Thirteen years ago...
I'm used to pain, grief and sadness. It's part of the job, a family ritual, in fact. We've owned this funeral home for several generations. I like to think that I'm in the people business, helping the living.
The entrance chime tolls, and I look up from my desk, immediately plastering my patented "bereavement counselor" look on my face. I close my book, silently slipping it into my desk drawer. The novel I've been reading is not appropriate to the occasion.
Two men and a woman enter as I move to the door. Hmm. A family, maybe? No...Maybe not, but they seem solicitous towards one of the men. I look for wedding rings, you never know these days.
Ah, there's a ring on the guy the others seem most concerned about. I can see by the way they're standing, that they're all supporting him. The man looks stunned, but not red-eyed. Kind of oblivious. Usually they've been crying, crying, crying.
Poor guy looks so young. And a bit familiar. I look him over. Well-dressed, designer jeans, rumpled designer shirt, but obviously hasn't groomed himself in the last day or so. Totally understandable. The others don't seem like they belong with him. A little white-trash-like, if you ask me. Not the types we usually serve in our Malibu branch.
I carefully avoid showing any of this on my face. My job is to observe the customer, and divine their needs. Socialite, celebrity, or the help, we serve them the same way.
Of course, I know why they're here. They're here to reenact an ages-old scene. A sad but familiar scene to those of us who serve the public as funeral directors. Someone dies, and the surviving, distraught family members and friends are forced to choose a burial plot and casket; plan the funeral services. If only...if only they'd pre-plan. I tell you, pre-planning's the answer. Would spare everyone a lot of grief, so to speak. Alleviate one of the most stressful, emotionally draining times in their lives.
I wonder who the dearly deceased is. Probably a parent or grandparent.
A man and the woman confer in whispers, while the other guy stands away from the group. He slumps against the wall in the hallway. It's then that I recognize the man. Good Lord, I think he's that famous TV psychic on all the talk shows! The one whose family was butchered by the smiley face killer! This sale will definitely be one for the funeral director cocktail party circuit. We get a lot of celebrities, but the combination of celebrity and serial killer is unique.
I wonder if the tabloids will cover the service.
I have to say, he looks really bad. Oh well, the event affects everyone in different ways.
I wonder if I should go talk with him, offer him a water, get someone from our staff to take him aside and sit with him.
Usually we wait a bit until the bereaved have had a chance to get their bearings. It would be unseemly, even in Malibu, to start talking price and options.
It's clear they're here to choose a casket, actually more than one, now that I think about it. The poor guy lost his family.
Oh God, it hits me that one is for a child.
The other man with him, a younger man, approaches me.
"Welcome to our showroom," I tell him.
We shake hands.
Introductions are made. Primary bereaved's the husband and father. The main guy seeming to be in charge introduces himself as the deceaseds' brother and uncle. The woman's a friend.
The guy who's the primary bereaved does not shake my hand.
"Sir," I say, "I am truly sorry for your loss."
He stares down at his shoes, hands moving. I get all verklempt for a moment because the poor guy's twisting his wedding ring.
"Umm, can we see what's available?" the brother asks, snapping me back to attention.
Now normally, I have a regular spiel I go into. "This is a showroom, not of vehicles for speed and transport, but of containers for the empty vessel your loved ones have become." And so forth.
In the split second before I launch into my spiel, I look at the primary bereaved. He shoots a look at me that...well never mind. I sense my cue. No hurry here to make the sale.
Danny, the brother, whispers to me: "This is a terrible thing that happened to my sister and niece. We'll pick the caskets for Paddy."
Ah. I have a name now for the primary bereaved.
I watch Paddy's face. It remains impassive. The hands are still fiddling with the ring.
"Umm...should we go pick something out?" the woman asks.
Paddy flinches.
"Please, sir, come and sit." I gesture in the direction of a little lounge area we've set up.
Paddy ignores me. Stares down at his brown shoes. Fiddles with the ring.
I turn to Danny and the woman. "Did we have something particular in mind?"
The woman shows me a photo of the deceased. Beautiful. "My best friend," she says, and chokes up. "And her little girl."
Sometimes, people think the hardest part of this job is dealing with the little angels that pass on. Why just earlier today, we had a little one-year-old angel come through. A little girl who'll never learn to read, or ride a bike. The little girl here is a bit older. And at least she's with her momma.
"May I ask what kind of service is being planned?" I segue into an area I feel comfortable with.
The woman tells me that only a viewing will be held here, but burial will be in Sacramento. No problem, we handle this type of thing all the time.
I look over at Paddy, then continue. "Religious?"
"Generic," the woman whispers, patting my hand. "He..." she whispers conspiratorially, "...doesn't believe in any of that."
"Ah yes."
Paddy is still looking down at his shoes.
