The Cool Room by Clifford Beck - HTML preview

Chapter 7

Jonathan Brink had been working in the industry for seven years and, during that time, had become not simply a good funeral technician but an artist. He had been married for five years and had a son, with another on the way. Due to the stress inherent of his profession, he chose to live in a quiet area near the edge of town. This did not necessarily mean isolating himself, but the quiet solitude was something he found far more comforting than alcohol. His wife, Iona, having emigrated from Romania, was a constant anchor of emotional support and knew when her husband required time alone. Never having seen first-hand what he did for a living, she understood the nature of pain, and whenever he needed a shoulder to cry on, hers was always available.

While he often worked on routine clients, his expertise was of particular brilliance in traumatic reconstruction. He had not only learned to use the standard tools and hardware for piecing together the human form but also developed a few tricks of his own. Necessity being the mother of invention, Jonathan used devices normally reserved for the surgeon’s hands, and with a bit of manipulation, they more than served his intended purpose. It was with this ingenuity that Jonathan had become something of a funerary Renaissance man. However, what would soon be delivered to his table would bring to bear all his skills and inventive cunning. And the sad duty of witnessing the emotional pain of others as he stood by the casket of numerous services, his own strength would shortly be tested as well.

Having read the medical examiner’s report as well, he decided it would be best to open the body bag in the morning. Opening the freezer, he rolled out its stainless steel tray and, with Emily’s help, slid the bag and its contents in to be stored overnight. Having experience in the reconstruction of trauma, Jonathan knew that reassembling the body would likely require at least two or three days. Assisting Frank with the first decedent, they locked up the storage room, turned off the lights, and left for the night. Frank, however, being the owner of the funeral home, had taken up residence on its third floor with his wife Dorothy. Having a great deal of understanding for his work, she decided long ago that living among the dead was far more comforting than tolerating the living. In all honesty, she had seen enough of humankind’s self-righteousness that she had come to despise humanity in general. But when it came to witnessing the suffering of those attending the services of the departed, she preferred to be elsewhere and not within earshot of the pain of grief.