WHAT GREW INSIDE HIM

WHAT GREW INSIDE HIM

The young contemplate the mark they will make on the world. The old contemplate the mark the world has made on them. To build the places where we live and work, the mason's hands are calloused, hardened such that he feels little when he touches the soft smooth skin of his loved ones. To entertain us, the ballet dancer's feet are misshapen and painful. To give us shade and style, poor hatters grew insane from the mercury of their trade. What mark, you may ask, does the world leave on those that dispose of our dead?

Worms aren't strong, certainly not strong enough to lift a metal floor drain from a small-town funeral home's embalming room. One little bastard, however, was small enough to wiggle its soft body up through the drain hole directly below a gurney. The worm didn't have eyes, so it didn't care that room was immaculate. The worm didn't have ears, so it didn't hear the pump that was replacing Mrs. Waller's cold blood with fresh preservatives. The worm didn't have a nose, so it couldn't smell the scent of stale bourbon oozing from the mortician's pores. The worm may not have been strong, but it was smart. It wanted to see and hear and smell, so it slinked out of the embalming room, down a hallway, under a bedroom door, up a bedpost, over a leg, across a chest, up a neck, and wiggled down Max's dark little earhole until it disappeared for good.

--

Max awoke the next morning dizzy from the night's excesses. He knew well that time was the only cure for his ill. He showered and then stepped out into his spotless bathroom. He slowly shaved, ensuring every whisker was flush. He clipped each fingernail, checked it, and trimmed a bit more. He brushed his hair, making sure every strand was the way he wanted. He dressed in a three-piece suit, and then stood in front of a tall mirror. He examined his coat by quadrants, scanning each section as if reading a newspaper. When he found a fleck of lint, he gently picked it so as not to disturb surrounding fibers.

Max exited his bedroom into his adjoining funeral home's hallway where a young female apprentice awaited.

"Good morning," she said.

"Without a doubt, the best part of my day is opening this door and seeing you." Max looked her over. "Your dress...it's better, but your hair, it needs to be up."

"I've not had time to—"

"Make time." Max sniffed. "Too much perfume." Max looked down at her chest. "Cleavage is for courting."

"It's not the nineteen-fifties."

"Grief is a process best done in order." Max looked into her eyes. "You go showing off those things and we'll have our guests wanting to skip a few steps hoping to land in your blouse."

The apprentice fastened her shirt's top two buttons.

Max checked his watch. "We open for business in one hour. Have Leroy roll Mrs. Waller into the parlor. You bring out the flowers. All of 'em in the cooler are for her."

Max walked his funeral home adjusting lights and checking for any speck of dirt. If a lamp was out of place, he moved it to precisely where he required it. Max and his apprentice met at the front door. He checked his watch, "Ten minutes," and unlocked the front door.

"Remember, don't stare," Max said.

"Yes sir."

"And don't not look."

"Got it."

"Don't smile. I'll never understand why people smile at times like this."

"I won't."