The Funeral Makers
Page 3
The second-oldest child was a boy of nine, Marvin Randall III, known as Randy to his family and the boys in his class who weren’t terrified of him. Randy began to wallop the youngest child on the top of her head with a SORRY! game. This was Regina Beth, seven years old, who lapsed into one of her usual breath-holding sessions. Thelma slapped Randy’s hands, took the SORRY! game from him, and gave it to Regina Beth, who started breathing once again.
“Randy, if you act up on this trip, you won’t get the new bicycle,” Thelma told him. “And Regina Beth, one of these days I’m going to let you hold your breath until your belly button pops open.”
“Mama, why can’t I ride in the car with the grown-ups?” Cynthia Jane reached beneath her organdy dress and tugged at the crotch of her panties.
“Sissy, are you still chafed?” asked Thelma as she wiped Randy’s nose. “Mama will get Daddy to stop for some cornstarch once we’re on the road. In the meantime, don’t scratch.”
Thelma gave the children the handwritten signs she had drawn up the night before. There were three of them and they said FOOD, BATHROOM, and FIRE.
“Why make a sign that says fire?” Marvin Jr. had asked.
“Mothers like to be safe,” Thelma said. “They feel better knowing that they’ve thought of everything when it comes to their children.”
Pearl and Marvin Sr. had two suitcases and an overnight case. Marvin Jr. opened the trunk and made room among his and Thelma’s things.
“That’s what’s so nice about a Packard,” he told his father. “All that room.”
“Where did you put the children’s things?” asked Pearl.
“There wasn’t enough room in the Packard, so we put them in the camper,” said Thelma.
“There would have been plenty of room if you had just moved things about a bit,” said Marvin Jr., defending the Packard’s reputation.
“You’re sure we’re no bother?” Pearl asked.
“No bother at all, Mother,” said Thelma. Ignoring Thelma, Pearl gave Marvin Jr. a quick kiss and said, “Thank you, son. You’re a good boy.”
Thelma was put behind the wheel so that the men could repose in the backseat and discuss business. Pearl sat in front, but could not concentrate on Thelma’s talk about the children and whether she and Marvin Jr. should try for another child. They were just an hour north of Portland, with seven more hours to go.
“Don’t have another one,” said Pearl, thinking, Oh, please, God. “Three’s enough.”
Then she turned in her seat to listen to the men. Marvin Sr. had brought along the bottle of scotch his son had given him for Christmas. It was a trip to relax, he told Marvin Jr. There was a time for temperance and a time for a drink or two. They drank the scotch from plastic tumblers. Pearl was afraid of her good ones being broken.
“Now as far as the funeral business goes,” Marvin Sr. said to Junior. “I think your Grandpa Ivy said it in a nutshell. He predicted that the funeral business would always make money because people can’t accept death as the end of human life. They need to believe that we’ll all survive it in some form.”
“Well, don’t we, sir?” Marvin Jr. said to his father. “I mean, that sounds almost as if Grandpa Ivy didn’t believe in God. And just knowing how pious Grandma was, well, it’s hard to believe she’d allow that sort of thing.” Marvin Jr. and his father were silent for a few minutes, both rolling over in their minds the image of old man Ivy, who had died several years before of natural causes, leaving behind instructions for an immediate and simple burial. “I’ve had my fill of families gathered to see their loved ones planted. The fake tears. The fights over the estate. Squabbling over who rides in the car behind the hearse. I want it kept plain. I want it cheap and quick.”
Old man Ivy then requested that his son be the only family member present at his interment. It was a slap in the funereal face for the family, and especially Marvin, his only son, who really believed that the Ivy Funeral Home, that any funeral home, was a public institution and ranked along with churches and schools.
“The old man came over on the boat, son. He was still wet behind the ears. How would you feel if you come straight from Russia to a land of opportunity?”
Marvin Jr. was not capable of even simple juxtaposition, so he said honestly, “I can’t imagine.” Marvin Sr. patted his leg.
“Of course you can’t. You’re an American, born and bred. So am I. So is Thelma and your mother there in the front seat.”
