Georgia
Baker came to the Johnson Funeral Homes offices the very afternoon
her husband died from a heart attack. Seeing there was no one
in the lobby, she checked her appearance in a wall mirror. She
straightened her straw hat with the artificial yellow flowers
attached to it and pulled her bright yellow flower print dress
away from her plump rump where it always stuck to her because
of the year-round humidity in Houston. Then Georgia rang the bell
on the desk in the center of the lobby.
Within
a few moments Dick Dedman walked into the lobby clasping his hands
in front of himself like a priest. He didn’t smile at her
but gave her the sympathetic look which appeared to be one developed
after years of practicing with the most appropriate approach when
greeting the grieving relatives.
“How
do you do? I am Mr. Dedman. May I help you?”
Georgia
took out her yellow flower print handkerchief and touched her
eyes with it even though there were no tears visible on her face.
She stared down at the floor, holding her purse and hanky.
“I
certainly hope so. My husband died today and I must make arrangements.”
“Of
course. Please come sit down.” He guided her to a comfortable
chair in front of his desk. “May I get you some coffee or
water?”
Georgia
perked up a little and asked, “Do you have iced tea? I take
it without lemon.”
Mr.
Dedman, seeming somewhat surprised, said, “I’m afraid
not. Would you like some cold water instead?”
“Oh,
well, that will do then.”
He
went to the kitchen and returned with a bottle of water and a
glass for her. She opened it immediately and gulped down half
the water straight from the bottle.
Georgia
gasped and said, “Thank you. I had no idea I was that thirsty.
It must be the heat.” She then wiped some water off her chin
with her hanky.
“Yes.
Now, how may I assist you, Mrs. ...?”
“Oh,
my name is Georgia Baker. My husband was George Baker. He died
today—this morning—from a heart attack—before he
ever even got out of bed. I thought he was dreaming or something
because I felt him moving around in the bed as he sometimes did.
I didn’t turn over to look because I always gave him his
privacy at those times, if you know what I mean. Turns out it
must have been death spasms instead, I guess, 'cause when I woke
up again, one hour later, he didn’t speak to me or move at
all.”
“I’m
so sorry.” Mr. Dedman offered Georgia his most compassionate
face and his deepest voice. For a tall, thin man, he had a wondrous
octave range in his voice.
“Well,
thank you. It was quite a shock. Unfortunately, we weren’t
prepared for death, if you know what I mean. I guess he thought
he would live forever.” She patted her imaginary tears again.
“Of
course. None of us are prepared for death, even though we all
know it’s coming someday.”
She
leaned toward him and whispered, “I mean, you know, well,
financially.”
“Oh,
I see. Please don’t worry on that account, Mrs. Baker. We
have some less expensive arrangements we can offer you. We have
the Hillside package, which includes a simple service, a simple
casket, a small plot in the Garden Views cemetery. It runs around
$15,000. Unless you want music or some religious official to say
a few words. That’s another $1000.”
“Oh,
dear.” She gasped and fanned herself with her hanky. “I’m
afraid that’s out of the question. Don’t you have something
even less expensive than that?”
'Aha!'
Mr. Dedman thought. 'A leech! This type always wants something
for nothing. The poor sucker took care of her all her life and
now she wants to stick him in the dirt in a pine box and no marker.
Then she’ll start out looking for the next one if she hasn’t
already found him.' With her bright blue eyes and dyed blond hair,
Georgia looked a lot like a middle-aged Kewpie doll.
For
some reason Mr. Dedman felt like being mean to Georgia so he said,
with an immobile face and a slightly sadistic tone in his voice,
“Perhaps you would like the pauper service, then? We cremate
him, put his ashes in a box and return them to you for distribution
wherever you want.”
Georgia
sat back in shock at this suggestion. “Of course not, Mr.
Dedman. I loved my husband. It’s just that I’m not rich.”
“Of
course. I understand. What did you have in mind then?”
He tugged on his tie and touched his chin with a long, thin finger.
“Well,
my friend, Mrs. Templeton, you remember her?”
“I’m
afraid not.”
“She
came in here last year when her third husband died and you sold
her a slightly used coffin at a very good price, seeing as how
it was her third husband you were burying.”
“Excuse
me?” He stared at her with an immobile face. No words came
to him. Beads of sweat popped out on his forehead. He took out
his handkerchief and wiped his face. “Madam, I have no idea
what you are talking about. Why, I’d lose my license if I
did something like that. Do you understand what that very idea
implies?”
