Miss Julia's Marvelous Makeover (14 page)

I placed Trixie and Rodney together on one side of the table, Lloyd opposite them, with Sam and myself at the head and the foot. It was the best I could do, although I do like a balanced table. Trixie allowed Rodney to seat her without flinching, so that was a good start. I wracked my brain for a suitable table topic to put the two of them at ease.

Thank goodness for Sam. He both started and kept the conversation going, drawing out Rodney and Lloyd, but failing with Trixie. As that was not unusual, the discussion of the weather, the economy, and plans for the summer went on apace without any additions from her. And I must admit from me, either. I was entranced by Rodney's request to Lillian for a tablespoon, with which he proceeded to twirl his spaghetti like he'd been born in Italy. I'd have been surprised, though, if any of the Abbot County Paces had ever been farther from home than Myrtle Beach.

Lloyd watched the spaghetti twirling with intense interest, then asked Lillian for a tablespoon of his own. Sam did, too, and their efforts, guided by instructions from Rodney, proved mildly entertaining and occasionally messy. Trixie didn't attempt to twirl, just kept struggling to get a forkful to her mouth before it fell back to the plate. I, of course, continued to use the edge of my fork to facilitate noodle management.

After we'd finished the strawberry shortcake that Lillian served, I suggested we return to the living room. As we began to leave the table, Rodney complimented Lillian, raising him a degree or so in my estimation.

Trixie, who'd hardly said a word throughout dinner, said, “We're going to a movie, so we can't stay long.”

Rodney gave her a distant smile. “We have time to talk awhile. Can't just eat and run, you know.”

“Oh, good,” Lloyd said, settling into a corner of the Chippendale sofa. “I want to hear all about your job. Tell us what you do with dead people. What if somebody dies at night? Do you have to go out in the dark and pick them up? And who gets to drive the hearse? Oh, and how did you get into the business?”

“Lloyd,” I murmured, cautioning him against asking too many specific questions, the answers to which I wasn't sure were suitable for Rodney to give or for Lloyd to hear.

I hadn't needed to concern myself about Rodney. He sat up straight in one of the wing chairs and commenced to talk about what was clearly his favorite subject.

“Mortuary science is a wide-open field, Lloyd, and you'd do well to look into it yourself. If you're the right kind of person, it's both gratifying and profitable. For one thing, it's recession-proof, so more and more people get into it during tough financial times. The thing about it is,” he said, scooting up to sit on the edge of his chair, his hands dangling between his knees, “there's more to running a mortuary than just burials. You have to have a good selection of caskets and somebody knowledgeable enough to guide families in the selection process. You'll be real interested to know this—everybody is—we can now get caskets that feature special interests of the deceased—you know, like a favorite football team or Harley-Davidson or a college logo. One family wanted a NASCAR casket and we were able to get it for them. 'Course a lot of people are leaning toward cremation these days—it's cheaper than your regular interment because you don't have to buy a casket or a vault or a plot in a cemetery. We offer personalized services for every need or desire a family can come up with.”

“I declare,” I said, noting Trixie's rapt face as she listened to Rodney. I tried to think of some way to change the subject, because Lloyd was entirely too interested.

“But,” Lloyd said, “what about fixing up a dead person? I mean,
what if somebody gets run over and they come in all dirty and messed up?”

“Under those circumstances,” Rodney said, with an air of importance, “we ask for a picture from the family so the body can be prepared as close to the living state as possible. And of course the family brings in the clothes they want their loved one to wear. You'd be surprised at the problems that can create sometimes. I remember two sisters who were in charge of the arrangements for their father and they couldn't agree on what they wanted us to put on him. One wanted him to wear what he always wore, which was just a shirt and tie. The other sister insisted on the suit that he'd had hanging in a closet—the only one he had from the sound of it. Problem was, though, he'd outgrown it. The first sister said she wasn't gonna have people know they'd sent their papa into eternal rest wearing high-water pants and a jacket that wouldn't button. They almost had a fight over it right there in the consultation room, but I came up with a solution. See, Lloyd, that's part of what makes a good mortician—being able to help with clothes selection and the like, as well as being aware of the emotional stress the bereaved are under. You have to be able to think on your feet.” Rodney paused as if to acknowledge with a moment of silence a family's grief or his ability to deal with it. Then he continued on. “I pointed out to the sisters that the casket would only be open to the waist, so nobody would see the length of his pants. And I told 'em that we'd just split the back of the jacket and it would button fine in the front. Their daddy looked just like he was ready to get up and go somewhere when I got through with him.” Rodney sat back, looking pleased and proud.