“And a McKinnon, too,” said Pearl, opening her side glass for a bit of air.
“The old man got off the boat, took one look around, and said to himself, ‘These people don’t appreciate the good lives they got so they’re probably scared as hell of death.’ He opened himself a funeral business and the rest is history.”
“That old man was a Communist,” said Pearl. “And an atheist to boot.”
“He just didn’t believe in the American way of life is all,” said Marvin Sr.
“Let’s change the subject, dear.” Pearl turned to look into her husband’s face so that he could see her roll her eyes over at Thelma. It wouldn’t be good for Thelma, who was known as a chatterbox, to hear this private talk about shady family members. Their secrets would be all over Portland in a week, especially if Thelma should become first lady of the Ivy Funeral Home. Pearl could not visualize it. But that Marvin Jr. and Thelma wanted to inherit the family business was obvious even to the corpses.
“Dad, what was his real name?” asked Thelma, who often feigned interest in family matters in order to be included in the conversation.
“Eye-vee-so-vitch,” pronounced Marvin Sr.
“No, it wasn’t,” said Pearl. “It was something like that, but different.”
“Eye-so-vitch?” asked Marvin Sr.
“No, but that’s close,” said Pearl.
“Doesn’t anyone know?” asked Junior.
“It’s written down on some papers somewhere,” Pearl said, pleased that the conversation was finally up to par. But Marvin Sr. was not a drinker and the scotch had loosened him for the rest of the trip.
“The old man revolutionized the funeral business, son,” he told Marvin Jr., who was taking large sips to catch up to his father. They were a few miles north of Bangor and at the bottom of their third glass.
“It was your grandfather who first realized that you shouldn’t bring the mourners in at the foot of the casket, because that way the first thing they see of their loved one is two nostrils. No one wants to remember a loved one that way, son. Don’t forget that.”
Pearl turned in her seat to lead the conversation off on some other trail, and that’s when she saw a sign held pell-mell in the window of the camper. It said BATHROOM. Thelma pulled into the next service station and saw to the children’s needs.
The Packard continued northward. Marvin Sr. began his fourth scotch, which was an unheard-of indulgence for him. The ice cubes that Junior had taken from the cooler at the last stop clinked in his glass. For an hour Marvin Sr. lectured his family in the dos and don’ts of funeralology.
“Son, remember this, if you remember any lesson from life,” he said sadly to Junior, who had fallen asleep. “Working in the funeral business leaves you a marked man. People cringe at the sight of you. They even say your hands smell.”
“Mother?” Thelma glanced over to see if Pearl was listening. “Mother, I need to ask you this,” she said. “What do you say to friends when they make nasty remarks about your husband’s occupation?”
“I tell them to mind their damn Ps and Qs,” Pearl said.
“Women shouldn’t discuss a man’s business anyway,” Marvin said from the backseat. He had begun to slur his words. Then he remembered a business idea Pearl once had after the old man died and Marvin Sr. took over the business. He laughed out loud, just thinking of a woman’s lack of business sense. The more he thought of it, the f
unnier it became, until he was laughing uncontrollably. Thelma glanced nervously into the rearview mirror.
“What’s so funny?” asked Pearl.
“Remember the time you wanted to…” But Marvin Sr. lost control again. He pressed a hand into his stomach. Tears filled his eyes.
“Well, for heaven’s sakes, tell us,” said Pearl. “The time I wanted to do what?” Junior had slowly inched his way over until his head was lying on his father’s shoulder. He was snoring now, mouth open.
“Are you laughing at Junior?” asked Pearl.
“I’m laughing at the time you wanted to turn the back room of the funeral home into a beauty shop,” Marvin finally said. “You wanted to call it The Ivy Funeral Home and Beauty Parlor!”
“It wasn’t that bad an idea. Women can’t always get an appointment right away when someone in the family dies.” Pearl was indignant, especially when she saw a trace of a smile on Thelma’s face.
“What do you think, Thelma? Men don’t understand these things, do they?”
“No, Mother,” Thelma said quickly. “They sure don’t.”