“Just
a slightly used one? Like you sold Mrs. Templeton? It really is
all right, Mr. Dedman, I won’t tell a soul.”
Apparently,
she didn’t hear a word he said. “Madam, we have no such
thing. It would be illegal.”
He
couldn’t tell if this woman was just plain crazy or possibly
a mole for the State Licensing Board.
“Now,
Mr. Dedman, my friend, Mrs. Templeton, told me that when her third
husband died, you buried him in just such a coffin to keep her
costs down since she’s buried three husbands in all with
your funeral home. This last one being the youngest—you may
remember him. He was the thirty-six-year-old Irishman with red
hair. Killed in a car accident the night before her seventy-second
birthday. He’d been out drinking with friends after work
and drove home anyway. Missed all the trees and telephone poles
'cept the last one. She said you sewed and glued him up real good
except for one eye that kept popping open because the glue wouldn’t
hold. What kind of glue do you use on the eyes, anyway?”
Mr.
Dedman coughed and tugged on his collar. Then, after looking around
to be sure no one else was in the lobby, he said, “Uhmm .
. . s-s-super glue. It usually works quite well. I do remember
Mr. Templeton now.” As his memory returned, his nerves failed
him.
“’Course
you do. He’s the one that responded to Mrs. Templeton’s
ad in the Irish Town Crier for a husband. Said she wanted
a strapping young man who could work in the steel mines in Texas.”
“But
. . . there are no . . . steel mines in Texas or anywhere
else.”
“Oh,
I know that and so did she. But she had to lure him into marriage
somehow since she was already seventy years old and wanted a young,
hot husband to make all her catty friends in the Knitting and
Investment Club jealous. It’s not all that easy to tempt
a young man anymore when your looks and body are gone and you
can’t even stay up late nights anymore to . . . well, you
know . . . to keep him company. Those catty women kept telling
her she’d never marry again, you know. She just had to show
them. Maybelle hoped that by the time he figured out there was
no such thing as steel mines in Texas they’d already be married
and then he could work at one of the refineries on the east end
like everyone else. And if you could overlook the bad smell all
over that part of town, it wasn’t a bad life.
“So
what if she fudged a little in the ad about her age and income?
Everyone lies about something before they get married. Mallory
wasn’t too upset when he saw her for the first time.
He was a strong man. She said he shrugged, said he was glad to
just get to America, and he didn’t want a big brood of brats
anyway. And Maybelle sure didn’t have to worry about getting
pregnant. She made it clear from the get-go there’d be no
hanky panky going on. I figure that’s why he went drinking
every night. He had to have some fun in life. Maybelle didn’t
mind long as he paid his Social Security dues every month and
helped with everything else around the house.
“Madam
. . . "
“So,
anyway, I know you use the coffins more’n once and I’d
just like to buy one for my husband kinda on the 'qt', you know.”
She winked at him through heavily mascaraed eyelashes. He felt
himself choking.
“You
see it’s just that my husband never stood on ceremony at
all. He just wasn’t that picky in life so why would he be
picky in death, you know? He wanted me to spend the money on something
fun—like a long trip and a shopping spree instead. Something
he never let me do when it would’ve mattered. You know—while
he was alive and I was young enough to enjoy it.”
Mr.
Dedman was pretty sure by now that Georgia Baker wasn’t a
mole for the State Board but he still felt like his tie was strangling
him.
She
continued her bizarre story. “Know where we got married?”
“No,
I don’t. How could I?”
“At
the 7/11 store on 10th and West Street. Not the most romantic
place, I know, but the Methodist preacher had to work there part-time
evenings to supplement his income, and it was the only time he
could fit us in. It was kind of a rush thing, if you know what
I mean.” Her eyes gazed around the large, ornate lobby, but
she had a sly smile on her fleshy face.
Mr.
Dedman was worried now. He asked her, “But this isn’t
a rush thing . . . is it?” She did seem overeager to get
her husband in the ground.
She
hesitated. “Well, no, I guess not, not really.” She
paused and looked out the window for a spell. Then she looked
back at Mr. Dedman’s paling face and worried eyes.
“Except,
of course, we gotta read the will and he’s starting to stink
already. Then that rigorous mortar already set in and his arms
shot up under the sheet sudden-like. It scared the dickens out
of the grandchildren, not to mention the dogs. You’ve never
heard such screaming and howling in your life. Almost gave me
a heart attack. I like to never got those arms down again. Plus,
we’re having a wake tomorrow night at the 7/11 where we were
married. It’d be poor taste to have a wake for someone before
they were buried, wouldn’t it?”
Mr.
