interviewed him while re searching corpses for my killer gas movie. Virgil was a friendly guy, an easy interview. My guess is that fu neral home directors have such a ghoulish reputation that Virgil tried to be extra friendly in order to over come it.
"So who's paying for Donald Penn's funeral?" I asked.
"The county. They couldn't find any next of kin."
I looked through the open door to the viewing room and shivered inside. I wasn't ready to go in there yet.
Virgil was still talking. "Happens every year or so. They'll find some guy, froze to death on the street, had a heart attack in the library bathroom, whatever, and he's got no relatives, no friends, nobody. Nobody but us, that is."
Looking at Penn's corpse couldn't be any more de pressing than listening to this. I went into the viewing room.
Hidden track lights were giving off dim lighting, and hidden speakers were giving off dim classical music. When I die I want them to play Frank Zappa at my funeral. At the front of the room was Donald Penn's casket. I walked up to it.
I was pleasantly surprised. I'd expected his casket to be some kind of splin tery plywood thing, but it actu ally looked respectable. And not just because of the lighting. The wood was a rich, dark brown, and draped over it was an embossed cloth that even had some style to it.
I looked down at Donald Penn's face.
Again I was sur prised. He looked good—much bet ter than when he was alive. They'd trimmed his beard and hair, and they must have put on some kind of makeup because his face had lost its gray pallor. He looked pleasantly tanned, like he'd just come back from a beach vacation.
His eyes were closed. Hell, maybe he was just taking a nap. Maybe when he woke up, he wouldn't be a crazy, lonely, blocked writer anymore. Instead he'd be what he looked like now: a wise man, a thoughtful man, a man you'd be glad to have as your grandfather.
"Donald," I whispered, and got all teary-eyed. I stood there for a moment, then tried again. "Donald, it's a great preface," I lied. "Really. Very Joycean."
Had Penn read Joyce? Had he rooted for the Mets? Had he ever loved anyone?
"Listen, Donald, I'm getting it published, just like you wanted. I hope you'll be happy with my editing job. I'll do my best."
Over the hidden speakers Beethoven came in soft and sweet, not sounding dim anymore, but more like a bunch of angels jamming. I continued on.
"Hey, Donald, one more thing. There's somebody out there who's so interested in what you wrote, they burglarized my house and attacked me and my son, trying to find it. Do you have any idea who that might be?"
Was it my imagination?
Or did I really hear Donald Penn chuckle?
I rode to the county cemetery in the hearse, along with Virgil, Molly, and Penn's casket.
"What religion was he, do you know?" Virgil asked, as we turned onto Route 50 and the casket rattled in the back.
"No, I don't."
"Well, we'll give him the standard nondenominational funeral. I've got a Presbyterian minister meeting us at the cemetery. The money the county gives us barely covers our expenses, but it's important to us to do an honorable job."
It must be a drag, wor king at a funeral home and al ways having to convince people you're really a nice guy, not some sicko that gets off on dead bodies. Virgil droned on, detailing all of the many preparations that go into an honorable funeral job. I glanced over at Molly, who was staring out the window, her face a blank. Molly was one o f those five-foot-two, eyes-of- blue types, but withou t the perkiness I would have as sociated with her cute-as-a-button looks. Was she naturally unperky, or was her perkiness just temporar ily missing in action? I wondered what it was like to be a teenage girl, eager to embark on life's grand adven tures, but always surrounded by death. Your dad comes home every day smelling of formaldehyde. Do you become sullen a nd withdrawn, lying around play ing solitaire? Or do you get really into kinky sex,
"So who's paying for Donald Penn's funeral?" I asked.
"The county. They couldn't find any next of kin."
I looked through the open door to the viewing room and shivered inside. I wasn't ready to go in there yet.
Virgil was still talking. "Happens every year or so. They'll find some guy, froze to death on the street, had a heart attack in the library bathroom, whatever, and he's got no relatives, no friends, nobody. Nobody but us, that is."
Looking at Penn's corpse couldn't be any more de pressing than listening to this. I went into the viewing room.
Hidden track lights were giving off dim lighting, and hidden speakers were giving off dim classical music. When I die I want them to play Frank Zappa at my funeral. At the front of the room was Donald Penn's casket. I walked up to it.
I was pleasantly surprised. I'd expected his casket to be some kind of splin tery plywood thing, but it actu ally looked respectable. And not just because of the lighting. The wood was a rich, dark brown, and draped over it was an embossed cloth that even had some style to it.
I looked down at Donald Penn's face.
Again I was sur prised. He looked good—much bet ter than when he was alive. They'd trimmed his beard and hair, and they must have put on some kind of makeup because his face had lost its gray pallor. He looked pleasantly tanned, like he'd just come back from a beach vacation.
His eyes were closed. Hell, maybe he was just taking a nap. Maybe when he woke up, he wouldn't be a crazy, lonely, blocked writer anymore. Instead he'd be what he looked like now: a wise man, a thoughtful man, a man you'd be glad to have as your grandfather.
"Donald," I whispered, and got all teary-eyed. I stood there for a moment, then tried again. "Donald, it's a great preface," I lied. "Really. Very Joycean."
Had Penn read Joyce? Had he rooted for the Mets? Had he ever loved anyone?
"Listen, Donald, I'm getting it published, just like you wanted. I hope you'll be happy with my editing job. I'll do my best."
Over the hidden speakers Beethoven came in soft and sweet, not sounding dim anymore, but more like a bunch of angels jamming. I continued on.
"Hey, Donald, one more thing. There's somebody out there who's so interested in what you wrote, they burglarized my house and attacked me and my son, trying to find it. Do you have any idea who that might be?"
Was it my imagination?
Or did I really hear Donald Penn chuckle?
I rode to the county cemetery in the hearse, along with Virgil, Molly, and Penn's casket.
"What religion was he, do you know?" Virgil asked, as we turned onto Route 50 and the casket rattled in the back.
"No, I don't."
"Well, we'll give him the standard nondenominational funeral. I've got a Presbyterian minister meeting us at the cemetery. The money the county gives us barely covers our expenses, but it's important to us to do an honorable job."
It must be a drag, wor king at a funeral home and al ways having to convince people you're really a nice guy, not some sicko that gets off on dead bodies. Virgil droned on, detailing all of the many preparations that go into an honorable funeral job. I glanced over at Molly, who was staring out the window, her face a blank. Molly was one o f those five-foot-two, eyes-of- blue types, but withou t the perkiness I would have as sociated with her cute-as-a-button looks. Was she naturally unperky, or was her perkiness just temporar ily missing in action? I wondered what it was like to be a teenage girl, eager to embark on life's grand adven tures, but always surrounded by death. Your dad comes home every day smelling of formaldehyde. Do you become sullen a nd withdrawn, lying around play ing solitaire? Or do you get really into kinky sex,
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