Mortuary Confidential: Undertakers Spill the Dirt

“Me neither,” I said, putting my hand on top of his in a friendly way. “That aside. How are you doing?”

“Hanging in there…I guess. I miss him a lot, especially at night when I’m alone. He was such a large presence. There’s nothing now.”

“Wes and I are here for you. You know that.”

“I know.”

“Let me go get him. I’ve got him all bottled up for you.” I disappeared into the back and returned with the bottle, which I handed to Jacques with great fanfare, and said loudly enough that Mrs. de Baptiste could hear, “Here’s a bottle of the finest. The finest I’ve ever known for sure.”

“Thank you, Curt,” he said with tears in his eyes that he quickly dashed.

“Bye,” I said quietly.

“Now ma’am,” I called to Mrs. de Baptiste. “What did you say I could do for you? I got sidetracked with that gentleman who came to pick up a wine bottle.”

Mrs. de Baptiste got up, and as she did, her estranged son came within mere feet of her as Jacques passed her on his way out the door. She looked curiously at the bottle cradled in the man’s arms; its contents hidden by opaque green glass.

She trundled over to the counter. “A bottle of wine?” Her Southern drawl made her sound as though she was talking with a mouth full of syrup.

“Yes. A little unusual, but I make wine in my spare time, and sometimes my patrons will ask for a bottle.”

“Isn’t that marvelous,” she said as if she wasn’t sure if it was or not. “But I have no time to be drinking wine at a funeral parlor.” Parlor sounded like par-luh. “I have come for my Charles and then I have a flight to catch back to L’isiana.”

“Your Charles? I’m sorry, ma’am, but his cremains are no longer here,” I said truthfully. The door closed behind Jacques. “His partner came to pick him up already. That’s what Charles wanted; I have a signed affidavit allowing me to release his cremains to his partner if you would like to see that document.”

The Southern belle façade cracked.

She spluttered. She threatened. She menaced.

I stood staunch and collected.

In the end, she flew back to Louisiana without her dear Charles, but what matters is that Charles is where he should be, where he wanted to be.

CHAPTER 47 The First Date

Contributed by a writer

My parents had been away on vacation to the Cajun capital—New Orleans—and I was meeting them to eat when their flight landed. It was summertime, and, as usual, thunderstorms had delayed their flight. I was already at the restaurant when they called me from the tarmac. It was a nice night so I got myself a drink from the bar and decided to wait outside. I ran into an old friend and his girlfriend outside. We reminisced for a few minutes before they went in to eat, and I gave him my phone number. We’d catch up, I told him.

I ordered another drink, my parents arrived soon, and I promptly forgot about the encounter.

A couple of weeks later I was at my parents’ beach house and received a call from the old friend. His girlfriend’s parents had rented a house the next town over, and would I be interested in going out to the bar? Would I? Does the Pontiff live in Rome? Of course I would! I spent the night out at the bar with him, his girlfriend, her sister, and a couple of other people. We had a great time. The next morning I had a raging headache, but I had the sister’s phone number and thus ended my weekend at the beach.

That Monday began my week on call—the week when I had to take night calls and go out on death removals. I generally don’t like to get involved in things I can’t be readily torn away from when I’m on call, but I didn’t want to wait another week before I could take the sister out on a date. I decided to set up a date. What are the chances I’ll get a death call during a two-hour dinner? I rationalized.

So, I called Melissa and asked her out to dinner.

She accepted.

At the time of our proposed first date, Melissa happened to be working at a pharmacy right across the highway from the funeral home. Naturally, I suggested a restaurant that shared the same parking lot with the pharmacy for convenience’s sake. I also made the verbal disclaimer that I would be on call that night, and might have to leave. She seemed fine with that. We agreed to meet when she got off work at eight o’clock.

I met Melissa at the restaurant and we were seated immediately. Due to the lateness of the hour, the place was fairly empty and the service was fast. The waiter came up and asked for our drink orders.

“I’ll have a margarita,” she said.

“Club soda with lemon,” I said. The waiter left. Melissa looked at me strangely, as if to ask, Why didn’t you order a drink also? “I don’t drink,” I said, deadpan.

“But you were drinking last weekend—” she said, obviously confused.

I laughed. “I know. Just kidding. I don’t drink when I’m working.”

“Oh.” She nodded like she understood, but still had a puzzled look on her face.