The Undertaker's Daughter by Kate Mayfield

father’s attempt to have him dismissed, he became vindictive. Now the employees were instructed to become more aggressive at the deathbeds of their patients. Right at the exact moment of death, when families stood in the darkened rooms whispering and weeping, there was no better moment for hospital staff to say, “Why don’t you let us call Alfred for you?”
    It wasn’t always a successful maneuver; some were loyal to my father even when cajoled. But in most cases, it was difficult for a family to back out of their first request. They simply felt too vulnerable. If a family had chosen Deboe in the first miserable moment of death, even if they had second thoughts later, a strong voice within a family was needed to change funeral directors midstream. The damage was done. The Old Clan thought Frank was a fool, too big for his fancy britches and ignorant of how speaking out against a perceived wrong was a privilege afforded only to those whose granddaddies were born in Jubilee. What he needed was an ally in this town, someone who knew how things worked, someone who was established and whose roots ran deep. While he waited for that person to appear, the strain of his endeavors began to show. Mornings began with two white tablets of Alka-Seltzer instead of one, his perfect quiff was thinning, and he was even more short-tempered with my mother than usual. It began to show in other ways, too.
    One evening not long after these events, before bedtime I walked through the kitchen, where my father and my mother spoke in heated whispers. I passed by my father and suddenly he grabbed me by my arm and spanked me. It didn’t hurt, but it scared me silly because it came from nowhere. My mother was free with her hand—a slap, a spanking, she made good on her threats to “get the yardstick,” but not him. Usually he nevertouched me in anger or as punishment. I knew I’d done nothing to deserve it, but couldn’t manage to say one single word in my defense.
    “Go to bed,” my mother said hurriedly.
    I hiked up my blue flannel pajama bottoms and fled.
    The next morning my mother asked me to come into the kitchen. My father stood at the counter while waiting for his Alka-Seltzer to calm down. I watched the white tablets dissolve furiously in the glass of water, to which he added several ice cubes. I usually asked him for a sip because I liked the taste and the cold shock it gave my throat. I usually laughed as the bubbles showered my face. Alka-Seltzer was one of those things that immediately connected me to my father. Plop, plop, fizz, fizz, oh, what a relief it is . But not this morning. I didn’t want a sip; I didn’t even want to laugh.
    “Your father has something he wants to say to you.” My mother stood with her arms folded.
    He leaned back against the counter, as if for support. He looked straight ahead, with not even a glance my way. “Your mother wanted me to tell you—”
    “Frank,” she interrupted with a warning in her voice.
    “Well, I wanted to say that I’m sorry about last night. I had a little too much to drink. Things have been a bit stressful and . . . well, I won’t do it again.”
    I felt sick to my stomach. He’d never before had to apologize to me for anything. And I’d never seen my mother give him a direct order. She didn’t apologize to me when she spanked me unjustly, so why would she make him do it? Everything was topsy-turvy. Suddenly I found the linoleum on the kitchen floor extremely interesting. I thought about how many times I’d seen Belle’s bucket and mop on this floor. I didn’t understand what hewas saying to me, but I nodded as if I did. The tone of his voice, uncomfortable and shamed, was foreign to me. Embarrassed for him, I didn’t look at him directly.
    I didn’t know one soul who drank alcohol, except for Bobby, and he went to jail because of it. Did this mean my mother was going to have to get my father out of jail, too? She would never allow alcohol in the house, and