“Extraordinary,” Sam said. “I can see that you have to have a lot of tact and understanding.”

“That's exactly right,” Rodney said, hunching forward again. “We have to have good communication skills and be able to show the proper respect and compassion toward the bereaved. And, of course, guide them into making good decisions during such an
emotional time as the loss of a loved one. And speaking of that, Mr. Murdoch, you and Mrs. Murdoch should consider doing some advance planning. When you have your own funeral already planned and paid for, it takes the burden off those who're left behind. I'd be happy to work with either or both of you. People tell us all the time what a relief it is to know that their funerals will be carried out exactly the way they want them to be. No surprises at all.” He looked expectantly from Sam to me, waiting for our response.

“I hope there's no hurry,” I murmured.

And Sam said, “Something to consider, all right.”

“Well,” Lloyd said, “but what exactly do
you
do?”

“Everything,” Rodney replied, with a wave of his arm. “A well-rounded mortician is trained for it all. Some days I work in the embalming room where I—”

“If it's all the same to you, Rodney,” I said, “I'd as soon not hear the details.”

He gave me a quick glance, nodded his head, and went on with the same intensity he'd been exhibiting. “Perfectly understandable. I do plenty of other things, like working with families, as I've just said, and then there's flowers to see to, making sure the family's minister is informed, and the church is scheduled. There're notices and obituaries that go to the newspaper. Death notices have to be filled out and sent in to the state. Then there's the chair arrangement in the viewing rooms, which we have to be careful about if there're any family squabbles, and we take care of transport of the body if it's to be buried elsewhere. Oh, and we keep a constant check on our refrigeration facility if there's any delay. Another thing we do is make sure the family has chosen and informed the pallbearers they want, and another big job is washing our hearses and the cars we use to transport the families. We're always conscious of our public appearance. Oh, there's a lot that goes into dealing with the dead, but to us, it's all in a day's work.”

During all of this, Trixie had said nothing, but she'd listened intently, nodding agreement occasionally as if she'd heard it all
before and was checking to see that he left nothing out. If I hadn't known better, I'd have thought that she was anxious for Rodney to make a good impression on us. As it was, though, I wasn't sure that Trixie cared one way or another what we thought of him or of anything else.

“We better go,” she finally said. “We'll be late.”

“Okay,” Rodney said, standing. “Mrs. Murdoch, I want to thank you for inviting me. Dinner was delicious, and I'm glad to get to know Trixie's family.” He turned to Sam. “Mr. Murdoch, I'd like to give you my card in case you're interested in relieving Mrs. Murdoch of the burden of your final expenses. But I'm not speaking for McCrory's Funeral Home now. This is a business I have on the side—I'm a freelance representative—so you can choose any mortuary you want.”

“Well,” Sam said, always polite as he accepted the card, “I'm not—”

“No need to decide now,” Rodney assured him. “Just think about it. You're guaranteed acceptance, because physical exams aren't required. In fact, you can't be turned down for health reasons of any kind—you could be on your deathbed and you would still qualify. And the beauty part of it is how affordable it is. The rates never increase and the coverage never decreases. Premiums are only nine ninety-five a month for each unit, and you can get as many units as you want. It's real personalized and it'll give you peace of mind like you wouldn't believe.”

“I'll certainly consider it,” Sam said, while my eyes rolled back in my head.

“Oh, and Lloyd,” Rodney said, turning to him. “If you're interested in going into mortuary science, you should know that there're a lot of sideline opportunities in the business. Like, for instance, perpetual care cemetaries, cosmetic services, monuments both granite and bronze, accessories like urns and plaques and miniature personalized caskets, selling family plots, although we call them family estates because they have prearranged slots for each family member, and there's a new idea out there that I'm interested
in. In fact, I'm looking out for some acreage to buy so it can be landscaped as a scattering garden.” Rodney stopped to take a breath, but it was a quick one. “I tell you, it's a wide-open field, and if you want to know how to get into it, I can give you all the ins and outs.”

“Not now, Rodney,” Trixie said, taking his arm, and for once I was glad for her interruption. “We got to go.”

Lloyd said, “Tell me next time. I need time to think about it.”

“Oh, Trixie, before you leave,” Sam said, “I wanted to ask if you'd go with Lloyd and me tomorrow to distribute campaign posters. We'll be nailing them up on every telephone pole we see and putting out yard signs wherever we can. I could sure use your help.”

