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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Blacks Funeral Home was in uptown Toronto. It was a twenty-five-minute drive by car or forty minutes by public transit to get there. It was no coincidence that we bumped into father in that neighborhood. He was either following me or casing Blacks for suitable skin. There could be no argument that he'd used the place as his private supermarket, and with Jonathan on duty, it was easy pickings. Pigskin wasn't good enough for father anymore. Like most junkies, he had to have better and better stuff to maintain himself. His high wasn't drugs, it was the feeling of being wrapped in living, human skin.
Father didn't come home that night. I assumed he was out prowling. The morning news had a story of a peeping-tom in uptown Toronto. The only description was a medium sized, white male wearing a hoody. I couldn't help but wonder if it was father. If so, he was getting bolder. He was certainly restless. He'd shaved the skin from dead bodies. Sleep wasn't necessary and neither was food. Where would he stop?
Father had crossed the line of criminality when he messed with the dead people at Blacks Funeral Home. Pure and simple, I had to blow the whistle on him. It would be up to the cops to decide what to do with a dead maniac once they apprehended him. I would feign ignorance if father implicated me in any way. It would be his word against mine. There was no evidence to prove that I conspired to help him. Nothing except my shopping spree buying up all the ingredients I needed to glue Humpty Dumpty back together again. Nothing except the phony funeral I'd staged, including hiring six hunky pallbearers.
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Oh my god. I had to face it. I was guilty of aiding and abetting. My hand was on the telephone ready to dial. The Toronto police had a snitch line I could call. The program - Crime Stoppers – encouraged local folks to report information by calling 1-800-222-TIPS (8477) or by sending an email. But I knew phone calls leave a footprint, and an email could be traced back to me too. I couldn't have that. I could go to jail. Shit! Shit! Shit! I walked away from the phone. More thought was needed.
Another day went by without any sign of father. As usual, I drank myself to sleep. I dreamed of mom - one of those technicolor stupors when everything seemed so real. In my dream state, mom lay in her pine coffin but, while I was standing over her, she came to life and propped herself up on one elbow.
