The Good Qualities of the Deceased
by Charles C. Cole
Derek Zban had just finished washing and rinsing the family hearse and was busy toweling off the black shiny hood. Funny, the things that perturbed loved ones at a funeral. The service could run like clockwork, with dignity and empathy, but transporting the deceased to the cemetery in a dusty limo was tantamount to intentionally slipping an empty potato chip bag into the open coffin at a wake: outrageously disrespectful.
And so, certain events happened only once in twenty years.
“Ahoy, matey!” called a slight, elderly man in a charcoal suit, entering the private drive behind the funeral home. He had an inviting smile and a skip in his step.
“Ahoy yourself, young man,” responded Derek jovially, dropping the damp chamois cloth into his bucket and wiping his hands on a clean towel. “You’re either very early or very late; there’s nothing on the schedule this afternoon.”
“Actually, I’m right on time, as it so happens,” explained the guest. “Willard Peabody. I came right from the natatorium for the crematorium. I’m prepaid.”
“Natatorium?”
“The pool. Every day, just like that TV fella, Mr. Rogers. More of a meditation than true exercise. Keeps me ticking. And I like the smell of chlorine on my skin.” He sniffed the back of his hand. “Better than soap, I say.”
“Good for you,” said Derek. “But, again, there’ve been no deliveries all day.”
“I’m delivering myself. I’m the deceased. Or will be. I just wanted to meet the fella who’ll be doing the honors. The notion of a complete stranger tossing me onto a bonfire like a suspected witch seems impersonal and, frankly, a little creepy. May I ask your name?”
“Derek Zban.” The two shook hands. “Unlike weddings, we rarely meet the intended before the big event. I do believe this is a first.”
“For me, too,” joked Willard.
“If I may, you look great, Mr. Peabody.”
“Willard. Please.”
“Certainly, Willard, you’re in better shape than I expect to be at your age. Are you here for a sneak preview? How can I help?”
“Well, Derek, before I retired, I was an efficiency expert professionally, always looking for a better way to do things. I thought to myself, why make the folks at Southern Maine Death Care get up at three in the morning and drive an hour each way to scoop me up when I could come to you during normal business hours and make arrangements for late afternoon.”
“I skipped lunch, so I’m a little hypoglycemic. Simpler words and shorter sentences. What are you asking?”
“Will you be free to stop by my house to pick me up in, say, three hours? Or do I need to make a reservation?”
“Willard, you’re not planning on hurting yourself, are you? We’re not that desperate for business.”
“Nothing like that. I’m a Christian by upbringing. No, I’m going home to kick my son out of the house. He’s a drug-dabbler and a freeloader, a victim of his father’s leniency. I’ve been letting him get away with it. I’m going to unplug his TV and take my living room back. He was a good kid, mostly, when his mother was alive, but he’s more impulsive now, less disciplined. And I don’t think he’ll take it lying down.”
“Call the cops,” said Derek. “They’re trained for this sort of thing.”
“He’d resist. They’d kill him, for sure. He’s my boy. With me, at least he’s got a choice to do the right thing. I need to give him that.”
Derek thought fast. “Maybe I should make sure we processed your payment. We wouldn’t want any surprises. What’s your address?”
“I know you mean well,” said Willard, “but my mind’s made up.”
“What if I went with you? I haven’t taken my lunch. I can tell the folks inside I’m doing some recruiting.”
Willard smiled a sad smile. “You’re a nice person. They should say that on your website. I’ll make sure to tell people on my online testimonial, before I confront my son. Bye for now.” They shook hands, and Willard headed out the lot and down the street to his car.
Derek watched Willard go, then he opened the hearse and sat down in the driver’s seat. Warm black, welcoming leather: comforting. His private vantage place to watch the world. He removed his cell phone and called his wife.
“Southern Maine Death Care, may I help you?” she answered.
“Do me a favor,” asked Derek. She recognized his voice immediately. “Tell me if Willard Peabody has prepaid for crematory services.”
“Give me a sec.” He listened to her typing into the office computer. “Yep. All set. But I don’t have a date. Are we expecting a delivery?”
“One day, but I hope not today,” he said. “Is there an address?”
A couple of hours later, while Derek was vacuuming in the chapel, a police detective friend called his cell phone.
“You free?”
“Only for first responders,” joked Derek. “What happened?”
“No signs of violence. Mr. Peabody’s son had already vacated the premises when we arrived for a recommended welfare check.”
“Hot damn!”
“Mr. Peabody was in a recliner with a game show on TV, loudly. There was a note on the dining room table where his son apologized for his recent behavior and promised to seek help.”
“That’s amazing! Everything worked out.”
“Mr. Peabody, I’m sorry to report,” continued the officer, “was deceased upon our arrival. The EMT on the scene said it appeared heart-related. The decedent had an orange DNR card on the fridge. We called his PCP, who was not surprised. I guess things had been going downhill. Sorry.”
But he’d looked so fit. “Where’s Mr. Peabody now?”
“Waiting for you to pick him up, per instructions in his wallet and the DNR.”
“He was a nice guy.” Derek closed his eyes and rubbed his nose with the back of his index finger.
“Takes one to know one,” said the cop. “Take care of him.”
“I will. He’s already seen to that.”
Copyright © 2021 by Charles C. Cole
