The Equations of Love (5 page)

The hot sun was setting, and Mort felt very much at peace as he followed his friend Pork into the side door of the funeral home. A young man in black with a gentle demeanour approached Pork and gave him some instructions, pointing here and there, taking Pork into an inner office and showing him something, and then taking him into another room and showing him something else, and Pork received his nightly instructions, and nodded and said “Yes, Mr. Pontifex, I certainly will. No, Mr. Pontifex, I certainly won’t. Well I don’t think she can have left that neckpiece in the chapel because I’d have found it last night when I was cleaning, but I’ll have another look and if I see it I’ll give her a ring, and if I hear anything from the Pinkham family I’ll let you know.”

All this time Mort effaced himself from the conversation and stood with a great deal of interest in a very handsome kind of parlour lavishly upholstered and hung and carpeted in an anonymous tasteless fashion. There was nothing to induce reverence in this room, but Mort felt a kind of reverence stealing over him like a scent.

The sun, at that time of the year, goes down suddenly, and then it is night before you know it. Pork began turning lights on in various places and this of itself changed the autumn afternoon into night in a funeral home. The young man in black with the gentle demeanour came through the reception parlour with his things on. He nodded kindly to Mort who wondered Does he think I’m one of the relatives, and went out into the street, closing the outside door after him with a soft click. Pork seemed to be somewhere else.

Mort thought Well, I might as well sit down, so he tried a rocking chair as he was partial to rocking chairs. Not a twinge of thought reminded him – at least hardly a twinge – that he should have been home to supper long ago. The gentle influence of the beer, and Pork, and the funeral home, had the assuaging effect on him – and on his angel – of a warm beach on a starred summer night, or of a soft bed on Sunday morning. You do not want to leave it; it is good enough for you.

After a time the door of the reception parlour opened and Pork came in. He was wearing a janitor’s overalls and he had a small fur neck-piece in his hand. He said, “Just wait till I put this in the office.” When he returned he said, “D’you want to see something?”

Mort nodded. He was pleasantly apprehensive. He had – years ago – seen death many times and in many forms, but this was different. “Is it a stiff?” he asked.

Pork seemed a little shocked. “It wouldn’t be my place to show you that …” he said, and Mort said, “Of course not.” They went along a lighted hall and then they went up a finely carpeted flight of stairs. There was a door. Pork opened the door wide, went inside, clicked lights on, stepped back, and said, “Well, what do you think of
that
… !”

Mort went in.

“Well, whaddaya know!” he said.

The coffins stood row behind row in a large oval space; nothing in the room but coffins. Majestic and inescapable they stood, waiting all together. Mort felt stunned by the sudden silent sight of all these coffins. In this room the fact of mortality was delivered straight with a hammer blow, and there was no evasion. There seemed to Mort to be hundreds of coffins. There were only forty-two. Every taste, except those concerned with doom, shape and cost, every aesthetic taste, was catered for. Mort snatched off his hat, which he had put on again, with a vague feeling of reverence for the dead.

“Well well well, whaddaya know,” he said again to the coffins in general; and Pork watched his friend, and was gratified with Mort’s response.

Mort’s eyes began to differentiate between the coffins. Some were open, some were closed, some were half open, some were certainly for the ladies. All seemed to be lined with lavish crinkles of satin arranged by a master. This was nice.

“I guess there’d be quite a bit of money tied up in them coffins,” he enquired, turning to Pork, “they’d be worth quite a bit?”

“Caskets,” corrected Pork.

“Well, they’re coffins to me. But they sure are pretty!” He advanced towards the coffins, tiptoeing uneasily, vigorous but subdued among their horizontal shapes.

A bell whirred somewhere. Pork turned and left, saying “I’ll be back.” Mort heard him going down the stairs. He began to move from coffin to coffin. He stood and pondered each one. They became less dreadful. He began to enjoy himself. He began to choose his pick.

