[12]
     
    
   
   
    
     
      In
      the
      Vincent
      Price
      Room,
      Journey’s
      End
     
    
   
   
    
     
      “Undertakers
      to
      Meet”
     
     
      —The
      Guardian
      [Charlottetown,
      PEI]
      July
      19,
      2001
     
    
   
   
    
     
      What
      do
      undertakers
      talk
      about
     
    

    
     
      when
      they
      meet?
      Do
      they
      share
      the
      black
     
     
      humour
      of
      anaesthetists,
      that
      exacting
     
    

    
     
      routine
      punctuated
      by
      moments
      of
      sheer
      terror
     
     
      when
      false
      teeth
      are
      lost
      or
      a
      spouse
     
    

    
     
      glows
      with
      white-hot
      anger
      at
      a
      death-grimace
     
     
      no
      art
      could
      remove
      or,
      at
      least,
      lacquer?
     
    

    
     
      Do
      they
      practice
      those
      fastidious
     
    

    
     
      make-overs
      on
      each
      other?
     
    

    
     
      Rehearse
      those
      hushed
      voices,
      gently
     
     
      touching
      their
      colleagues’
      elbows?
     
    
   
   
    
     
      Or
      gather
      in
      sound-proofed
      convention
     
     
      rooms
      and
      strike
      Chinese
      gongs,
      drink
     
     
      Tequila
      sunrises
      and
      play
     
    

    
     
      giddy
      rounds
      of
      paper,
      scissors,
      rock?
     
     
      Perhaps
      they
      massage
      each
      other’s
      delicate
     
     
      hands,
      those
      manicured
      fingers
      blessed
     
    

    
     
      by
      the
      angel
      of
      death,
      with
      the
      tact
     
    

    
     
      and
      sure
      precision
      of
      surgeon
      and
      beautician.
     
    
   
   
    
     
      I
      have
      come
      to
      believe
      they
      flirt
      and
      pair
     
    

    
     
      off
      in
      their
      rooms
      and
      undress,
      a
      slow
      seductive
     
     
      shedding
      of
      charcoal
      suits
     
    

    
     
      and
      skirts,
      stiff
      white
      blouses
      and
      shirts,
     
     
      underwear
      flimsy,
      sheer,
      vermillion,
     
    

    
     
      never
      taking
      le
      petit
      morte
      lying
      down
     
    

    
     
      but
      upright,
      defying
      gravity.
     
    
   
   
    
     
      Though
      some
      never
      touch,
      only
      their
      eyes
     
     
      ferrying
      back
      and
      forth
      across
      the
      river.
     
    
   
   
    
     
      Walking
      past
      them
      down
      the
      hotel
      corridor
     
    

    
     
      I
      hear
      one
      mention
      ashes
      on
      the
      Ganges.
      -
     
    

    
     
      Or
      is
      it
      managing
      their
      assets?
     
    

    
     
      If
      I
      crashed
      their
      workshops,
      would
      I
      discover
     
     
      them
      practising
      those
      soft,
      deep,
      compassionate
     
     
      sounds,
      or
      training
      to
      suppress
      laughter?
     
    

    
     
      In
      the
      session
      on
      “Understanding
      Grief”
     
    

    
     
      do
      they
      meditate
      on
      photos
      of
      their
      late
     
    

    
     
      fathers,
      ailing
      mothers,
      or
      tirelessly
      enact
     
    

    
     
      the
      Monty
      Python
      dead
      parrot
      skit?
     
    
   
   
    
     
       
     
    
   
   
    
     
      They
      must
      shop-talk
      about
      us,
     
    

    
     
      the
      mourners.
      Rate
      our
      bereavement,
      _
     
     
      swap
      designations:
      weepers
      and
      wailers,
     
     
      eye-dabbers,
      cinder-block-faced,
     
     
      zipper-lipped,
      will
      hunters,
      morbid.
     
     
      And
      surely
      they
      must
      complain
     
    

    
     
      about
      music,
      how
      they
      hate
     
    

    
     
      hearing
      “Nearer
      My
      God
      to
      Thee.”
     
     
      How
      they
      long
      to
      crank
      up
      “Sympathy
     
     
      for
      the
      Devil”
      or
      “You
      ain’t
      ;
     
     
      nothing
      but
      a
      hound
      dog,”
      or
      instruct
     
     
      the
      organist
      to
      play
      “Stairway
      to
      Heaven’
     
     
      backwards.
      Late
      in
      the
      evening,
     
    
   
   
    
     
      >
     
    
   
   
    
     
      in
      the
      hospitality
      suite,
      they
      drink
     
     
      shooters
      they
      call
      embalmers,
     
    

    
     
      and
      with
      a
      flushed,
      self-conscious
      thrill
     
     
      play
      “Name
      the
      Immortals.”
     
    

    
     
      Then
      push
      each
      other
      over
      the
      brink
     
    

    
     
      of
      remembrance:
      the
      devastated,
     
    

    
     
      the
      forlorn
      they
      could
      not
      console.
     
     
      That
      done,
      they
      make
      lists.
     
    

    
     
      Hymns
      that
      permeate
      even
      the
      brass
     
     
      and
      varnished
      wood
      of
      their
      hearts.
     
     
      Handshakes
      that
      made
      them
      tremble.
     
     
      Moments
      alone
      with
      the
      dead
     
    

    
     
      when
      the
      room’s
      air
      thins
      and
      parts,
     
     
      the
      mind
      wavers,
      light-headed,
     
    

    
     
      as
      if
      someone
      has
      drawn
      a
      boost
     
    

    
     
      from
      the
      brain’s
      electricity,
      recharged
     
     
      and
      sped
      off,
      the
      lights
      briefly
      dimmed,
     
     
      air
      quivering,
      then
      still.
     
    
   
   
    
     
      —Richard
      Lemm