A thin man in a dark brown suit greets us. His head is as smooth as a jelly bean.
“Are you the undertaker?” Bitter says.
The man blanches. “I’m the funeral director. The memorial counselor. Anthony Crespi. How do you do? You’re here on behalf of —?”
“Grady.”
“Ah yes. I’m terribly sorry for your loss, sir. But we’ll create a beautiful Memory Picture for you. Shall we step into the display room?” He leads us into a spacious, red-carpeted chamber. Through a hidden speaker, a bird chirps over turgid organ chords. The coffins, arrayed in neat rows — wooden, metal, gleaming, dark — look like sleek catamarans ready to cross an ocean.
“Let me introduce you to our Classic Royal,” says Mr. Crespi, waving his hand. This guy doesn’t waste any time. “Based on contemporary European models, equipped with a fully satin-lined interior, a fine mahogany gloss.” He steps to his right. “This is the Classic Regal, very popular, with a wider shape, you’ll notice. Wonderful craftsmanship. Very versatile.”
Versatile? He won’t be drag racing in it. Oh, these vultures! They know how to nail you. Who ever value-shops for the grave? I can get you a much better deal across town, with power steering, whitewalls, AM/FM radio, tinted windows — in case, you know, God’s face is too bright.
Naturally, most people will choose the more expensive models. Cutting costs might indicate, to family and friends, disrespect for the dead.
“The White Pearl. One of my favorites,” says Mr. Crespi, his bald pate dewy with sweat. Waterfalls shush through ceiling speakers. “I can also show you the relative advantages of the Valley Forge by Batesville, possibly the most respected casket-maker in the world, or the Keystone by York, another fine establishment.”
I flash on coming back here soon, making arrangements for Bitter; flash on Mama’s north Dallas grave. My knees wobble. Bile rises in my throat. Bitter touches one of the lids. “What’s this for?” he asks, tracing a rubber lip like the lining of a Ziploc bag. His mouth is tight. He’s barely holding himself together.
Mr. Crespi smiles. “Protective caskets — ”
“Why does a dead man need protection?”
“To prevent, uh … alien and foreign objects from — ”
“Maggots and things?” Bitter says.
“Well, yes, uh … in the past, protective caskets designed to keep out … critters … used impermeable gaskets as sealing devices. Unfortunately, in an air-tight atmosphere …” He clasps his hands behind his back. His eyes plead with Bitter to say he’s heard enough.
“Yeah?”
“In an air-tight atmosphere, methane gases tend to build. A byproduct of anaerobic bacteria, which, as the pressure builds — ”
Bitter laughs, a mean little sound with no pleasure in it. “Are you saying the coffin could explode?”
Mr. Crespi clears his throat. “That wasn’t unheard of. But now, happily, we have these permeable rubber linings, which allow caskets to burp, as it were, preventing dangerous buildup.”
The wind and water grow louder.
Bitter says, “The whole cost, everything — embalming, the box, the hearse — ” Each word appears to injure Crespi. He’s wincing. “What are we looking at?”
“Depends.”
“Roughly?”
“Insurance?”
“No, hell no. Grady couldn’t afford nothing like that.”
“All right, well, with a medium-sized casket — ”
“One that burps?”
“Right. Say, two thousand. Refrigeration and preparation, another four hundred. Escorting your friend to the religious service I estimate at anywhere from three to five hundred.”
“You make out okay, don’t you?” Bitter says.
“I’m pleased to provide a valuable community service.”
“I’ll bet you are. Give us the cheapest, burpingest box you got.”
“Very well, sir. This weekend, then — say, by two o’clock Sunday afternoon — your friend Grady will be waiting for you here in the Slumber Room.”
Etta has laid her hands on some primo barbacoa: ribs, goat’s heads, cow’s heads (“eighteen-pounders!”), cheek and tongue (“cachete y lengua,” she calls them), potato salad, lima beans. “Let me sweat you up some meat!” She stands behind the bar doling out unseasoned brisket. “Seasoning kills the true flavor, darling — it’s like smothering a kitten in a blanket.”
We’re all lined up with paper plates. Out back, over a pit filled with tender mesquite, more meat sizzles. Earlier, Etta had passed around a collection bowl for Grady’s funeral expenses. She was the biggest contributor — the only person here with a steady business. Her arm shakes. Sauce dribbles from her ladle to the floor.
“Used to fish with some white folks down in Galveston,” a friend of Bitter’s says. “Sometimes they’d invite me home for supper. You ever dine in a white man’s house? Shit. Ever get asked, don’t take no chances. Eat before you go.”
I choose a chair in a corner, by the Coors crates. My back aches. Sleeping on Bitter’s hard couch is catching up with me — not just the physical discomfort, but the frustration of watching him do nothing about his frailties. I’ve had my eye on an apartment building a couple of blocks away that advertises daily and weekly rates. I’m thinking about this when Bitter joins me. “How you doing, Uncle?”
He nods and grins wanly, but his eyes are moist. One of his buddies says, “I’m getting ass-over-tea-kettle snockered tonight. For Grady.”
I reach for a Hen Dog. The drummer raps a rim-shot. Earl chants, “I’ve got no home in this world!”
While the band plays I reread a letter that came for me this afternoon at Bitter’s house. I didn’t have time to study it before and just stuffed it into my pocket. It’s been opened — inspected? — and badly resealed: Elias apologizing for his “crud behavior” during my prison visit.
“In here, they want to make you into a monster,” he writes. “Sleep in the cold, the dark. In ad seg, you get no education. And there’s no respect. The old cons, they just want to do their bids and be left alone. You can live with them. But these young lunkheads in here now, they yelling all the time, showing off, like they up on stage. It’s like sleeping with seals — seals what puke all the time and go around sticking shanks in other seals.”
I sip my drink. Earl closes his eyes, moaning a slow spiritual.
“Anyway, I wanted to say I’ve lost it all,” Elias goes on. “Too many years of busthead, I guess. The truth is, I don’t remember your daddy. I don’t remember much of anything. A few big dreams when I was young. I remember making bombs in the desert. My coworkers at the nuke plant, they was all Christians. Figured they was helping God’s plan. Comes the end of the world, you know, Jesus’d show up in His chariot, they said. I always pictured Him in a low rider, with a little plastic statue of His mama hanging from the rearview on a string of black pearls. I remember a few faces over the years. My poor wife.
“The thing is, whatever made your daddy run, it probably wasn’t you. Money. Or booze. Or a woman. Your mama, maybe. But not you. That’s all. I hope it helps.”
I cram the paper back inside my pocket. Snockered. Damn straight. Here’s to Grady. My eyes fill. I brush the water away. For tonight, at least, yesterday can take care of itself.
The scarecrow pats Bitter’s shoulder. The next casualty, I think. “Laplie tombe, wawaron chante,” Bitter says. The man nods and wanders off. I raise my eyebrows. “‘When the rain is coming,’” Uncle sighs, “‘the bullfrogs sing.’”
The Slumber Room burbles with underwater sounds, squishy, squidlike: some ungodly New Age music tape. Mr. Crespi wears a blue coat that fits him as snugly as a wetsuit. “Lovely to see you again,” he says and guides Bitter and me to Grady’s coffin. “I hope you have a pleasant visit. If there’s anything I can do …”