leg! My God!” Earl complained.

  “Are you okay?” Tom patted his shoulder. “I’m really sorry, Earl.”

  “I’ll send you my therapy bill,” Earl quipped, narrowing his eyes suddenly. “What the hell happened to you?”

  “The Dresser removal. The mom… she did not take it very well.”

  “It looks like she took it out on your face.” Earl reached into his pocket, offering a handkerchief. “Here.”

  “Thanks.” Tom brushed by Earl and quickly locked himself in the tiny bathroom. He studied his reflection, grimacing at the crusty blood that had dried on his chin.

  He could still hear Mrs. Dresser’s screaming, feel the desperation in her voice, and the anguish washed over him like a tidal wave. He took a few deep breaths until it passed and splashed some water on his face.

  Carefully, he wet Earl’s handkerchief and scrubbed off the blood. He saw a drop had made it down onto his white dress shirt, resolving to find some hydrogen peroxide later before the stain set in.