The Undertaker's Daughter by Kate Mayfield Page A

both my mother’s and father’s families back in Lanesboro were teetotalers. Beacon County was dry. There were no liquor stores for miles. Did he go to a bootlegger?
    I waited for more of an explanation. I waited for the fun, wisecracking father I loved to show his face. But he stood there, his head bowed, as if he found the floor as interesting as I did.
    There was no easy way to learn that my father was not who I thought he was. Or rather, was much more than I had ever imagined.
    I wondered where this drinking took place. Being an undertaker in a small town, someone at the funeral home, at least one person, always had to know my father’s whereabouts. God forbid anyone should die and Frank Mayfield not be found.
    My mother always had two words on the tip of her tongue: “Where’s Frank?” I’d often hear her quiz Sonny, or whoever was on duty. The answers varied. Sometimes they stumbled a bit. “Err . . . I guess he’s at the hospital.” Her face would often cloud over and her whole body would stiffen as she waited for an answer. Lately, one of the most frequent answers was “He’s gone to see Miss Agnes.” Her face would relax then, and she’d nod and seem relieved.
    I’d heard the names of many of Jubilee’s citizens as they cropped up in funeral-home conversation, but recently none was tossed into the air as frequently as this one. Miss Agnes Davis,currently just a name to me, would soon prove to be the very definition of a friend and ally.
    Mysteries were brewing at the funeral home. I could feel them in the air.

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IN MEMORIAM:
The Visitor
    We knew nothing about him other than he was wholly fascinated with the dead. He was the Mr. Average sort, average in height and weight, and was middle-aged. He never wore a suit or a tie as a pretension, nor tried to pass himself off as a relative or a friend of the deceased’s.
    My father opened up shop at seven thirty each morning. When we had a body, the townspeople who couldn’t call in at any other time dropped by before work to pay their respects. Sometimes they spent a moment in the chapel, but often they just signed the register and rushed out. As was customary, the deceased’s family didn’t arrive until after lunch.
    By midmorning there was usually a lull in traffic. Like clockwork—and I wondered if he lurked around the corner waiting for people to leave—The Visitor appeared. He cast a long shadow on the sidewalk, and his lone figure seemed to creep up the front steps. After he nodded to my father, he proceeded to the chapel, walked straight to the casket, and stood before it, enthralled.
    The rows of chairs set out for the family and friends were of no interest to him; he never sat down. If other people who actually knew the deceased strolled in while he was there, he stepped to oneside whenever they approached the casket. The Visitor was careful not to be accused of dominating the view. He spoke to no one.
    He wasn’t a professional mourner, for his demeanor lacked any sign that he was emotionally affected by his visits. When he was alone in the chapel with the body, an air of steady coolness surrounded him, and held by his fascination, it seemed he did not breathe. He appeared absolutely rooted to the spot.
    One day after the first few visits, my father opened the door to him and held out his hand.
    “Good morning, Mr. . . .”
    “Arnold, Mr. Arnold.”
    “How are you today, Mr. Arnold?”
    “Fine, thank you.” He walked on past my father.
    When he crossed the threshold of the chapel, he strode over the invisible line where any small talk ended. The Visitor was safe, for he knew that out of respect for the dead, the undertaker would not pursue him with questions while he was in the chapel.
    This then was the dance between the two men. One, who coveted anonymity, to be left alone with his obsession, and the other, who felt a little used and wanted to know more about the man who wished to remain anonymous. His name meant nothing to my