The Scent of Greed

“Are you sure you want to do this? Most people don’t want to.”

“With all due respect, I think that’s part of what’s wrong with today’s society. I need to do this, so please stop asking if I’m sure. I am, I have been, let’s just get it done.”

“You make it sound like you’re doing a tax return.”

“The only other sure thing in this world, like the adage attests. As I mentioned, I was estranged from the rest of the family, so I was not told when Dad passed away. They know how I feel about having a final goodbye, as last closure. They won’t tell me when the viewing and funeral were scheduled, either. I had quite the time figuring out where they took him. I’m glad you took my call.”

“Most people isolate themselves from the reality of death.”

“Like I said, that’s the problem. I understand, especially with the Victorians and their obsession with death and public mourning. But the Victorians also get all the blame, when it’s humans across the board. We can’t deal with death, so we come up with rituals and systems to isolate ourselves from the pain. Bu it gets sticky when it comes to grief, all that sadness mixed with emotional pain, not physical pain. We can’t deal. So we turn to your profession, to ease and smooth the transition. Compartmentalization is unhealthy. And I’m sure I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know, because of how many times you’ve asked me if I want to go through this door.”

We were at the door to the morgue.

The coroner pulled out a key. “You are quite a philosopher about it.”

“Or a sociopath, perhaps. That’s how my family treated me for asking uncomfortable questions. Been this way my whole life. Dad tried to answer them, helped me dig into who I was, what we should be, where we’re going as a race of creatures with animal instincts. Answering those questions made me the person I am today. I didn’t fit their safe, comfortable box they fought to keep me in. Even fought me leaving, because it was ‘unsafe.’ That’s what life is, unsafe. But as an adult, you learn, adapt, and grow. It’s not like their safe little bubble kept Dad from dying by inches. And they kept me from him in his last months, out of fear. Or greed. Or jealousy. Or not wanting to admit I was right. They weren’t protecting me, that’s for sure.”

The door opened with an echoed click.

“I admit, I meet all types in this job. Like the guy said, we meet people on their worst day. We’re not supposed to judge, but I’m human, and I do. And I’ve seen the results of all the scenarios you’ve postulated. And based on your comments, when the rest of your family was in my office, I would say a metric ton of greed. And no, they couldn’t bear to come further, they said.”

“That tracks. I know myself, and I know what I come from.”

I sniffed. I was surrounded by a strong smell. But it wasn’t the scent of death, it was-

“Formaldehyde. That’s the preservative we inject into the bodies to hold them, besides the cold box.”

“Ironically, also the same preservative we thought were used in maraschino cherries. Though the sulfur dioxide and red dye – or, Heaven forbid, green dye – are bad enough. I had to give them up years ago.”

“One does get used to working with chemicals down here. But yes, I also gave up my preserved cherries years ago. I make my own, with a simple water and sugar syrup, from the wild cherry trees in my back yard. Which I must share with the squirrels and birds.”

“Sounds like a good balance to me, serve the dead here, serve the living there, using some of the same techniques.”

“Serving the dead is easy. Serving the living, the so-called friends and family…” He trailed off. We were at a particular door in the room of doors, his hand on the latch. “Last chance. I have to ask: are you sure?”

“I am.” He nodded, undid the latch with a loud ker-thunk. Grabbed the rail, rolled out a mass under a sheet.

Now, this may sound weird, but it was very comforting to me. As soon as that door opened, I could sense that my Dad wasn’t there. Whatever essence, whatever spirit made my dad, Dad, was gone.

I had been cheated out of my last goodbye, because he wasn’t here on a cold slab to hear it.

I heard the coroner’s soft voice behind me. “Can I get you a chair? Would you like some alone time?”

“Sir, you’ve been more than gracious. My dad’s not here. This is just what’s left after his spirit took off.” I reached out, pulled the sheet off Dad’s body’s face. “He even looks different.”

“Living beings are translucent. At death, we turn opaque. Try taking a picture of him, you’ll see what I mean.”

I did. Stared at the image. “That’s freakier than dying. I mean, I understand the Victorian death photos, but this…”

“It explains all the fuss about those photos of Lincoln’s body on display, doesn’t it? I look to that moment of national grief as a moment when my profession went from comforting, to ghoulish.”

“Well, the bells on the buried coffins were another, then. They didn’t want to be buried alive, so they wanted an exit strategy.”

“And we became the ghouls, by making sure the deceased stayed that way. Injecting preservatives directly into the veins prevents many fears – vampires, accidentally buying the living.”

“But we lost a fundamental connection, somewhere. Family used to take care of preparing the body for burial. The wake, for signs of life, just to make certain. I don’t know, handing it off to someone who’s part of the community who has to become aloof to cope, sounds a lot like foisting to me. Abrogating responsibility, and final obligations.”

“A necessary task. I won’t hold my profession as ‘evil,’ I find it as absurd as you do, detective and embalmer and undertaker all in one. And sometimes priest and therapist.”