Trixie's eyes narrowed and her face reddened. She was just before either ungraciously agreeing or flat-out refusing, but Rodney jumped in.

“That sounds like fun,” he said. “Could you use another volunteer? I'd like to help, if Trixie wouldn't mind me tagging along.”

Trixie didn't mind at all. In fact, under those circumstances, she didn't seem to mind going herself. Her face lit up and she nodded her head vigorously.

“Good man, Rodney,” Sam said. “I'm more than glad to have you. Meet us here at eight o'clock in the morning, and we'll get as many signs up as we can. By tomorrow night, everybody'll know who's running for the senate.”

We stood in the door a few seconds watching as the dating couple walked toward Rodney's shiny black car parked at the curb.

“Man,” Lloyd said, admiration in his voice, “Rodney must be getting rich working at McCrory's. That's a Cadillac SUV—an Escalade—and they cost a
mint.
”

Sam put his hand on the boy's shoulder as we turned from the door. “They certainly do, but remember, Lloyd, that some people stretch themselves financially just to make a good impression. They end up house-poor or car-poor or whatever. I expect that SUV has Rodney stretched pretty thin.”

Listening to this, I smiled. Sam, who could afford a new car every year if he wanted one, drove a four-year-old Lincoln and an ancient Ford pickup. When I'd once questioned him about it, he'd said, “They're still running fine. I don't see any reason to get rid of something just because it's old.”

He laughed when I replied, “I hope you feel the same way about wives.”

I turned to Sam as we walked back into the living room, still trying to make up my mind about that forward young man. “Was Rodney trying to sell you some insurance?”

Sam chuckled. “Yep, he sure was.”

“I figured as much,” I said, my mouth tightening, righteously offended at a guest who used a social occasion to drum up business from his host.

“What kind of insurance?” Lloyd asked. “I thought you just had to have that when you went to the hospital.”

“Oh, sugar,” I said. “You wouldn't believe all the different kinds of insurance there are, most of which you have to have.”

“That's right, Lloyd,” Sam said. “Besides health insurance, there's
insurance on your house, homeowner's insurance, car insurance—plus more if you have a boat or motorcycle—flood insurance, liability insurance, term insurance, life insurance, and probably a dozen more. But what Rodney was selling is called burial insurance. It helps you buy a casket and a cemetery plot and whatever else you need when you bury somebody.”

Lloyd thought about that for a minute. “Sounds like it would all go to pay the funeral home.”

Sam laughed and put his arm around the boy's shoulders. “You got that right. That's exactly what it does. Rodney is working both ends—selling insurance while you're alive, then collecting the payout when you die.” Sam shook his head. “You have to give him credit. He's a go-getter, all right.”

“Well,” Lloyd said, still studying the matter, “why would anybody want to buy that kind of insurance? I mean, if the money's just for your funeral, you wouldn't be around to care what kind you have.”

Sam sat down and looked up at the boy. “But it is important to a lot of people, especially to those who live from paycheck to paycheck without any savings to cover, say, a sudden death. And there are people who think a big, expensive funeral is an indication of how much the deceased person was loved.” Sam turned to me. “You remember, Julia, when the insurance man used to go around certain neighborhoods every Friday and collect a quarter or so from the families who'd bought burial insurance? He'd go around on Fridays, Lloyd, because that was payday, and his clients would have enough on hand to pay the premiums.”

“I do remember that,” I said, “and it wouldn't surprise me if they aren't still doing it.” I made a mental note to ask Lillian if she had burial insurance, and if she did, to tell her to stop wasting her money. I'd bury her, if need be, and I'd make it as lavish as she'd want if she were there to enjoy it.

—

Sam was up early the next morning, eager to begin papering the town with
VOTE FOR MURDOCH
signs and posters. By the time I got
downstairs and headed for the coffeepot, he was already on the phone making arrangements to borrow a truck from Deputy Sergeant Coleman Bates.

“Hey, Miss Lady,” a high-pitched little voice pierced through the fog of sleep I was still in.

“Why, Latisha,” I said, looking down at Lillian's great-grandchild, who was holding an almost naked Barbie doll. Latisha's hair was in cornrows with clacking beads on the ends of the braids, and she was wearing a white T-shirt, yellow pedal pushers, and orange polka-dot sneakers. “I haven't seen you in forever. How are you?”