By this time Marvin Sr. had remembered a joke one of his employees had told him and left the image of a huge blinking sign that said The Ivy Funeral Home and Beauty Salon behind him. The joke was now all-encompassing to him and very funny. Pearl assumed it was still her beauty salon he found so amusing. After a few more minutes of his guffawing in the backseat, she turned to tell him that either he stop making fun of her or she would have Thelma drop her off at the next bus station. That’s when she saw the sign in the camper window. There was no mistaking it, and her heart pounded in recognition of what it clearly meant: FIRE. When Pearl screamed, Thelma had been trying to imagine a row of women sobbing beneath hair dryers in the back room of the funeral home. The Packard swerved into the gravel at the side of the road as Thelma fought to keep it in control. A pickup truck coming at them in the opposite direction left the road to avoid Thelma’s recovery of the car, which sent it wildly into the territory of southbound traffic. The brakes screamed. Pearl looked back, expecting to see flames engulfing the camper at any minute then spreading to the gas tank of the Packard. The entire Ivy family would be wiped out in one fell swoop. “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want,” she began. Marvin Sr. opened his door, thinking Thelma would soon bring the car to a halt.
“The kids are burning!” screamed Pearl.
Thelma had slowed the Packard down and had it almost under control until she heard Pearl say that the babies she had brought into the world, the children she had born to this family of death, were on fire. Thelma put her face in her hands and screamed uncontrollably, leaving the car to steer itself. The Packard took an alarming plunge for the ditch, threatening to tip the camper, which was swaying dangerously by this time. The door Marvin Sr. had opened, in order that he might rescue his grandchildren from a fiery inferno, rocked on its hinges, then closed on his leg.
Pearl had wanted to slap Thelma from the moment they first met, so she delivered one across the side of Thelma’s head. Then she grabbed the wheel herself, steering the Packard with her left hand, a task Pearl would never have attempted with two hands since she didn’t know how to drive. But she was a religious woman and, not about to play with fate, she began to pray. “Yea, though I walk through the valley…” Unable to open the heavy door, Thelma had rolled down her window and was attempting to climb out. Pearl reached over with her right hand and caught one of Thelma’s winglike arms and held on. In the backseat Marvin Sr. was still trying to extricate the portion of leg that his door had closed on.
“This is worse than the war!” he shouted. Then, “Step on the brake, Pearly!”
Pearl struggled to get her left foot past Thelma’s and onto the brake. She managed, but not knowing the complexities of the automobile, she pushed the clutch instead. The big green Packard, with Pearl steering by means of her left hand, snaked down the highway. Thelma’s crying was out of control when Marvin Jr. woke up with the full effects of the scotch upon him. By this time Pearl had figured out which pedal was the brake and slammed her left foot down on it. The brakes screamed again, and the weaving Packard, complete with a camper of innocent children, slowed down.
“A fire in the camper!” Marvin Sr. shouted to his confused son. Marvin Jr. grabbed the tumbler of scotch and melted ice that was still between his legs. He had heard his father in pain, his wife crying uncontrollably, his mother finishing up a hurried rendition of the 23rd Psalm. In an instant Marvin Ivy Jr. knew that he had before him the means to become the hero of his family. He leapt from the Packard with the tumbler of watered-down scotch, shouting “Daddy’s coming!” Behind him went the sack of egg-and-tuna sandwiches Thelma had packed for the occasion. Wondering why the earth was moving, Junior bounced along the road. The tumbler followed, leaving a wet, dark trail in the gravel.
“My God, we’ve lost Junior!” shouted Marvin Sr., who had just managed in his newfound drunkenness to retrieve his leg from the clutches of the door. Pearl, who was on her second recital of the same psalm, looked back in horror, sure her husband meant that the flames had reached the backseat and engulfed her only child. She forgot about steering the Packard and let go of both the wheel and Thelma. “He maketh me to lie down in green pastures…” Pearl shouted as the bewildered Packard left the road and careened through a field of hay and clover. It came to rest rather abruptly against a huge rock pile, only because it did not have the speed to climb it.
Halfway out her window, Thelma looked up expecting to see her maker, but saw instead a state trooper looking suspiciously down at her, then at the half-killed bottle in the backseat.