“That’s a lot, on one human. Small wonder people don’t voluntarily come here to visit, though we have to, once we’re dead. Not that I’m setting myself up as any paragon of virtue, of course, I get very philosophical when confronting deep stuff.”

“You’ve thought about this before.”

“Often. More people should, it would change their attitudes, and lives. Dad taught me to think things out. Like, do I want my nutrients to be sealed in a lead-lined coffin? Why not returned to the earth, with cremation, or alkaline hydrolysis? Full isolation, or full recycling? Lots of money for a fancy coffin people will only see for three hours, or a cheap process that dumps a pH neutral liquid onto the fields as fertilizer? We’ve pulled away from nature, and the isolation is killing us. And contaminating the planet for no reason.

“And he said something about things hiding in plain sight. He told me, ‘Remember that, at the end.’” I stared down at Dad’s body, looking so out-of-place in a cold steel drawer. Opaque, like his last message to me. “What did he mean?”

“Hmm.” The coroner leaned back, studying me. “Like you, my profession leans heavily into philosophy. And psychology. I may study the dead, but I practice on the living.”

I raised an eyebrow.

“So, I met your family. They were less than truthful with me. So I was not entirely truthful with them. Wanted to know all sorts of details I couldn’t answer, brought their lawyer to harass me. I don’t harass well. They demanded an autopsy. Why? He died of a slow-acting cancer, just like the hospital said. Well documented. Verified it with the doctors. So, why the interest?”

I stared at Dad’s face-not-face, then pulled the sheet down farther. Painful to see, the tracks and traces of a fight well fought. I gently touched the bruises, the needle tracks, the unnecessary bandages, already peeling away from the skin. “I’m sorry they took you away from me. I would have fought them, had I know which hospital they’d taken you to. Even with power-of-attorney, they bullied some staff into an undocumented transfer. I wish I could make them pay for what they did to you.”

Chairs appeared. I gratefully sat, still holding a stiff arm. The coroner leaned back, strangely comfortable in the stark surroundings. “So. You’re POA? Not the pack of jackals, and that’s insulting to jackals?”

I nodded, stiffly. “I have the paperwork, if that helps. It’s how I got here.”

“Indeed. Formality – I have to ask. To cover my own ass. So. No autopsy was required, complete waste of my time, but since your relatives were acting like blowflies on a feast, I did some tests anyway. Blood work, reviewing the hospital’s paperwork. Organ samples. X-ray.”

I raised another eyebrow.

“Everything was completely abnormal for a cancer death. No traces of cancer meds, just herbal supplements in ungodly unhealthy doses. Dehydration, malnutrition. Forged paperwork, doctors who bought their diplomas from some poor island nation. Cancer riddled his body, when the real hospital had him stable for months. And one more thing.” He slid a folder out from a space under the gurney, selected a film, held it up to the light.

Nothing much moves me. This did. I gasped. “Now it makes sense. Marry me? Please? I love you!”

He grinned. “That’s a new reaction! I will treasure it. Shall I?”

“Please! Can I watch?”

He plucked a scalpel from a nearby tray.

It’s telling that my very human reaction to the death of my father is considered sociopathic, while their greed and hate are now normal. But my very real need for revenge was stronger than any bizarre cultural norm. The coroner rinsed off his extraction, handed it to me, still dripping with antiseptic.

Thanks, Dad.

*****

The jackal pack howled when they discovered the body missing. Of course I signed for it, and had it delivered to a time and place of my choosing, for viewing and burial. With his friends, who were also distraught that the family took him to a different “hospital” for treatment, an unknown distance away. Shockingly, the herbal “remedies” only prolonged Dad’s pain.

My lawyer was having quite a field day with the lawsuits. The coroner was assisting with field notes, and seemed to be just as happy as the lawyer.

Revenge served ice cold, like a body on a slab.

I’d been named executor as well as POA. For grins and giggles, I had my lawyer do a rather dramatic reading of the will, the old-fashioned way. With police waiting for them to get violent when the stipulations were read. Only one paragraph was pertinent: whoever had the key to the safe deposit box, got it all. No exceptions. No stealing it from the person who had it, no trying to have them killed. Very stiff penalties for that scenario.

Well, they tried to jump me anyway, with me dangling the key the coroner gave me on a bright red ribbon around my neck. And we derived great joy from having the lot arrested on the spot. Hard to win any cases from prison. The judge denied bail for how they treated Dad, plus the forged paperwork.

They couldn’t find the key, though they’d turned the house upside down while Dad was institutionalized against his will.

Because he’d hidden it on his person, in his person. Slid it under the subcutaneous layer, likely during one of his many surgeries. Some of the doctors were his friends, and would do stuff like that in secret for a friend. They weren’t afraid of dying flesh.

Hidden in plain sight, in a body that most would never see.

Except for the curiosity of a ‘satiable child.

Thanks, Dad.