plots. Get into monument brokering as well. Make Wadell's a one-stop shopping center for all the aftercare needs."
Mother slammed her knife onto the table. "Stop this nonsense. You're going to go out and find an honorable profession. Why, with your talents, I wouldn't even complain if you went to art school."
"I'm not going to art school."
"Why are you breaking your poor mother's heart?"
"Are you going to sell the house, too?"
The big fine house stood near the parlor. Grandpa had saved a fortune by building the parlor on property he already owned. Of course she would sell the house. So what if three generations of Wadells had walked these halls and slept in these rooms and dreamed in these beds?
"It's for your own good, don't you see that?" She pushed her plate away. "All this terrible death and funerals and corpses. How can you stand to do that to those poor people? Your father didn’t have brains enough to have any choice in the matter, but you’re different."
"Not everyone shares your convictions," Gaines said. He'd lost his appetite. Not from handling the guts of Laura Mae Greene or touching the cool smoothness of her marbled skin. No, his mother was the aberration. "I know you want to be cremated. That's your choice. But other people need the hope of eternal rest. They need a peaceful image to carry in their hearts as they say good-bye to a loved one."
"It's all so horrible. Even if the money is good."
"Poor Father. All those years, thinking you loved him."
"I did love him. But you're as hard-headed as he was. He could have sold the Home and got on with life, instead of keeping himself buried alive here."
"So now that he's dead, it's okay to betray him?"
She stood suddenly, tipping her chair over. Her face was tight from anger, almost a death-mask. "How dare you say that."
Then she gasped and clutched at her chest. She gripped the edge of the table and leaned forward. "Don't . . . do this . . . to your dear mother," she said.
Gaines rushed to her side. He found the nitroglycerin pills in her purse and put one under her tongue. "There, there," he said, giving her a glass of water. He led her to a padded chair in the living room.
She recovered after a few minutes. The color returned to her face. She asked for her wine. Gaines brought it to her, and she sipped until her lips were again pink. "Why are you breaking your poor mother's heart?" she said.
Gaines said nothing.
"Why can't you give me one thing to be proud of?"
He had given her plenty. He was an artist, well-respected in the community. He gave people their final and most important moments. He polished memories.
But Gaines was at ease with the dead. With the living, who wanted words and emotions and hugs and love, he was out of his element. He'd been born to the family work. Even with Mother's eyes, he still had a funeral face.
He left her with her wine and pills and bitterness and went upstairs to bed, to think and dream.
Gaines was alone in the back room.
Stony Hampton 's graveside service had been beautiful. The preacher hit all of Stony's high points while overlooking the man's many sins. The loved ones were practically glowing in their melancholy. Alice Hampton had even thrown herself on the coffin.
If only she had known that Stony wasn't inside, she might have become a Wadell customer right there on the spot. The tractor lowered the coffin and pushed the red dirt over a four-thousand-dollar casket containing nothing but corrupted air. The granite marker that said "Here Lies" was itself a lie.
Stony was the proper height and build. The features were a little off, but that would be no problem. With a little polishing, Gaines had a face that would work.
He went into the walk-in refrigerator, what Father had called the "meat locker." Father was a part of the parlor, as vital to the business as the hearse and the gurneys and the casket catalog. Gaines wouldn't let his memory die. He would not allow the name "Wadell" to be removed from
Mother slammed her knife onto the table. "Stop this nonsense. You're going to go out and find an honorable profession. Why, with your talents, I wouldn't even complain if you went to art school."
"I'm not going to art school."
"Why are you breaking your poor mother's heart?"
"Are you going to sell the house, too?"
The big fine house stood near the parlor. Grandpa had saved a fortune by building the parlor on property he already owned. Of course she would sell the house. So what if three generations of Wadells had walked these halls and slept in these rooms and dreamed in these beds?
"It's for your own good, don't you see that?" She pushed her plate away. "All this terrible death and funerals and corpses. How can you stand to do that to those poor people? Your father didn’t have brains enough to have any choice in the matter, but you’re different."
"Not everyone shares your convictions," Gaines said. He'd lost his appetite. Not from handling the guts of Laura Mae Greene or touching the cool smoothness of her marbled skin. No, his mother was the aberration. "I know you want to be cremated. That's your choice. But other people need the hope of eternal rest. They need a peaceful image to carry in their hearts as they say good-bye to a loved one."
"It's all so horrible. Even if the money is good."
"Poor Father. All those years, thinking you loved him."
"I did love him. But you're as hard-headed as he was. He could have sold the Home and got on with life, instead of keeping himself buried alive here."
"So now that he's dead, it's okay to betray him?"
She stood suddenly, tipping her chair over. Her face was tight from anger, almost a death-mask. "How dare you say that."
Then she gasped and clutched at her chest. She gripped the edge of the table and leaned forward. "Don't . . . do this . . . to your dear mother," she said.
Gaines rushed to her side. He found the nitroglycerin pills in her purse and put one under her tongue. "There, there," he said, giving her a glass of water. He led her to a padded chair in the living room.
She recovered after a few minutes. The color returned to her face. She asked for her wine. Gaines brought it to her, and she sipped until her lips were again pink. "Why are you breaking your poor mother's heart?" she said.
Gaines said nothing.
"Why can't you give me one thing to be proud of?"
He had given her plenty. He was an artist, well-respected in the community. He gave people their final and most important moments. He polished memories.
But Gaines was at ease with the dead. With the living, who wanted words and emotions and hugs and love, he was out of his element. He'd been born to the family work. Even with Mother's eyes, he still had a funeral face.
He left her with her wine and pills and bitterness and went upstairs to bed, to think and dream.
Gaines was alone in the back room.
Stony Hampton 's graveside service had been beautiful. The preacher hit all of Stony's high points while overlooking the man's many sins. The loved ones were practically glowing in their melancholy. Alice Hampton had even thrown herself on the coffin.
If only she had known that Stony wasn't inside, she might have become a Wadell customer right there on the spot. The tractor lowered the coffin and pushed the red dirt over a four-thousand-dollar casket containing nothing but corrupted air. The granite marker that said "Here Lies" was itself a lie.
Stony was the proper height and build. The features were a little off, but that would be no problem. With a little polishing, Gaines had a face that would work.
He went into the walk-in refrigerator, what Father had called the "meat locker." Father was a part of the parlor, as vital to the business as the hearse and the gurneys and the casket catalog. Gaines wouldn't let his memory die. He would not allow the name "Wadell" to be removed from
Similar Books
