The Cool Room by Clifford Beck - HTML preview

Chapter 32

The evening wore on as Frank sat on the edge of his bed, wondering how his life would continue without Dorothy, and walking downstairs, he opened the door to the cool room. Turning on the light, he searched the cooler doors until finding the one with her name written on a small form taped to its cold stainless steel surface. Hesitating, he stood staring at the crudely written words, trying to muster the courage to open the door. He pulled up a chair and, sitting in front of the cooler, continued waiting for even the slightest bit of bravery to show itself. Finally, out of an inescapable determination, he suddenly stood up and, facing the cooler door, opened it and slid out the cold steel tray. Lying on it was a dark brown body bag – standard equipment for the Medical Examiner’s office. With the tray pulled half-way out, Frank stared at the bag containing his wife’s remains. His mind became flooded with a single question: Should he be doing this? His mind told him to push the tray back in and close the door, leaving this to Jonathan and Emily. Yet, his soul spoke to him with a somewhat louder voice, insisting he open the body bag. The voice he gave into led him to a decision he would regret, and unzipping the bag gazed at her face, frozen in a ghastly open-mouth smile. He had already seen the paperwork when he initially viewed her body at the hospital but found the injury that caused her death unnoticeable. There were, however, several lacerations near the top of her head, but those could easily be concealed. Now, Frank realized that he was thinking not about his wife’s death, but how he would prepare her. Quickly, he came to see this as irrational, and continuing to study, her face broke down. At that moment, something else invaded his mind. He wanted to hold her one last time. He knew what could happen, but having become overwhelmed by grief, bent down and wrapping his arms around her shoulders, carefully brought her up. It was only a few moments, but in the state Frank had become caught up in, he had held her for what seemed like hours, crying on her cold, lifeless skin. Trapped in a moment of uncontrolled pain, Frank’s arms applied just enough pressure to cause Dorothy’s body to purge. Without the usual preparation, fluids of decomposition bubbled up and, escaping the most easily accessible orifice, ran out of her nose and mouth. The only reason Frank noticed was that his shirt had been soaked through with the brownish liquid. He knew these things could happen and often did, but the cold liquid coupled with the smell of decay proved too much for him. In spite of his years of experience, Frank found himself leaning into the nearby sink, discharging the contents of his stomach. As the aching of his stomach subsided, Frank returned to the open body bag and, stroking the side of Dorothy’s pallid face with the back of his hand, softly spoke to her.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he said. “I promise I’ll never do that again.”

That was no response, no forgiveness or reassurance that the added pressure around her body had done no harm. Pulling the chair over, he sat, holding her hand. Its cold, lifeless flesh went unmoving as he stared at it, waiting for it to wrap itself around his. With as many clients as Frank had worked on, this was the first time he realized how cold the skin of the deceased truly was, and he found himself taken aback by it. But Frank needed an escape, and zipping up the body bag, he slid the steel tray back into the cooler and turning the handle secured it shut. Leaving the funeral home, he still wasn’t certain if he wanted to be the one to prepare Dorothy’s body. It might be easier to simply cremate her, allowing the vessel that once housed the woman he’d married to be consigned to ashes stored in an engraved brass urn. Or perhaps he would let Jonathan and Emily do the work. They were certainly talented enough. But this was not a simple decision, as whatever would be done could be done only once. Frank needed time to think.

Removing his suit, Frank changed into something less formal – jeans and a red button-front flannel shirt. With his eyes red from the flow of tears, he left the funeral home and began walking without direction or destination. This seemed to be an accurate metaphor for the emptiness that now consumed him. His need for clarity was desperate, and the storm provided Frank with a different smell in the air. With the type of precipitation that Upstate New York was prone to, Frank had experienced the smell of foul weather many times. But this was different; it was strong and sweet. Breathing deeply could be thought of as a cure-all. However, Frank needed more if he was to begin the journey to emotional recovery. After all, he had a job to do, and his services were greatly needed. He could not afford to fall into the pit of despair when there would soon be others he was obligated to help.

