Crematory—“Serving Missoula’s Bereaved Since 1964”—stood between a used-car lot and a sinister-looking bar called Mountain Jack’s. It was skirted by a thin strip of lawn doing its best to appear elysian. Ben parked in the otherwise empty lot and, thrusting his hands into his jacket pockets, walked toward reception. The building was all Palladian pillars and swirled cream stucco, a curious hybrid of temple and hacienda that at any other time would have made the architect in him smile. Beyond it, away to the west, lightning flickered against the gunmetal shroud that had lowered itself over the mountains. The air smelled of wet dust and just as he reached the cover of the portico a first few plump raindrops began to smack and speckle the asphalt.
The reception area was a hushed expanse of mushroom-pink carpet and magnolia walls, decorated with elaborate arrangements of fake flowers and framed prints. Away in the far corner, a muted TV was entertaining a coffee table and a pair of empty couches in blue velour. Ben pressed the soundless button at the reception desk and while he waited wandered with soundless footsteps, inspecting the pictures. All were landscapes and all featured water of some kind—a river, lake, or ocean. There was a unifying, bland tranquility to them, nothing too poignant or risky, no sunsets or stormy skies, not a hint of hell or eternal judgment. He wondered if they ever censored the pictures to suit the special sensibilities of their clients. Maybe they had already done it for him because there sure wasn’t a single snowy mountain on the walls.
“May I help you?”
A young man with a friendly round face and a body that seemed too long for his legs was heading across the mushroom pink toward him. Ben introduced himself and saw a fractional retuning in the man’s smile. He wasn’t overdoing it, just finding the right calibration of professional sympathy. This was the Jim Pickering both Ben and Sarah had spoken with on the phone.
“Your wife called to say you weren’t going to make it today.”
“She had to get a later flight. I flew up this morning from Albuquerque. We’re not married anymore.”
He didn’t know why he had volunteered that, but the man nodded, readjusting the smile again, just a touch more concern.
“Is it inconvenient for me to see . . . ?” Ben couldn’t finish the sentence. Should he say Abbie? My daughter? The body?
“Not at all. We’re all ready for you.”
“I just wanted to, you know, make sure—”
“I absolutely understand.”
He asked Ben if he would mind waiting a moment and hurried off the way he came. He disappeared down a corridor and the silence reasserted itself. The place had the best soundproofing Ben had come across in a long time. He caught himself wondering what materials they had used. What was the matter with him? Waiting to see his daughter’s body and thinking about goddamn acoustics?
Jim Pickering came back and asked Ben to follow him. As they walked a sequence of corridors, he explained that they had embalmed the body, as Mrs. Cooper had requested, and that the search-and-rescue people over the mountains had made the process a lot easier by keeping so much ice around her during recovery and transportation. The results, he said, were consequently a lot better in the circumstances than one might have expected. Whether the man was making a modest professional boast or simply trying to allay anxiety, Ben couldn’t decide.
“We didn’t have any clothes, so she is in what we call a hospital gown. And, of course, we didn’t have any reference for hair and makeup, so you’ll see we’ve gone for quite a natural look. There is scope for some minor adjustment, should you wish. And the casket is only temporary. Mrs. Cooper didn’t say whether you would be interested in purchasing one from us or from the funeral home back east. We do have quite an extensive range.”
“I’m sure.”
“Well, here we are. This is our viewing
The reception area was a hushed expanse of mushroom-pink carpet and magnolia walls, decorated with elaborate arrangements of fake flowers and framed prints. Away in the far corner, a muted TV was entertaining a coffee table and a pair of empty couches in blue velour. Ben pressed the soundless button at the reception desk and while he waited wandered with soundless footsteps, inspecting the pictures. All were landscapes and all featured water of some kind—a river, lake, or ocean. There was a unifying, bland tranquility to them, nothing too poignant or risky, no sunsets or stormy skies, not a hint of hell or eternal judgment. He wondered if they ever censored the pictures to suit the special sensibilities of their clients. Maybe they had already done it for him because there sure wasn’t a single snowy mountain on the walls.
“May I help you?”
A young man with a friendly round face and a body that seemed too long for his legs was heading across the mushroom pink toward him. Ben introduced himself and saw a fractional retuning in the man’s smile. He wasn’t overdoing it, just finding the right calibration of professional sympathy. This was the Jim Pickering both Ben and Sarah had spoken with on the phone.
“Your wife called to say you weren’t going to make it today.”
“She had to get a later flight. I flew up this morning from Albuquerque. We’re not married anymore.”
He didn’t know why he had volunteered that, but the man nodded, readjusting the smile again, just a touch more concern.
“Is it inconvenient for me to see . . . ?” Ben couldn’t finish the sentence. Should he say Abbie? My daughter? The body?
“Not at all. We’re all ready for you.”
“I just wanted to, you know, make sure—”
“I absolutely understand.”
He asked Ben if he would mind waiting a moment and hurried off the way he came. He disappeared down a corridor and the silence reasserted itself. The place had the best soundproofing Ben had come across in a long time. He caught himself wondering what materials they had used. What was the matter with him? Waiting to see his daughter’s body and thinking about goddamn acoustics?
Jim Pickering came back and asked Ben to follow him. As they walked a sequence of corridors, he explained that they had embalmed the body, as Mrs. Cooper had requested, and that the search-and-rescue people over the mountains had made the process a lot easier by keeping so much ice around her during recovery and transportation. The results, he said, were consequently a lot better in the circumstances than one might have expected. Whether the man was making a modest professional boast or simply trying to allay anxiety, Ben couldn’t decide.
“We didn’t have any clothes, so she is in what we call a hospital gown. And, of course, we didn’t have any reference for hair and makeup, so you’ll see we’ve gone for quite a natural look. There is scope for some minor adjustment, should you wish. And the casket is only temporary. Mrs. Cooper didn’t say whether you would be interested in purchasing one from us or from the funeral home back east. We do have quite an extensive range.”
“I’m sure.”
“Well, here we are. This is our viewing
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