I guess by the looks these would all be for society people, he thought as he surveyed them. There didn’t seem to be a plain working man’s coffin in the lot. He was divided between a forbidding box covered with elephant grey and lined with off-white, and a fine job covered with purple brocaded velours and lined with heliotrope satin. Either of these coffins was suited to a certain aspect of Mort’s temperament, but he preferred the richness of the purple. There’d be some satisfaction in being buried in something like that. If he wasn’t afraid of Pork coming back he’d get in, just for the feel, but he knew Pork wouldn’t like it. He now thought of Myrtle. He would choose one for her. After some difficulty and much sticking out of his lower lip and pinching his chin, he chose a coffin prettily lined with shining blue, and stood over it, looking down. He became sentimental, and then he became unhappy. He became luxuriously unhappy, and mysteriously elevated. He looked down into the soft blue satin and – plain as day – he saw Myrt lying there. This, then, was really the end of every thing. This was what we come to; and then – no more; this – and no other. He saw Myrt’s thin occasionally pretty face with its well-known look, the eyelids closed; and the circumstances of Myrt’s death and funeral rose and encompassed him. Easy tears filled his eyes and he dried them with the back of his hand. He thought I haven’t always been so good to Myrt as I ought to been, though God knows she’d drive you mad the way she acts sometimes but I bet I’ll be sawry sometime for the things I done. Mort was softening up
considerably so his angel took advantage of this to start the thought that he’d better not stay here thinking up funerals when nobody was even dead, and he’d better get home to supper because Myrt would be mad. Mort took one more look at Myrtle in her coffin, but she had faded, so he tiptoed noisily to the door, and went out with a farewell look at all the beautiful coffins (I’d sure like to pick one for little Horse Dunkerley with splinters in), closed the door quietly and met Pork on the landing.

“I certainly enjoyed that,” said Mort in his pleasant hoarse voice, “I never seen such a sight before! That sure was a very interesting sight … I must be getting along home or there’ll be hell popping. Now looka here, Pork, you come around and see the wife and me one of these days. Mind you do. Come any time, any time …” and Mort waved his big hands this way and that, welcoming Pork in.

“I sure will, I sure will,” said Pork heartily. “Would ya like a few flowers for the wife? There some fine gladioluses come too late today and I can’t do nothing but throw ’em out.”

“
Would
I!” said Mort gratefully and thought to himself Say if that isn’t a break! Myrt’ll be crazy about the flowers; she’ll forget all about me coming in late.

Pork led the way to back premises where there were mops and brooms and pails and a heap of flowers, some fresh, some faded. “If you look among these,” said Pork, bending down, “you’ll find plenty fresh. The cards is off. They’re all in sprays and wreaths and it’s no good sending ’em to hospitals … You break off the good ones and take ’em along home. I’ll only have to throw ’em out anyway,” and the two men went down on their hunkers and fumbled clumsily amongst the flowers – chiefly, as Pork had said, gladioluses – and by selection and rejection and careful breaking-off, Mort got a
bo
kay
of real nice flowers, although some of the stems were short. He was pleased.

“Well, it certainly has been fine seeing you again, Pork, you sure must come around …” and in his mind Mort began seeing his old friend nearly every day. “Thanks for the
bo
kay,” he said, turning it about admiringly, “my wife’s crazy about flowers. She sure will be pleased. Well, I’ll be seeing you,” and Pork let Mort out into the dark street and said goodbye again several times, and Pork went back into the funeral home and shut the door, and Mort went down the street and got on a street car and paid his ticket and sat down and looked at his pretty flowers.

The street car rollicked along, and the queer thing was that the nearer he got to home the more the mist of good feeling and good fellowship and personal virtue cleared away, and left Mort facing his near and inevitable arrival home to the two rooms and to Myrtle who would be at one of her stages – either not pleased, mad, or very mad. However, he had the flowers. He looked at the flowers and saw to his surprise that they had begun to have a used appearance.

M
ort got off the street car and walked the two blocks or more to his house. Because an uneasiness within him grew, he assumed a general swagger and so tried to equip himself to meet Myrtle, if indeed she was at home. She might have got mad and gone down to Irma’s place. However, he tried to prepare himself. So Mort, going apprehensively home, gave the appearance of a fine truculent man walking along fearing nobody and carrying a bunch of flowers.

He did not know that, as he ascended the stairs, two women, not one, sat waiting for him in silence. They waited in silence because they heard him ascending the stairs.

Mort fumbled the handle and walked into the room, flowers first. Oh radiant vision, temporary rainbow, there sat his friend Mrs. Emblem in the rocking chair! Backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards she rocked, smiling at him in her effulgent indulgent way. Well, whaddaya know! Mort swept off his hat and exclaimed joyfully “Why, look who’s here!” and then he did a fatal thing. So great was his pleasure and relief at seeing Mrs. Emblem in the rocking chair that he just naturally very nearly gave the flowers to Aunty Emblem. He held out
the
bo
kay (which was nothing much to look at, now) to Mrs. Emblem, and then, sinkingly aware of Myrtle sitting silent, he swung the
bo
kay at a right angle over to Myrtle.

“Here’s a few flowers for you, honey,” he said in his husky voice, “thought you’d like a few flowers, Queen.” But the harm was done. An innocent husband coming in late and smelling of something does not first of all hand flowers to your aunt and then as a second thought execute a right turn and pass them on to you. Mort did not know it, but he might as well have given Myrtle a handful of prickly pear. He advanced towards her, and, following up the flowers, put his arm round her, and gave her a good kiss.
There
, he thought.