Pearl glanced back to see if the camper had been blown to smithereens, leaving behind only bits and pieces of her grandchildren. But it was still there. In the window Regina Beth’s small hand was holding up the sign: FOOD. Cynthia Jane was standing near the trooper at her mother’s window, tugging at her panties.
“Regina Beth can’t spell at all, Mama. She held up FIRE instead of FOOD. Are we going to have a picnic right here?”
“Cynthia Jane,” said Thelma, struggling to recapture her dignity. “Please don’t tug at your panties in front of strangers.”
“We’re hungry, Mama. Can we make a fireplace out of them big rocks and roast hot dogs?”
Pearl was examining the bruise on Marvin Sr.’s leg. “This is some way to go to a funeral,” she said to the trooper. “We’re lucky it isn’t our own.”
“Regina Beth is holding her breath again,” said Cynthia Jane.
“Good for her,” said Pearl.
Marvin Jr. lost both knees of his gray Sunday slacks, including most of the skin beneath. Limping through the field to catch up with his family was a painful endeavor. Each time weight was applied to his left foot, he winced. The ankle, he was sure, must be broken or sprained. There was a great deal of pain in his elbow, which was badly scraped. He stuck his head inside the camper door, expecting to find the charred remnants of his children. Instead, he found only Regina Beth, who was sitting on the floor holding her breath and the SORRY! game. Junior scooped the child up into his arms and hobbled painfully around to the Packard. They were all there, including a state trooper who was questioning a tearful Thelma. All except for Marvin Randall Ivy III. When Cynthia Jane saw her father, she ran to him, stepping on his painful left foot.
“Get off!” shouted Junior, putting down Regina Beth, who had begun to breathe again when she saw the policeman.
“Daddy,” Cynthia Jane pleaded. “Can we camp out right here? Can we? Please?”
“Where’s your brother?” Marvin Jr. asked.
“He got off at the last gas station to pee and Mama left him,” said Cynthia Jane, still chafed.
“Why didn’t you stop us?” asked Pearl.
“We didn’t have a sign that said STOP,” said Cynthia Jane, now tugging on her father’s sore arm.
SICILY KEEPS IT UNDER CONTROL: MARY MAGDALENE HAD A MOM, TOO
“If you keep your eyes shut tight and recite the Lord’s Prayer, you won’t get pregnant. If you swim in the same river with a boy who has just done it with someone, you can get pregnant, though.”
—Amy Joy to Her Friend, Beneath the Mattagash
Bridge, with Sicily’s Old Medical Book, 1958
At breakfast Sicily sat across from her husband. She twirled the lazy Susan that sat between them and watched the bottles go around like glass horses. Edward Lawler mopped up the yellow of his soft-boiled egg with half a muffin. He drank some coffee.
“Ed?” said Sicily, still twirling. “How old should Amy Joy be before she dates?”
“Eighteen,” Ed said as he finished off the muffin and reached for another.
“Eighteen?” If he had said sixteen Sicily might have conceived a way to deceive him for two more years. But four years? This nasty thing with Chester Lee was sure to ruin her health.
“Most young girls start dating at sixteen. Some very respectable ones start at fifteen.”
“Then my daughter will be two or three years more respectable than the rest,” Ed said and pushed back his chair. The belly beneath his striped cotton shirt strained against the buttons. Sicily looked at his beginning bald spot and wondered if Ed was too old at forty-nine to be the rational father of a teenaged girl. Especially one as developed as Amy Joy.
“Is that your final word?” She gave the carousel one last spin and watched the dizzy bottles come to a slow stop.
“It is.”
He finished off his coffee and ran water into the cup, then set it in the sink.
Sicily was always thankful for these small household acts that Ed performed. Not that they were especially timesaving, but Ed had been born in Massachusetts and spent his formative years there and that showed up in her husband. City-raised children had much more class. Ed never called soda “pop” or dessert “sweets” or anything that wasn’t homemade “boughten,” like the rest of Mattagash did. Sicily overlooked a lot in her marriage to Ed because of these little extras.