Danny is flipping through the casket and services brochures in the foyer. I take Danny and the friend into the showroom, steering them to our "Littlest Angels" section.
"Usually," I say, "in these situations, families pick the little one's casket first and we match to any...larger ones."
They nod in understanding.
"All of them come as matched sets," I helpfully add.
What they don't know is that we have tiered pricing. The showroom they're in is the upscale one. More comfortable than a Cadillac, we always tell the bereaved. I can see that this group wants nothing but the best, as they should.
"Which cemetery will they be spending their time at?" I ask.
The woman hands me a note with the details. "I think we'll just need a simple visitation here," she whispers. "Of course, given what happened, no..."
"...No viewing, of course." I spare her having to think of what that would be like. From what I read in the tabloids, no mortician on the planet could make those two look human again.
I'm familiar with the cemetery they'll be using. It's one we often do business with up in Sacramento, and we have a regular transport arrangement for the deceased. Going up I-5's not a problem.
"Good choice," I say with as much reassurance as I can place in my voice. "Just let me check on the plot's availability." I go into the office, quickly call the cemetery and verify the arrangements, made by a "Danny Ruskin".
When I come back into the showroom, there's only one more thing for them to do now. Arrange the visitation.
I return and clear my throat. "Ahem, preliminary death certificates?" I intone.
Danny fidgets and produces the papers.
Jane, Angela Ruskin. Jane, Charlotte Anne.
Now I get to the more social aspect, plus I'm in business, and have to take care of that.
"There are some...options you may want to consider," I say. "Limousine, flowers, motorcycle escort, register books for the guests to sign, cards, memorial folders, certified copies of death for legal purposes, obituaries-these are all options..."
"Simple," the woman answers, "keep it simple."
I notice that she's looking up at the wall behind me. I know what's there. Lovely quote, lovingly cross-stitched by my mom many years ago. God's words to Adam in the Garden of Eden, Genesis 3:19: "By the sweat of your brow shall you get bread to eat, until you return to the ground-for from it you were taken. For dust you are, and to dust you shall return."
"No," Danny says, and looks over at the woman, "only the best for my sister. We'll go with your top-of-the-line, for everything."
I can see part of the hallway, and I can partially see Paddy. He's still staring at his shoes, still fiddling with his wedding ring. That's going to be a hard habit to break, but most of them take it off within a year, so he'll be OK.
I sort of indicate Paddy with a nudge of my shoulder. "Will he be alright?" I whisper to Danny and the woman.
Danny responds, "Oh sure. And, we'd like the White Angel model. For both."
I nod, and tell them I will arrange for something that's truly top-of-the-line. I smile indulgently at the woman, pat her on the arm and adjourn to my office with her and Danny.
I hand him the paperwork, and he indicates how the financial arrangements will be handled. He gives me the business card of Paddy's business manager. I know him well-we've done business before.
They finish, and are ready to go.
Funerals are funny things. We all need one, eventually. A funeral's a ritual common to all societies. A ritual whose purpose is really to help those left behind to heal.
It's a public service that I provide. A service to help them acknowledge that someone has died; to support their mourning. It's an important ritual: honor, remember and affirm the life of the person who died; search for the meaning.
I realize I've been saying all this aloud, to Danny.
I say my goodbyes to them, with my cell phone number and pager. I want to make sure all goes smoothly at the visitation. I want to make sure I can sell more extras, should they decide to add them.
I hope Paddy will be alright. He's young. He should get over it quickly. After a decent interval, clean himself up-a rich and famous guy like him should have no problem leaving this all behind him.
Three Years Ago...
I long ago stopped thinking about that day. We go through so much in this industry!
But last night, CNN Headline News showed this same Paddy guy, one Patrick Jane. Wanted as a fugitive! Apparently, he'd killed the serial killer who'd killed his wife and child.
Wild. How things came full circle, I think.
Thinking back and now with more experience in this industry, it strikes me as strange that Paddy never did attend the visitation.
For some reason-and I know I'm supposed to be emotionally detached, but cannot help myself-I decide to check on the graves of these poor Janes.
I text the guy who's my contact these days.
An hour later, he texts me back-with a photo of the graves. They've stood the test of time well. And since we back our product with a lifetime warranty, I'm confident that the caskets are doing well, too.
I pick up the phone, and decide to tell him my story. The personal touch, you know. He was aware that this Jane guy was now a fugitive-in fact the murder took place right near the cemetery.
And then he says the darndest thing. Flowers have been regularly delivered to the grave-site over the last three years. Before that, the graves were not tended to. He has no idea what the relationship is, but apparently a "Teresa Lisbon" has been making sure that someone remembers them-on the day of their deaths.
It's a lifetime deal.
Maybe he did get over it.