Set against the backdrop of the 2020 Covid-19 outbreak, a young woman, Gravely Eaton, is stuck working at the family funeral home with a father she hates. The world is dying around her, but there seems no escape from her boring life with no friend...
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I remember being in the funeral office when my father was wrapping up an arrangement with a grieving man. The poor guy had just lost his beautiful wife to cancer. I was filing in a corner of the room, and I couldn't help but eavesdrop. The man was about forty and handsome - Chris Pratt handsome. Mr. White was his name. I remember that clearly, thinking it was appropriate – the word association. He was a white knight type or maybe Prince Charming - handsome and chivalrous. When he spoke about his dead wife, her name was Christine, there was love and kindness in his voice, a devotion that I hadn't heard before in the funeral office. Father was strictly business, as usual. He upsold everything and everybody, and he knew Mr. White was vulnerable.
The funeral package for Mrs. White would set back Mr. White about $25,000. About $2,000 alone was for flower arrangements – orchids and roses – her favorites. Awwwh. That was okay with Prince Charming. His only request was his wife be clothed in her wedding dress which he'd brought into the office with him. Mr. White stared down at the box, his eyes tearing up. He delicately touched the hermetically sealed box that sat on the desk between him and father. You could tell that the lace and beaded gown visible under the plastic window was perfectly preserved. Dad caught me looking at the dress box, and he sent a scolding stare my way. The glare meant it was his deal, back off. He was territorial that way, even though I was on salary and never profited from his price gouging. I turned my attention back to the filing cabinet.
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It was about eleven o'clock that night when I got back to the funeral home. I had spent two hours working out at Goodlife Fitness – including a 30-minute spin class. I wasn't exactly a fitness freak, but it was as good a way as any to fill in my empty evenings. I took the funeral home stairs cautiously, two at a time, avoiding the treads that creaked, so as not to announce myself to my father. He was normally in his apartment by then, drunk or in a drunken stupor in front of the TV. He didn't like me using the stairs after 11 p.m. because he was a light sleeper. The creaky stairs and vibration could wake the old grump, and I didn't want a confrontation. I need not have worried.
At the top of the stairs, I noticed the light was on in the mortuary. I could smell my father's cigar, so I knew he'd been in there. And I heard music.
I hesitated outside the heavy mortuary door. "What gives", I mumbled. I quietly placed my red gym bag on the floor and thought things through. I do that.