“I'm doin' good 'cause today's Sar'day, an' I don't have to go to school an' eat that mess they give me on a tray. I tole Great-Granny she ought to go over there and show them ladies how to cook. All they know how to do is put hairnets on their heads, but they could just let them ole gray hairs fall whichever place they want to, for all the eatin' that gets done.”

“Law, Latisha,” Lillian said. “Miss Julia don't want to hear that.”

Before I could assure her that I found the perils of the school lunchroom fascinating, Latisha changed the subject. “Guess what, Miss Lady? I'm gonna go with Lloyd an' Mr. Sam to do some hammerin' on telephone poles.”

“You are?” I looked to Lillian for confirmation.

She shrugged, resigned apparently to letting her go. “I tole Mr. Sam she gonna talk him to death, but he say she entertain him an' he wants her to go.” Lillian rolled her eyes just a little. “I hope he know what he doin', 'cause she about to talk my head off.”

Sam hung up the phone and turned to us, a pleased smile on his face. “Got us a big, roomy truck that will carry us all.”

“I thought you were going to use yours,” I said, thinking of the old, wired-together pickup that came with Sam when we married and which was still taking up space in the garage.

“Coleman has a double cab,” Sam told me, “which, if we all go together, we'll need so everybody'll have a place to sit. If we took mine, somebody would have to sit on somebody's lap.”

Lloyd looked up from the piece of toast he was smearing with peach preserves. “I'd probably have to hold Trixie and get smushed flat.”

“Lloyd,” I warned softly, but I couldn't help but smile at the image of Trixie on his lap.

“No, you won't, Lloyd,” Latisha said. “I'd jump on your lap 'fore she can get there. Won't be no smushin' goin' on with me around.”

“Thanks, Latisha,” Lloyd said, grinning. “I'll count on that.”

“We're in good shape now,” Sam said, rubbing his hands together, as I realized how excited he was to be out on the campaign trail again. “Coleman wanted to go with us, but he's on duty. Hurry up, Lloyd, as soon as Rodney gets here, we'll be off. Where's Trixie?”

“I heard her in her room,” I said, “so she's up. Sam, please for my sake, take it easy today. It takes time for your internal organs to adjust to having something removed, so you ought not to jiggle around too much.”

Lloyd looked over at me, his mouth open. Then he started laughing. “You mean there's an empty place inside Mr. Sam and all his other organs have to scramble to fill it up?”

Sam and Lillian laughed, and Lillian said, “I can jus' see that now.”

“Well, it stands to reason,” I said. “But whether they're in there scrambling around, I don't know.”

Just as the front doorbell rang, we heard Trixie bounding down the stairs to answer it. She was beaming as she ushered Rodney into the kitchen, but my smile of welcome dried up fast. Rodney was in pressed blue jeans with a polo shirt and looked neat and ready for action. But it was Trixie who took my breath away. She was wearing a pair of those skintight spandex athletic shorts, which weren't too short as they came almost to her knees, but they were molded to every roll and bulge the poor girl had. She also had on a halter of sorts, something that looked like a sports brassiere that I'd seen in a Title Nine catalogue which had appeared unsolicited in our mailbox.

“This is my work uniform,” she proudly explained to Rodney. “It's what I have to wear at the fitness center. I think we're going to get a lot of exercise today.”

“Perfect,” Rodney said, manning up to what was probably more than he'd expected to have to deal with.

“Well, folks, let's be off,” Sam said, picking up a toolkit full of nails and hammers. “Rodney, you and Trixie can pile in with us or you can follow us to Coleman's to get his truck.”

“We'll follow you,” Rodney said. Then to Trixie's obvious dismay, he added, “Anybody want to ride with us?”

“We better go with Mr. Sam,” Lloyd said. “Come on, Latisha, let's go.”

“Lloyd,” Latisha said, as loud as if he were two blocks away. “How 'bout me an' you ridin' in the back of that truck?”

Lloyd shook his head. “Can't, Latisha. It's against the law.”

“Well, shoot,” Latisha said. “I was countin' on everybody gettin' to see us.”

“Honey,” Sam said to me as he started for the door, “remember to watch for Jimmy Ray's ads today. You and Lillian both, if you will.”

“We will,” I assured him. “And we'll give you a complete rundown when you get home. But, Sam, please don't do too much. If you get tired, come on home.”

“I will, but I'll be fine.” And with that, the whole crew of them left for Coleman's so they could go politicking in his double-cab pickup with a long bed full of posters and yard signs.