The Cool Room by Clifford Beck - HTML preview

Chapter 33

Frank always knew when to stop. He had been through some tough times before and used alcohol as a temporary band-aid. When life smoothed itself out, the drinking would stop. He simply had no need for it beyond what life threw at him. But this was different and far worse than anything he had gone through in the past. However, not wanting to disable himself, he cut his consumption short, paid the bartender and left. Having consumed a shot of whiskey, he thought he might take his time, walking slowly so as to avoid straying off into the street. He stopped once in a while to get his bearings. He wasn’t lost, but he was a bit tipsy. Forty-five minutes later, he found himself walking up the front stairs of the funeral home. Although the air had cooled with the setting sun, Frank had broken out into a sweat as the alcohol led to dehydration. Craving water, there was one thing he wanted to do. He wanted to say goodnight to Dorothy, and with a slight stagger, he went to the cool room. Opening the door of the cooler she was being stored in, Frank, again, slid out the steel tray and unzipped the body bag, exposing her face. Nothing had changed, and she still bore the pallid yellow hue of death. God was not going to come down from His lofty throne and bring her back to Frank. Life just doesn’t work that way. Bending over her, he stroked her face and spoke to her in a caring whisper. “I’m going to take good care of you,” he said. “You’ll see. I’ll make you beautiful again.” He bent down and lightly kissed her cheek when he saw something that frightened him beyond his ability to think. As his lips touched her cold skin, he saw her eyelids close and open. It was only a few moments, and he wasn’t sure if it was even real, but knowing what he saw, Frank jumped back and, nearly fainting, put his hand on the edge of the sink nearby.

“Holy shit!” he yelled.

With all his experience, Frank knew things like this happened with frequent regularity, but with his blood coursing with alcohol, the fear that ran through him became magnified and Frank slipped down to the floor.

“Oh, my God,” he said. “It’s not real. It can’t be real. Fuck!”

Shock shortly transformed itself into grief as he wept uncontrollably.

“I miss you so much!” he yelled. “Why did this have to happen?!”

In his outburst of pain, Frank felt a sudden ache on the left side of his chest. Fearing the worst, he brought his hand up and, pressing it against his chest, felt a strange shape in his breast pocket. With his tears subsiding, he reached a thumb and forefinger into his pocket and removed a small glass vial. Immediately, he recognized it as the vial offered to him by the man in the bar. Clutching it in his hand, he brought his fists to his forehead, deliberating to himself. He had seen the substance used while in college. But that was years ago. Now, he was an adult and considered himself far less careless about how he lived his life. Yet, his life had taken a tragic turn, and alcohol seemed to only magnify his pain.

Getting to his feet, Frank walked into his office, still noticeably numbed by alcohol. It wasn’t that he had consumed a lot, but he had always been a bit sensitive to its effects. Now, sitting at his desk, he carefully set the vial on his desk blotter and, bringing his hands away, stared at its reflective surface – still debating. Emotional pain has a tendency not only to fray one's nerves but to induce deep exhaustion as well. Frank was tired. It was the first day of what he believed would be a lonely life. Although Jonathan and Emily would be nearby, it was the nights spent sleeping alone that promised to be the most painful. As he continued staring at the small glass container, he wondered how he would manage – to live as opposed to existing. His mind went blank as he reached into his back pocket. Removing his wallet, Frank took out a credit card and, opening the vial, tapped a bit of the white powder onto the blotter. Using the credit card, he pushed the powder into a straight line. Any residue would be cleaned off later. Rolling a dollar bill, he placed one end just inside his left nostril while holding the other at one end of the line of powder. Holding the other nostril shut, Frank inhaled the powder deeply into his nose. Its effects were immediate, as he felt his face become numb. But there was another effect – one he did not entirely expect. The substance he had consumed caused his dopamine levels to skyrocket, leaving him feeling better than he had in years. It was in this state of euphoria that he discovered its practical use -- to dull the pain of losing the only woman he had ever loved. Now, he could function; he could do his job. However, there would have to be times when the pain of Dorothy’s loss had to be felt. Frank would have to occasionally deprive himself of the powder he now saw as a more than adequate band-aid for something he could not afford to experience, given the nature of his profession.

Carefully pouring the remaining powder back into the container, Frank locked the vial in a side drawer of his desk and, getting up from his chair, put his arms out, testing his balance. Apparently, the substance he had ingested did not alter his ability to stand, and having used only a slight amount left him clear-headed enough that he could do his job. He decided he would be the only person to prepare Dorothy’s body. After all, she had been his wife for fifteen years, and the preparation of anyone’s remains was considered to be somewhat intimate. This was far more than an average client. However, he also decided he would not lead the service but instead chose to be in the congregation. There was only one thing that needed to be done. He needed to notify his children.