here, feet. Figure this guy can’t have been
more than a couple of inches taller than his
compadre
who brought him. So we’ll say here—the toes are about here.” He laid a second strip of metal down, this one perpendicular
to the table. “Now we just take this…” He lifted a piece of rough wood about two feet wide by six feet long and slammed it
down, lifting the head so that it rested up at the top end, facing up at the roof of the old barn, the light from the dim
afternoon swirling down in halos of gold through the holes here and there in the cone above, and through the window frames,
now glassless, that sat around the second and third stories of the forty-foot-high faded red barn.
For the next two hours Stone learned everything about making coffins with the least amount of wood and nails possible. About
formaldehyde for pickling, about makeup for the dead, about every damn thing you always wanted to know but were afraid to
ask about embalming and funereal procedures. Still, in a bizarre way Stone found it all fascinating, though his stomach kept
gurgling like a sink with something stuck in its pipes.
Before they knew it, there was a knock on the door, and more of the short brown farmers were there with burros loaded down
with the dead.
“Ah, see, Stone, time flies when you’re having fun,” Undertaker said, wiping his hands free of sawdust and chemicals and heading
to the door. He helped the farmers unload their already strong-smelling baggage, and then Undertaker shooed them all out again,
telling them to wait out in front by the funeral chapel—where services were conducted. The moment the door was closed again,
he screamed out for his children to get the Heavenly Chapel all set up and ready, ’cause there was a bunch of ripe ones coming
through.
“Now you’ll see a master at work,” Undertaker said haughtily. “Just keep your eyes on me if you can.” He laughed, leaned over,
picked up the headless body from one of the huge straw baskets, and spread it out on the table. Then he took the severed head
belonging to the thing and held it until it was right in place above the stump of a neck.
“Now come on, Stone, help me, man, help me,” Undertaker bellowed. “Don’t stand there like a goddamn tree. Get me that hammer
there, and one of them long nails.” He gestured with a toss of his head to the side where shelves of tools and revolting-looking
devices were stacked not very tidily. Stone reached over and got what the man had asked for and stood up again, feeling a
little dizzy from the sudden rise. “Now hold this here,” Undertaker said impatiently, nodding at the head he was holding firmly
by the bloody scruff of the neck.
“Oh, I don’t think I—” Stone smiled grimly, starting to back away.
“Get over here, mister, and help me with this. I got too much to do tonight to start playing pattycake with amateurs. Now
come on.” Stone gulped and reached down, half turning his eyes away from the thing. It felt cold and wet. Out of the corner
of his eye he couldn’t help but see Undertaker take a long nail and place it right at the nostrils of the head. Then, with
a few quick strokes, he nailed the missing appendage down right against the neck, the big tenpenny nail protruding from one
nostril like a sinus dripping liquid steel.
“Okay, let go now,” Undertaker commanded, and Stone released his hold. “See there?” The fat man grinned proudly. “Won’t budge
an inch.” To prove his point, he put his fingers around the skull and twisted it back and forth. But the nail did hold the
head quite firmly in place. “Now watch this, Stone. Watch close, man. If things had been different, I would have been a surgeon,
I tell you. A brain surgeon, most likely, and one of the greatest in the world. Perhaps of all time.” That being said, Undertaker
reached down into another box of bloodstained supplies and extracted a long, nasty-looking
more than a couple of inches taller than his
compadre
who brought him. So we’ll say here—the toes are about here.” He laid a second strip of metal down, this one perpendicular
to the table. “Now we just take this…” He lifted a piece of rough wood about two feet wide by six feet long and slammed it
down, lifting the head so that it rested up at the top end, facing up at the roof of the old barn, the light from the dim
afternoon swirling down in halos of gold through the holes here and there in the cone above, and through the window frames,
now glassless, that sat around the second and third stories of the forty-foot-high faded red barn.
For the next two hours Stone learned everything about making coffins with the least amount of wood and nails possible. About
formaldehyde for pickling, about makeup for the dead, about every damn thing you always wanted to know but were afraid to
ask about embalming and funereal procedures. Still, in a bizarre way Stone found it all fascinating, though his stomach kept
gurgling like a sink with something stuck in its pipes.
Before they knew it, there was a knock on the door, and more of the short brown farmers were there with burros loaded down
with the dead.
“Ah, see, Stone, time flies when you’re having fun,” Undertaker said, wiping his hands free of sawdust and chemicals and heading
to the door. He helped the farmers unload their already strong-smelling baggage, and then Undertaker shooed them all out again,
telling them to wait out in front by the funeral chapel—where services were conducted. The moment the door was closed again,
he screamed out for his children to get the Heavenly Chapel all set up and ready, ’cause there was a bunch of ripe ones coming
through.
“Now you’ll see a master at work,” Undertaker said haughtily. “Just keep your eyes on me if you can.” He laughed, leaned over,
picked up the headless body from one of the huge straw baskets, and spread it out on the table. Then he took the severed head
belonging to the thing and held it until it was right in place above the stump of a neck.
“Now come on, Stone, help me, man, help me,” Undertaker bellowed. “Don’t stand there like a goddamn tree. Get me that hammer
there, and one of them long nails.” He gestured with a toss of his head to the side where shelves of tools and revolting-looking
devices were stacked not very tidily. Stone reached over and got what the man had asked for and stood up again, feeling a
little dizzy from the sudden rise. “Now hold this here,” Undertaker said impatiently, nodding at the head he was holding firmly
by the bloody scruff of the neck.
“Oh, I don’t think I—” Stone smiled grimly, starting to back away.
“Get over here, mister, and help me with this. I got too much to do tonight to start playing pattycake with amateurs. Now
come on.” Stone gulped and reached down, half turning his eyes away from the thing. It felt cold and wet. Out of the corner
of his eye he couldn’t help but see Undertaker take a long nail and place it right at the nostrils of the head. Then, with
a few quick strokes, he nailed the missing appendage down right against the neck, the big tenpenny nail protruding from one
nostril like a sinus dripping liquid steel.
“Okay, let go now,” Undertaker commanded, and Stone released his hold. “See there?” The fat man grinned proudly. “Won’t budge
an inch.” To prove his point, he put his fingers around the skull and twisted it back and forth. But the nail did hold the
head quite firmly in place. “Now watch this, Stone. Watch close, man. If things had been different, I would have been a surgeon,
I tell you. A brain surgeon, most likely, and one of the greatest in the world. Perhaps of all time.” That being said, Undertaker
reached down into another box of bloodstained supplies and extracted a long, nasty-looking
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