Chapter 6: Of Greedy Funeral Men and Overly-Expensive Caskets
~Jemma~
Out of all the things in the world that never made sense to me, funeral homes was one of them.
The people coming to these places were already depressed to no end and outwardly grieving. All the inspirational quotes to, “keep moving forward”, or “Life only gets better” really did not help the mood. They were posters. Since when did posters ever shape the future?
The air in funeral homes, at least to me, was always terrible, too. And it wasn’t because they didn’t believe in air conditioning. It was laced with a heavy feeling of sadness and loss and I suffocated in it every time.
I didn't know how Aunt Clara kept her composure as we sidled up to the ornate black desk and waited patiently for the man to stop tapping at his computer and acknowledge us.
It took about an eternity but he finally looked up, seeming a bit annoyed, and asked if we needed anything.
Why, no, we just decided to come to the funeral home because we had nothing better to do.
I hated funeral homes.
“Yes, um, my sister, this young lady’s mother, was supposed to be buried here in a couple days, but I got a call saying her burial would be post-poned. I don’t mean to be rude, but, why?”
The man sighed and removed his thick black glasses from the top of his nose, using them to emphasize his words. “Ma’am, I’m very sorry. As you can see, we are booked twenty-four-seven, and certain special times call for certain special matters. We don’t usually switch spots last minute.”
Aunt Clara clenched and unclenched her hands. “I understand that, but, who is so important that they got our spot and we’ve been moved to a later date? I hardly think the President would make a trip down to Heart, North Carolina.”
I snickered as the man turned back to his computer and tapped a few keys in. He chewed on his nail---which looked already down to the nub---and said distractedly, “A Mrs. Hawkins. Abigail Hawkins, to be specific. Burying her twenty-eight-year-old daughter who died of lung cancer. Too much smoking. The burial proceeds the funeral ceremony.” He closed out of the browser and peered back at us. “Any other questions?”
“Well, yes. I’d like to reschedule a secure date for my sister’s funeral. One that will not change.”
The man placed his glasses back in place and reopened the browser, preparing to type. “Last name?”
“Knight.”
“Deceased’s name?”
“Linda, middle name Charlotte.”
“Your last name?”
“White.”
He keyed her words in silently for a moment, then tapped his foot as his eyes glazed over the screen and he clicked a few boxes. “The earliest we have is December twenty-fourth, as of this year.”
Aunt Clara hesitated. “Christmas Eve?”
The man shrugged. “Merry early Christmas.”
Aunt Clara squeezed her eyes shut, and I admired her on the amount of self-restraint she showed in not pummeling the shit out of him. “Fine. How much will it be?”
“let’s see, the date . . . the preparations . . . the time . . . depending on the casket you choose it should be around seven thousand dollars.”
YOU ARE READING
Daughter of the Demon (I)
Teen Fiction(TH#1) While struggling to keep the demons within herself at bay, Jemma Knight is having a hard time dealing with the suicide of her mother, the departure of her father, and the welcoming of her Aunt Clara and Heart, North Carolina into her life. Al...
