stairwell on
the first floor. The waxy scent of industrial-strength deodorizer added a
sickening sweetness to the unpleasant bouquet.
Joe Rob had seen bodies in the prep
room before and had even once been allowed to watch Skeeter’s father aspirate
the contents of a body’s abdominal cavity with a powerful suction device and
witness the entire embalming procedure. He’d been fascinated by the spectacle,
but the experience left him with a grim outlook on life and death and humanity.
“We’re all just big skin-bags of blood and stinking guts,” he had said to
Skeeter afterwards. “That’s what life boils down to.” Skeeter had responded
with “Duh,” in confirmation of what had been obvious to him for years, as the
undertaker’s son.
The most disturbing sight Joe Rob
had seen in the prep room was the body of a middle-aged man, post-autopsy. The
opened and emptied chest cavity with the rib cage split down the middle had
looked like the hull of an Indian canoe. The top of the skull had been removed
with an electric saw and was wired back in place like a beanie cap. Skeeter’s
dad had peeled the dead man’s scalp and face away from the skull and then
stretched it tightly back into place like an obscene mask. Sometimes when Joe
Rob looked at himself in a mirror, he would imagine his face being peeled away
from the bones of his grinning skull.
Skeeter flipped a light switch and
the back hallway leapt from darkness into somber light. He jerked his thumb at
the closed door marked PRIVATE. “Go ahead,” he said. “She’s in there.”
“Aren’t you coming?”
“I don’t want to see her. This is
your thing, not mine.”
“I don’t want to go in there by
myself,” said Joe Rob. “Come on, man.”
“She’s dead . She can’t hurt
you.”
“I know that. I just don’t want to
be in there alone with her. Humor me. All right?”
Skeeter sighed. “All right. You
want me to hold your frigging hand?”
“Fuck you, man. I’ll go by myself.”
“Don’t be an asshole.” Skeeter
turned the doorknob and flung open the door. It banged against the inner wall.
The light from the hallway reached into the cold, darkened room and made gloomy
shadows.
“You trying to wake the dead?” Joe
Rob whispered. He meant the comment to be humorous, but the would-be joke fell
flat and died a humorless death.
“There she is,” Skeeter said,
waving a finger at the sheet-draped body on the stainless-steel table in the
center of the room. “Do what you gotta do.”
Joe Rob stepped lightly across the
tile floor as if afraid a heavy tread would disturb the corpse’s rest. He stood
beside the table and Skeeter came to stand beside him. At the foot of the table
was a porcelain sink where the blood and other bodily fluids drained during the
exsanguination/aspiration process. The blood, Joe Rob recalled, was forced out
of the body by the infusion of embalming fluid—a neat and tidy procedure
compared to the vacuuming of the belly’s foul-smelling contents with the
sharp-pointed stainless-steel tube attached to a thin vacuum hose. He felt a
little queasy just remembering the way Mr. Partain had pierced the belly of
Silas Turner with the aspirator and moved it around inside the gut of the corpse
until all the stinking fluids had been vacuumed out and emptied into the sink.
Joe Rob broke out in a cold sweat.
He was about to tell Skeeter that he had changed his mind, that he didn’t want
to see the body of Jessica A. Lowell, when Skeeter reached down and peeled the
sheet away from the naked corpse.
With a sharp intake of breath, Joe
Rob took a step away from the dead girl. Her skin was waxy and incredibly
white. The small mounds of her breasts were peaked with puckered nipples of
bluish purple, and the auburn thatch of pubic hair was slightly darker than the
hair of her head. Her neck was propped on the rubber neck rest, her arms
resting by her sides. Her face was frozen in an expression Joe Rob could only
think of as
the first floor. The waxy scent of industrial-strength deodorizer added a
sickening sweetness to the unpleasant bouquet.
Joe Rob had seen bodies in the prep
room before and had even once been allowed to watch Skeeter’s father aspirate
the contents of a body’s abdominal cavity with a powerful suction device and
witness the entire embalming procedure. He’d been fascinated by the spectacle,
but the experience left him with a grim outlook on life and death and humanity.
“We’re all just big skin-bags of blood and stinking guts,” he had said to
Skeeter afterwards. “That’s what life boils down to.” Skeeter had responded
with “Duh,” in confirmation of what had been obvious to him for years, as the
undertaker’s son.
The most disturbing sight Joe Rob
had seen in the prep room was the body of a middle-aged man, post-autopsy. The
opened and emptied chest cavity with the rib cage split down the middle had
looked like the hull of an Indian canoe. The top of the skull had been removed
with an electric saw and was wired back in place like a beanie cap. Skeeter’s
dad had peeled the dead man’s scalp and face away from the skull and then
stretched it tightly back into place like an obscene mask. Sometimes when Joe
Rob looked at himself in a mirror, he would imagine his face being peeled away
from the bones of his grinning skull.
Skeeter flipped a light switch and
the back hallway leapt from darkness into somber light. He jerked his thumb at
the closed door marked PRIVATE. “Go ahead,” he said. “She’s in there.”
“Aren’t you coming?”
“I don’t want to see her. This is
your thing, not mine.”
“I don’t want to go in there by
myself,” said Joe Rob. “Come on, man.”
“She’s dead . She can’t hurt
you.”
“I know that. I just don’t want to
be in there alone with her. Humor me. All right?”
Skeeter sighed. “All right. You
want me to hold your frigging hand?”
“Fuck you, man. I’ll go by myself.”
“Don’t be an asshole.” Skeeter
turned the doorknob and flung open the door. It banged against the inner wall.
The light from the hallway reached into the cold, darkened room and made gloomy
shadows.
“You trying to wake the dead?” Joe
Rob whispered. He meant the comment to be humorous, but the would-be joke fell
flat and died a humorless death.
“There she is,” Skeeter said,
waving a finger at the sheet-draped body on the stainless-steel table in the
center of the room. “Do what you gotta do.”
Joe Rob stepped lightly across the
tile floor as if afraid a heavy tread would disturb the corpse’s rest. He stood
beside the table and Skeeter came to stand beside him. At the foot of the table
was a porcelain sink where the blood and other bodily fluids drained during the
exsanguination/aspiration process. The blood, Joe Rob recalled, was forced out
of the body by the infusion of embalming fluid—a neat and tidy procedure
compared to the vacuuming of the belly’s foul-smelling contents with the
sharp-pointed stainless-steel tube attached to a thin vacuum hose. He felt a
little queasy just remembering the way Mr. Partain had pierced the belly of
Silas Turner with the aspirator and moved it around inside the gut of the corpse
until all the stinking fluids had been vacuumed out and emptied into the sink.
Joe Rob broke out in a cold sweat.
He was about to tell Skeeter that he had changed his mind, that he didn’t want
to see the body of Jessica A. Lowell, when Skeeter reached down and peeled the
sheet away from the naked corpse.
With a sharp intake of breath, Joe
Rob took a step away from the dead girl. Her skin was waxy and incredibly
white. The small mounds of her breasts were peaked with puckered nipples of
bluish purple, and the auburn thatch of pubic hair was slightly darker than the
hair of her head. Her neck was propped on the rubber neck rest, her arms
resting by her sides. Her face was frozen in an expression Joe Rob could only
think of as
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