Chapter Five

Bolstered by my anger at the sheriff, I headed to the funeral home to make arrangements. I thought the anger would keep me from falling apart while I discussed Daddy’s funeral.

The Prairie View Funeral Home was located just a few blocks from where the stupid cop stopped me. As I stepped into the office, the sheriff passed by in her cruiser, neither glancing my way nor slowing for the stop sign at the corner. “Hypocritical bitch,” I said as I noticed Arnold Potter watching me from his desk.

“Jill O’Hara, I’m glad you’re here,” Arnold said, rising from his huge, but cracked, leather desk chair. “I’m sorry about your dad. He was an amazing guy, helped so many folks. Do you want me to handle the funeral?” He was fingering a Bic pen, the kind you buy in packs of ten.

Leave it to Arnold Potter to try to stake his business claim before the conversation got any friendlier. He was a good mortician but a tightwad and rich. Business was superb when you ran the only funeral home for an entire county, half populated by senior citizens. He never tipped waitresses.

“Yeah, that’d be fine, Arnold. Um, where’s Daddy’s body?”

“Didn’t Billy or Connie tell you? I have your dad here. Would you like to view him?”

“I haven’t talked to them yet, so…okay, I think I can look at him. I suppose I need to say good-bye.”

“Give me a minute, Jill, and I’ll get him ready for you. I don’t have him in a coffin yet. He’s still on his gurney.”

“Don’t worry about that, Arnold, just let me see him…whatever’s convenient. I don’t want to stay long. I’ll just take a look at him and then make the funeral arrangements.”

Arnold left the office, leaving me to stew in my anxiety. This is real, Jilly, the real thing. I’d seen dead bodies in my journalistic forays to famine and war zones, but they were never anybody I knew, much less loved. I could always separate from them, like they were mannequins modeling the tragedy I was investigating. This was my father.

“Okay, Jill, he’s ready for you.”

“Yeah, but am I ready for him?”

“Want me to go in the chapel with you, dear?”

“No…thanks. I think I need to do this alone.” And it was in that fraught moment that I regretted not having a girlfriend to hang on to. Then I berated myself for thinking about my love life. I wiped my palms on my jeans several times.

The chapel reeked of furniture polish and snuffed candles. Across the room was a gurney with a form wrapped in a tight white sheet. Arnold had parked it at an unceremonious angle, right in front of the altar, like it was a UPS delivery. There was my father’s hair, silver and thin, but who was attached to it?

Each step jarred me as I neared the form. Then I was looking down at a stranger wearing my father’s hair.

“Oh, Daddy, what happened?”

And that’s all it took. The second sob fest of the day bound my chest and escaped as a wail. I eased onto the nearest pew, put my head in my hands, and wailed again. The air forced from deep inside, and I knew cavernous grief. Wrapping my arms around my belly, I rocked, moaning.

After several minutes of this intensity, I noticed mucus was running down my chin, mingling with tears. There were boxes of Kleenex at both ends of every pew; I grabbed one and started wiping my face, still sobbing. I knew Arnold could hear everything, but figured it was a daily occurrence for him. I gave him credit for knowing to leave me alone when my grief was that acute.

I have no idea how long I sat by Daddy’s body, rocking and wiping, but after a while, the raw emotion subsided and turned into a dark space in my gut. Blessed numbness set in. I touched the spotless shroud wrapped around my father and whispered, “Good-bye, Daddy.” I brushed the frigid hard cheek with the backs of my fingers and kissed his solid forehead. Then I went back to the office to begin arranging the funeral.

In my haze of grief, I chose flowers, music, singers, memoriam flyers, recipients of memorial donations, an ash urn, and whatever else Arnold needed to get the funeral prepared.

I agreed to write the obituary that evening and e-mail it to Arnold. He reminded me the obit would be published in three different newspapers, so I’d want it to be accurate and decently written. I found it curious that he’d forgotten the one thing I was an expert at was writing for newspapers. But journalism was never this personal or this mundane. I’d developed a new respect for obit writers, people I used to disdain.

“So the Altar Society Ladies will plan the funeral reception in the church hall. Oh, and, Jill, one last thing, a little off the subject. But your dad and I had an agreement. He…helped me once…saved my business.”

“Arnold, people tell me that all the time, but—”

“No, no, he really did. I owe him…you. This funeral is on me, except the flowers, of course.” I had ordered three huge funeral wreaths at about $200 each. Arnold’s largesse only went so far, but I wasn’t going to argue. I was too depleted and it didn’t matter to me anyway. I was done facing the world for that day.

“Of course. Okay, um, thanks. Is it really that important to you?” My dad had scads of money; I didn’t need the favor.

“Yeah, it is.”

At that point, all I wanted to do was stumble out of there and go lie down somewhere in a fetal position. I told Arnold I’d stop by a few days after the funeral and choose the headstone. I wanted to get one to complement Grandma’s.

As I drove up the hill to Daddy’s house, I noticed that cursed police cruiser parked on the street. The sheriff was yakking on a cell phone, but she looked my way as I passed.