Myrtle’s thin nostrils moved. “You’ve been drinking,” she said. Mort was really hurt by this. “I never …” he began.

“Drinking!” said Mrs. Emblem, her soft eyes vanishing in an affectionate smile, “if you think Mort’s been drinking, you should a seen Homer!” She rocked, recalling Homer. “When Homer’d been really drinking I’d have some nice sandwiches and a cuppa coffee or a jug of tomato juice and I’d say to him Now, Homer, you lay right down on that couch and I’ll cover you up and here’s a bite if you want it and he wouldn’t touch it and he’d go right off and in the morning he’d never know what happened him except that he’d not be feeling so good. Mort’s not been drinking, Myrtle! You come right over and give your old Aunty a kiss, Morty,” and Mort did. “Why, Myrtle, that’s not drink! That’s only one,” sniff, “or two,” sniff, “or maybe three bottles a beer! Well, I must be getting along home. It doesn’t look like Maybelle’s coming now. You bring Myrtle around to see me one of these days, Morty.” And Mrs. Emblem eased herself out of the chair, and Mort helped her into her coat, while Mrs. Emblem said goodnight genially to Myrtle. Mort took her downstairs and all the
way down the stairs he said “I’ll take you to the street car. I’ll take you home.” And Mrs. Emblem said “Oh no you won’t.” But when they got to the bottom step Mrs. Emblem turned to Morty and put her hands on his shoulders and said “Now, Morty, don’t you be a fool. You go right on upstairs to Myrtle. She’s waiting to bawl you out for being late and don’t you pay too much attention. Don’t go crawling around – you don’t have to. Act like a man of spirit but you don’t need to lose your temper. Myrtle’s got to get it out of her system if you know what I mean. Go on now; go on up.”

Mort thanked Mrs. Emblem for her kind words saying “Say, Mrs. Emblem, that’s real kind of you, but I’d sooner it was you than me going up them stairs. And me taking her all them nice flowers too!”

“Yes, and a crazy way you gave them to her, passing them to me first! Make any woman sore! Go on now. Beat it, Mort.” And Mrs. Emblem went down the street with her easy bouncing tread, and didn’t even turn and give Mort a chance to linger; and Mort turned and slowly went on upstairs, trying to plan to act like a man of spirit but not lose his temper.

M
rs. Emblem got onto the street car feeling depressed. She paid her fare and then sat down taking a whole seat so as to be comfortable, and thought I don’t know what makes Myrtle act the way she does. Sometimes I think I’ll never go around again. I think she gets it from her pa. Hazel (that was Mrs. Emblem’s sister, Myrtle’s mother) hadn’t got a mean bone in her body. At least not much. But Myrtle always acted kinda mean even when she was a kid. Mort’s soft and easy and he’s scared to death of her and she knows it. It’s too late to take a stick to her now, but reelly
and
truly, if Mort had taken a stick to Myrtle years ago she wouldn’t act so silly now. And, Mrs. Emblem continued, feeling irritated, it isn’t as if she’d anything to be uppity about. Look at her! Look at that dump! I feel ashamed of my own niece every time I go into it! Well, people have to settle their own hash, and Mrs. Emblem rocked along on the street car and got off at Burrard Street and walked to her rooming house and let herself in, and on up to her room, and turned on the light. The room sprang softly and warmly to life, and Mrs. Emblem locked her door, and breathed a deep sigh of comfort.
Well she might. A pleasant glow of sentiment was shed by a light rosily shaded and suffused. Mrs. Emblem advanced into the room and turned on two lamps also rosily and cosily shaded. These lights so pinkly suffused revealed the neatness and cleanness of Mrs. Emblem’s room. It was a room with a small ell. The ell was divided from the main part of the room by long rose-coloured curtains which at once suggested a delicious though precarious privacy, an unravished something. How pleasant it was for Mrs. Emblem to go to bed behind those curtains, with her very fancy dressing table, made of a packing case and frilled by her own hands, beside her, a pinkly shaded light over her head, a rosy quilt upon the bed, the rose curtains open or drawn, the dying sounds of night passing up and down Burrard Street in the dark, some chocolates near at hand, a pink or blue dressing jacket loosely upon her white shoulders, her curls for tomorrow tied prettily within a pink or blue silken scarf finished with a knot or a bow, and the newspaper in her hands, opened at the Personal Column. She is undeniably a home-maker. No one has seen Mrs. Emblem lying luxuriously there; but I see her now, and she looks so nice, she makes me feel good.