The Cool Room by Clifford Beck - HTML preview

Chapter 35

The alarm clock rang as it did every morning and startled awake, Frank fought to rise from a troubled sleep. It had been his first night without Dorothy by his side, but had it not been for the cocaine crash he had experienced, Frank would not have slept at all. Getting to his feet, he walked to the bathroom, where he undressed and began his usual morning ritual. A hot shower generally acted to clear his mind, but today was different; today would be filled with pain, and as the water ran down over his face, Frank started crying. He was usually not one to believe in God, agreeing with Freud that religion is the opium of the masses. Yet, through his tears, he found himself begging God to return his wife to him. He would do anything if the almighty would simply do this one thing – this one miracle. He would never ask for anything else. But there was no response. The heavens did not open over his head. There was no grand deliverance of the life that was so cruelly taken from him.

“It’s not fair!” he screamed. “What did I do?!” The pain that returned to him shortly left him on his knees as the shower continued streaming water down his back. This was soon interrupted by the sudden realization that Jonathan and Emily would arrive for work within the hour. Frank had to make at least an attempt to present himself professionally, and there was only one way of accomplishing that.

In his closet hung seven sets of the same business suit – each identical to the others. He once heard of something called ‘The Einstein Principle’. It stated that if one dressed in identical clothes every day, then the lack of making that particular decision would conserve one's creative energy. Our appearance, being closely tied to our sense of self, would not be compromised if one could set aside their ego for more creative thinking. Shortly after adopting this some years ago, he began to feel a change within himself. He couldn’t describe it, but it seemed to change who he was. Now, that person had been metaphorically bound and gagged and lay in the cold, dank cellar of despair. Escape would eventually be possible, but not before a struggle that would leave him physically exhausted and mentally on the edge of insanity. But in the locked drawer of his desk was his band-aid, the cure-all for the pain that presented itself as a life-altering event. With it, Frank was determined to conquer what God had so unfairly doled out to him. Yet, at his age, he knew there would be no one else, and without some form of divine intervention, Frank was left to heal on his own.

After dressing, Frank walked downstairs and, going to the kitchen, poured a cup of coffee. He always drank dark roast – black. He hoped the higher caffeine content would rattle his senses enough to fully wake him. But after finishing it, he realized that it was not enough. Needing to apply another band-aid, he walked to his office, sat down, opened the locked drawer, and carefully took out the small glass vial. He could already see that its contents were half what it had previously been, but in a moment of desperation, it didn’t seem to matter. He would simply find a way to get more.

As the drug wrapped itself around his mind, Frank heard the front door open as Jonathan walked in, soon to be followed by Emily. Quickly, Frank wiped the excess off onto his hand and brushed what little was left from the blotter of his desk. Getting up from his desk, he walked out and greeted him with warm professionalism, trying to hide the fact that he was rapidly falling prey to the effects of his morning band-aid.

“Jonathan,” he said. “Here a bit early?” He was normally on time – never late, but never this early. Under the circumstances, he felt it necessary to begin preparing Dorothy’s body, assuming Frank would not be doing it himself – nor should he. “Yeah,” Jonathan replied. “I thought I’d get an early start.”

As Jonathan walked by, Frank caught up to him on the way to the cool room.

“You don’t have to work on Dorothy’s body,” he said.

Jonathan stopped as Emily was walking in and with a puzzled look, asked why.

“Well,” Frank said. “I took care of her already.” Jonathan’s eyes became wide with disbelief. Dorothy had been there barely twenty-four hours, and Frank had already prepared her body. The only thing that needed to be done was to notify his family and organize the service.

“Frank,” he said. “You didn’t have to do that. You’re going through enough. We were planning on doing for you.”

By this time, Emily was standing by, unable to believe what she was hearing.

“Frank,” she said. “Please tell me you didn’t work on her. We would’ve done that.”

Although her tone was compassionate, it didn’t prevent Frank’s emotions from boiling over. “You know,” he began. “I appreciate it but let’s not forget that she was ‘my’ wife and I chose to do the work because I didn’t want anyone else doing it. Now, is that okay with you two?” They had never considered this. All they wanted to do was spare Frank the additional pain of preparing his wife’s body. Now, they understood but out of curiosity continued to the cool room to see what Frank had accomplished. Preparing a body for a funeral is an art and like all other forms of art it is done through both perspective and a connection to the object of one’s craft. The unobstructed mind can produce a likeness consistent with one’s connection to the world. Yet, a mind clouded by the effects of LSD produces chaos, a puzzle of infinite pieces manufactured from the altered world within. Given Frank’s emotional state, Jonathan and Emily believed that whatever Frank did would likely require some touching up.

Pulling the door open, they entered the room and immediately felt the cool air surround them. They had spent so much time in the cool room that its temperature went largely unnoticed. Walking past the stainless steel table, they found the cooler bearing Dorothy’s name and opening it, pulled out the tray. With the body half exposed from the cooler, it was Jonathan who lifted the sheet back from the face Frank had gazed at for what seemed like all his life. Both held their breath as Frank’s handiwork was exposed. This was followed by a brief gasp.

“Oh my God,” Emily said. “She’s beautiful.” Jonathan was left near speechless yet managed a similar comment.

“He must have spent all night with her.” As they looked upon what they quickly saw as a work of art, Frank entered the room and chastised them for what he thought of as snooping.

“What are you doing?!” he yelled. “Don’t you dare fuck up my work.”

The effects of the cocaine were wearing off, and Frank was becoming irrational. Even though he was the owner of the business and had possessed many years of experience, Jonathan felt the need to offer a compliment on what he had accomplished. Given the circumstances, it was more than an accomplishment. It was a labor of love and a joy to behold -- from a mortuary technician’s perspective. “Frank,” Jonathan said. “This is fantastic. You always said I was the artist, but this is beautiful. But you could’ve asked for help, you know.” Having absorbed their gracious words, Frank’s mind began to calm as his thoughts began to clear. “I’m sorry,” he said.

Tears began to fill his eyes as he reflected on the last twenty-four hours of his life.

“I just wanted to give her this one last gift. After the service, I’ll never see her again. I just wanted her to be beautiful one last time.”

The tears that had wet his eyes now began their torrent as they streamed down his face. The pain had returned. But there was an issue that Emily thought had to be brought up, and now seemed as good a time as any.

“Frank,” she began. “I don’t mean to be nosey but have you called your family yet?” Frank's eyes widened as he realized he had forgotten to notify both his family and hers. Turning toward the door, he let out an exclamative.

“Fuck!” he said. “I should have done that as soon as I got up. God fucking dammit!”

The heels of his shoes clacked furiously against the hardwood floors as he quickly walked to his office. Jonathan and Emily were left in the cool room to push Dorothy’s prepared body back into the cooler. Having done this, they stood in quiet conversation, concerned about the mental stability of their employer. Both knew that grief is normal and healthy. Without it, one can spiral into the chaos of anger and mental illness. However, in Frank, there seemed to be something amiss—something neither could put a finger on. They never suspected – even for a moment – that their boss was using a substance just to keep his head above water, to escape the pain that would otherwise overrun him. They understood that to do his job, Frank needed to keep his head together. But how he was doing it was a mystery.