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...
I intended to embalm father personally. Two assistants were scheduled for a shift that holiday Monday, just in case we got any business, but I gave them the night off – with pay. It was Canada Day, so they thought they hit the jackpot. More than father ever did. Come to think of it, maybe I wanted to show off my generosity just to spite him. Whatever! I was alone in the mortuary and prepared for the job at hand.
There was a double "All Canadian" on the rocks at hand. It was my third such libation since Uncle Mitch dropped us off at the loading door earlier in the day. A bag of Miss Vickie's chips, original recipe, leaned up against the Porti-Boy, which was filled with embalming solution. So crunchy – the Miss Vickie's not the embalming stuff. For good measure, an unopened package of Ben & Jerry's Chocolate Fudge Brownie Pint Slices was chilling steps away in the walk-in freezer. I figured Goodlife Fitness be damned, at least for that night.
I took the Sinatra cartridge out of the 8-track player and threw it into the garbage can. Sorry, Old Blue Eyes. That's what they used to call Frank Sinatra....oh never mind. Obviously, thanks to father, that member of the Rat Pack would be spoiled for me for as long as I lived.
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My fingers probed the 8-track tape holder. Those were Mitch's tapes. Father had stolen the collection years earlier and bragged about it when we worked together in the mortuary. The selection was sixties and seventies music, which I liked, even though they had been recorded for another generation. Uncle Mitch says it was the best music ever made. The music and lyrics had meanings and messages that post- 1970's music lacked. Maybe. All I know is, I like to listen to it. Beatles' Abbey Road, Creedence Clearwater Revival – Bayou Country, Iron Butterfly's In-A-Gadda- Da-Vida, Blood, Sweat and Tears with its brassy jazz-rock, Crosby, Stills, and Nash, even Johnny Cash at San Quentin. I also found some Donovan there. All decent tunes to embalm by. "Bad Moon Rising" by Creedence Clearwater Revival caught my eye, and into the tape deck it went. Volume up.
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Any funeral director knows there are stages to embalming the body. First, the body is disrobed then washed in a disinfectant solution. Then the limbs are massaged and worked around to relieve rigor mortis (stiffening of the joints and muscles). Only then do you turn your attention to setting the facial features. For example, the eyes are closed and glued shut, yadda, yadda. That night, I ignored the playbook. The first thing I did was sew his mouth shut. Couldn't wait. No more bullying, no more insults or snarky criticism. Shut up! Forever!
