The Cool Room by Clifford Beck - HTML preview

Chapter 43

Stepping out into the night, Frank’s mind began to obsess over the offer posed to him—that he begin selling drugs from his business. He knew it would work, but he had earned a reputation over the years and wanted to keep it. Selling drugs – even out of his home – would destroy his life and likely see him behind bars for a very long time. What he needed was the will to live in spite of the loss of his wife. He knew the pain would eventually fade, but the issue, as he saw it, was moving past the emotional struggle. He thought that eventually he could stop using cocaine, as a doctor would taper their patient down from an antidepressant. As the pain of loss began to resolve, he would do the same – tapering himself down, little by little, until both the need and supply were gone. Another question rose in his mind: would he be able to stop? This was a question he tried never to think about, as he didn’t care for the idea of being controlled or trapped by something as innocuous as a few milligrams of powder. What he didn’t realize was how strong its grip truly was, and that releasing himself from it would be the most difficult thing he had ever done in his life.

By the time he returned to the funeral home, Frank was exhausted. The walk seemed longer than usual, and his day seemed to be more stressful than others. Running a funeral home is typically hard work, and families tend to place a lot of demands on him, centered on the need for perfection. They want to see their loved ones looking as though they could sit up at any time and discuss all matters of concern as though they had never passed at all. From the beginning of his career, Frank had dedicated himself to achieving the level of perfection people expected of him. But now, he was beginning to question his ability to achieve it. Truth be told, he was tired – tired of bearing witness to life’s unfairness as tragedy after tragedy passed into his cool room. After hiring Emily, he decided that the younger generation should handle the preparation of the dead. They not only brought new knowledge to the industry but had seen very little in the way of human suffering and the carnage produced by the unpredictable. After making his way upstairs, he removed his suit jacket and throwing it over the footboard of his bed, sat on its edge and stared at the floor. Twenty years had passed since he began working in the funeral business, and sitting in the darkness of the room he once shared with Dorothy, he decided he had had enough. From that point on, Frank would relegate himself to the duties of management, piloting his business from behind his desk. He would, occasionally, stand vigil for a service, but even that had begun to wear on his emotions. But it was his business, and he felt obligated to make an appearance when he felt it was necessary. Sighing deeply, he opened the drawer of his nightstand and removed a small vial of cocaine. Aside from the one in his desk drawer, Frank now made it a habit of keeping one in his bedroom. Since no one else went in, he felt comfortable keeping it there, and when one vial was empty, he would purchase another, even if the other was full. He felt it was important to be well-supplied.