In Strange Company

Day 13

Clare pulled into the parking lot behind the funeral home. Only two other cars were parked in the lot, a red Toyota Camry, and a slick, black Mercedes. She looked out of the window at the clean neighbourhood, with its perfectly manicured gardens, in perfectly square lots. Each home, as good as the other.

The Hargrove Town centre resembled an entirely independent residential area, isolating itself from the influences of the city. Doctors, grocers, dentists, pharmacists, clothing, and entertainment facilities decorated the perfectly preserved town square. From birth to death, it caters for all, Clare thought sombrely, looking at the back door of the funeral home.

She turned the key and the soft humming of the engine stopped. She leaned back on the head rest anxiously. The interior of the car gradually cooled, and the radio hummed quietly. She looked around the snow strewn streets, littered with jittery town folks as they gathered around the town hall.

Clare glanced at her watch. It was already ten forty. She scanned the parking lot again, and peered at the building. No sign of Jack. She went back to staring at the mass gathering of the people from her parked car. It didn't feel right to sit in her small car on a deserted parking lot owned by a Funeral home. The place should be a repellent on such a festive day. Yet ironically, the day had nothing but misery staring back at her. Instead of a hearty laughter, the devilish laugh of the grim reaper beckoned her towards the funeral home.

Around her, the voice of a merry man blared out of the radio. "Morning to you all, and to all a jolly good day. This is Jim Jones, wishing you all a Merry Christmas".

Clare switched to another channel, wanting to keep eluded from being tempted to wish somebody a Merry Christmas.

Another voice broke out of the speakers. "As far as the eye can see, there is more snow forecasted over much of the..."

Clare switched to another channel. Michael Bublé's Sway floated out. Clare sank into her seat. Whenever she'd heard the song in the past, she would spring to her feet and waltz around. Today, the urge to sway felt like a sin. She hardly listened to the song. Her sight sat solid on the back door of the funeral home.

"Thank you so much. We don't know where to start," Ken, Jack's dad, was saying. His tall figure hovered over the wide desk, shaking hands with the funeral home director standing on the other side of the desk.

The director's hazel eyes looked at his clients seating before him. He couldn't fathom their loss, or the grief they were suffering. He couldn't close his doors in their time of need. He cleared his throat, "Carter, I can't possibly begin to imagine your grief, but" he said fixing his eyes on the couple. Sympathy showered through them.

"It is times like these we need our people to help us". He pulled his seat closer to the desk. "You don't worry about the service much. Take all the time you need to decide on the details. I'll be right here for any assistance". He grabbed few pamphlets out of the drawer and passed them over to Ken. "It is my duty to help a friend in need."

"George" Ken's voice seemed edgy. He sighed with exhaustion. "I really can't thank you enough."

George addressed them humbly, "Matt was like a son to me. I watched him grow. My daughter, Michelle, was a friend of his. I can't imagine how Jack is feeling but I know he must be devastated. Michelle can't believe it either". George's eyes began to water.

Jack could hear the conversation taking place between the adults through the slightly ajar office door. He didn't want to hear them plan Matt's funeral. So, he sat in the dimly lit corridor. To his left, was the gallery displaying all the caskets available for purchase. It was a sombre place, Hargrove Funeral Home, with its dark wood interior, antique furniture, and a glass dome decorating the gallery. The last time Jack had visited this place was for his grandmother's funeral.