Dedman whispered in his now small voice, “Yes, it would.”
“Then,”
she looked down while her finger traced an imaginary pattern on
his desk. “Then, there’s the other thing.”
“And
that is?”
“Well
. . . my boyfriend wants us to get married as soon as George’s
in the ground so we can get the funeral and wedding service from
the preacher for one price. You know—a two-for-one kind of
thing. He is very careful with his money. He only bathes every
other day, but he changes his underwear every day and his teeth
are his own. What’s left of them, that is. I think we’ll
be very happy.”
Sweating
profusely now, Mr. Dedman stared at her.
“Ms.
Templeton said she got a reduced rate for the Irishman she imported.
She got a cut rate for her wedding, too. She highly recommended
you. 'Course, she had her wedding in the church like you’re
s’pose to. I have to have mine at the cemetery. My kids were
creeped out about that idea at first, but then, after they thought
about it awhile, they realized we’d all be there at the same
time anyway, so they might as well. Then they could bring the
funeral flowers for their dad and the wedding gifts for me and
not have to make two trips.”
Mr.
Dedman dreaded asking his next question but he swallowed and asked
it in a forthright manner. “You’re sure there’s
no reason to . . . rush . . . the second wedding?”
Another
sly smile settled on Georgia’s face and her eyes narrowed.
“Now what makes you think that, Mr. Dedman? Do I look . .
. " She looked down at her tummy then back at him. “Nah.
I’m just chubby. Besides, I'm too old for that nonsent.”
She giggled and patted his hand, which he quickly moved to his
lap.
“Well,
perhaps I can help you, Mrs. Baker, after all. We recently had
one client who was dissatisfied with his wife’s coffin, and
he insisted on returning it. Another funeral home assisted him
with the final burial. Would you like that one? It’s really
like new but I can give it to you at the rock bottom price of
$2000. That’s firm!” He straightened his tie again—both
out of habit and because of the choking sensation was still bothering
him. He knew the feeling wouldn’t stop until she left and
he wanted to get her out as soon as possible.
Georgia
stared him in the eye, assessing his willpower before making her
final offer. She decided he would be flexible. In other words,
he could be bullied.
“I
can pay $500. Not a penny more.” She spoke in her sweetest,
most cloying voice now. Georgia always did this when she wanted
something she knew would be difficult to get.
“I
can’t possibly do that. It has silk tufted interiors, walnut
wood and is guaranteed to preserve the deceased for one thousand
years.”
She
sighed. “I don’t care about preserving him for one thousand
years or even one thousand minutes. After the service is done,
you can have it right back and sell it again for all I care.”
Mr.
Dedman’s eyes expanded to the size of goose eggs at the prospect
of reselling the casket to someone who’d pay the full price.
It felt like the veins in his eyes were popping.
“I
beg your pardon?”
“$500.”
“No,
madam. $1,500 is the final offer.”
“$500.”
“I
couldn’t possibly let it go for less than $1,000 . . . even
. . . if it is slightly used.”
“$500
is my final offer.”
He
sighed and said, “Fine.” Dick Dedman had met defeat
for the first time in his long career, but he knew when to fold.
Anyone could tell he was no match for this woman.
“I’ll
expect cash and we’ll remove the deceased as soon as everyone
leaves the cemetery.”
“So
what do you put him in then?”
“A
pine box.”
“Nailed
shut?”
“Of
course.”
“Good
and shut? I don’t want him popping out again and scaring
my grandkids or me on my wedding day.”
“No,
of course not. He won’t. I can assure you of that, Mrs. Baker.
We nail for eternity.”
“Wonderful.
Then I guess we’re done here.” She sighed
“Uh
. . . yes . . . I . . . think so.” At this point Mr. Dedman
wasn’t sure what to say to this strange woman. “It does
take a while to embalm . . . “
“Don’t
embalm him. He doesn’t need it. Never cared how he looked
when he was alive, so it sure doesn’t matter now. He was
never a handsome man anyway.”
“No
embalming?”
“Nope.
Just glue the eyes shut, sew up the lips.”
She
rose, walked toward the door and turned again. “Oh, by the
way, he was a pretty tall man. Six feet six inches. That would
be . . . uh . . . seventy-eight inches. How long is that casket?”
“Uh
. . . it’s . . . just seventy inches, I’m afraid.”
Georgia
thought for a minute while rubbing her chin. “Hmmm. Well,
that may be a bit of a problem.” Then she sighed and said,
“Oh, well. Nothin’ ever did work out perfectly for George
anyway.” Then she turned and left.