Continuing up North Main Street, Frank approached its intersection with Eighth Avenue. In the middle of the crossroads, there was a Civil War memorial. Two soldiers, seemingly at the ready – one bearing a musket while the other holding high the American flag. Standing in front of this majestic remembrance of the struggle for freedom, Frank couldn’t help wondering if the struggle had been worth the loss. With the world experiencing its own collective psychosis, it occurred to Frank that while some things change, others do not. And it is those things that have always existed from the beginning of time that will likely always continue. In a flash, Frank realized that it is human nature that will always corrupt humankind. But bringing about the change that might end that cycle would be accomplished by no one, and putting that thought in the trash receptacle of his mind, he continued on his way.

Crossing the street, he found a tavern. It had been there since time immemorial and was the favorite watering hole for many. Some used it as a pharmacy of sorts, burying their pain in whatever could be poured into a glass or handed off in a bottle. All Frank needed was something to help him relax – something to take the edge off, to help soothe his shattered nerves and broken heart. Walking in the door, he looked around and saw exactly what he expected – a dark, dingy place filled with broken souls, each with a story he would rather not hear. Nor would he convey his own. In all honesty, Frank didn’t care what others were going through when he was so badly in need of healing.

The bar stools were bolted to the floor, very likely to prevent them from being thrown, and walking up to the end of the bar, he was soon met by the bartender. He was an older man bearing more weight than one should carry and looking as though he had worked there since the bar’s opening back in the days of old.

“What’ll you have?” the man asked. When it came to alcohol, Frank was anything but extravagant. Beer was always good enough for him. But today was different. Today was painful. “I’ll have a beer and a shot,” Frank replied.

Although the whiskey burned its way down, it provided the fastest means of comfort. The beer would quench the fire it left behind.

Half-way through his beer, Frank began to feel the warming effects of the whiskey as his mind began to melt, taking away, if only for a short time, the pain life had cursed him with. Bringing his hands to his face, he exhaled deeply when he was approached by a somewhat unkempt man. Perching his elbow on the bar, he looked at Frank with half-hearted concern.

“Hey,” he said. “You don’t look so good. Wanna talk about it?”

For a moment, Frank thought the man was making a romantic advance and responded with only slight hostility, wishing to fend him off without a confrontation.

“Listen,” he replied. “I don’t swing that way, okay? And I just lost my wife, so I’d appreciate being left alone.”

Oddly enough, the man did not seem surprised by Frank’s response, as though he had expected it. “Oh, no,” he replied. “I’m not looking to suck your dick or anything, but I might be able to help, given what you’re going through.”

Frank laughed slightly, and making eye contact, gave him a blunt answer.

“Look,” he said. “Thanks, but I doubt there’s anything anyone can do for me. So, if you don’t mind.”

The stranger became insistent, and taking a different tack brought a small glass vial out of his pocket as he continued with a leading approach. “Tell me something,” he continued. “What do you do for a living?”

This was a question he had heard many times and had always given the same answer. “I’m a funeral director.”

The stranger was genuinely taken aback, not having met many people who worked in this industry. “Jesus Christ,” he said. “So, this must be especially rough for you. Man, I am so sorry.” Frank believed his false sincerity. “Thanks,” he said. “Now, I really would like to be left alone, if you don’t mind.”

Still holding the glass vial, the man had intended to sell Frank its contents, but having a clearer picture of his circumstances, he offered it to him as a ‘favor’.

“Tell you what,” he said. “I can’t imagine what you’re going through, so I want to give you something. I think it’ll help get you through this, and if you don’t want it, through it out.” Frank looked at the vial and, noticing the white powder it contained, refused the man’s sinister gift. “I don’t think I need that shit to get through this,” he said. “You keep it.”

The stranger was not pleased with the response he received, but he had one more tactic – something worthy of a master magician. As he stood up, he walked up to Frank and patting him on the shoulder with his left hand, snuck the vial into the pocket of his shirt with the other. The trap was set. All Frank had to do was take the bait. Walking away, the stranger left the bar and went on his way, leaving Frank alone, as he had requested. But just before disappearing into the evening’s dimming light, he looked back, hoping Frank would return for more than a beer and a shot.