Mortuary Confidential: Undertakers Spill the Dirt

The brothers’ anger grew with the pile of stubbed butts until the ashtray couldn’t hold one more butt. Brian screamed some obscenities at his brother and stormed out. Over the next two days I played mediator and got them to agree, for the sake of their mother, on a funeral that suited everyone.

In those days the world wasn’t so “sue-happy” and I allowed booze in my funeral home. It was the typical Irish wake. They brought all sorts of food and drink and partied for most of the evening with music, singing, joking, and carrying on—the dead man lying in the parlor almost an afterthought. It was a big crowd, and the two brothers were pretty well behaved except for some yelling and pushing that was quickly broken up by friends. But they kept their distance from each other for the entire night. The wake ended and everyone left the party in good, drunken spirits.

The next morning the brothers showed up separately. Brian came first, escorting his mother. He reeked of cigarettes and whiskey and looked the part, too. He obviously hadn’t shaved or combed his hair, and his eyes were bloodshot and had the look of a hunted animal about them. I escorted them into the private family room, got them settled, and greeted the rest of the guests as they arrived. James arrived much later wearing the same clothes he had worn the previous evening. He obviously hadn’t been home. He too reeked of rye, and attached to his arm was a garishly dressed young lady whom he introduced to me as his girlfriend.

I escorted James and his girlfriend to the family room and outlined to the McSomething family how things would go that day so we would all be on the same page. Immediately, the two brothers started verbally sparring. I tried to nip it in the bud by saying, “Gents, could you please just behave today for the sake of your mother and in memory of your dead father?” That seemed to work. They stopped arguing and merely glowered at each other. Their mother sat silent, looking shell-shocked. I got the family seated right before service time and gave a colleague the task of getting the funeral started; I had other plans.

While the service was going on I wanted to embalm a body that had come in during the night. I went into the basement, where the prep room is, took off my coat and tie, put on a gown and pair of gloves. I knew that if I hurried I would be able to get done before the service ended and go back upstairs to say goodbye to everyone. It was wintertime, and in my area of the country you can’t bury in the winter. Everyone gets stored in a vault until the spring thaw, which sometimes doesn’t come until early June. I had just gotten the body undressed and was giving it a preliminary wash when the entire funeral home shook like it had been hit by a plane. BOOM!

I tore off my gloves and gown and rushed upstairs in my shirt-sleeves to find a circle of people in the parlor yelling and screaming. I pushed my way to the center of the circle to find James standing over Brian. Brian was laid out on the floor, blood gushing from his nose. As I floundered into the circle James yelled, “Don’t talk about my girl like that!” He circled his motionless opponent, shaking his bloody fist and ranting like a madman.

I knelt over Brian and slapped his face. “Hey! Can you hear me?” I yelled. Then I looked up at James, “Are you crazy?”

Brian opened his eyes.

“You all right?” I asked.

Brian shook his head, pushed me out of the way, and sat up. Bright red blood ran from his nose like a faucet, gushing down the front of his suit and onto the carpet.

James yelled, “You better stay down if you know what’s good for you.” He continued circling his prey, waving his bloody fists.

Brian ignored him and got unsteadily to his feet. He took a couple of tentative steps, before he spit a huge bloody loogie onto the carpet, put his dukes up, and said, “C’mon.”

The crowd exploded in yells and jeers, and Brian took a mighty swing at his brother. It caught him in the arm, but with enough force that James reeled backwards into a lamp on a table, smashing both.

“Hey! Hey!” I yelled desperately at seeing my funeral home being destroyed. “Take it outside or I’m calling the cops!”

Surprisingly enough, the mob listened. A couple of burly men in leather jackets grabbed them and said. “You heard the man, lads, take your grievances outside.” They marched them outside like truant children.

The crowd rushed outside, leaving only a crying Mrs. McSomething alone in the parlor with her dead husband. I was torn. I didn’t know what to do. Console the widow, or try to break up the fight.

I ran outside.