Chapter Two

I'm just Nine pages short of my goal.

Dan Feuerbach
English 352
03/22/2006
Chapter Three

The alarm clock called and Tom Menke responded. Out of bed and into the shower he moved as quietly and quickly as he could.
He was soaped, shampooed and out before the shower could fully adjust to being turned on.
Four bodies in the dungeon, three appointments and God knows how many orders for flowers, coffins, graves and vaults he would have to make before the day was over, he thought.
Into his suit, he buttoned as fast as he could, he zipped as quick as he could and he combed his black hair, parted on the left, and was ready to make his exit. He almost grabbed his keys off the oak dresser and paused to look at her.
Jenny was asleep and Menke was relieved. Curled into her comforter he smiled. Then he picked up his keys and went out the door.

Gibson was waiting when Menke arrived.
“Menke, you need to move closer. I beat you here every time.”
“You’re a whore.”
Into the door and over to the alarm system. He turned it off and turned around, Gibson was right behind him.
“What’s the plan today?”
“Well, we need to get at least three of the four as close to done as possible. I have to meet with some families, the usual shit but in higher quantities.”
Gibson went downstairs, Menke went to his office. Fifteen more minutes before the first family came in. He couldn’t remember who it was. He opened his appointment book.
“Jenny Baldwin,” he whispered to himself, “intravenous drug user, overdosed on heroin.”
This was a rarity, he thought, usually he dealt with nattys (people who died of natural causes) and people who got in accidents. He saw a few suicides and even fewer OD’s. Usually it was meth, but variety is the spice of life, he thought, and death.
Even with the door shut he could hear Gibson’s music. He listened closely, he wasn’t quite sure what song it was.
You’ll work harder with a gun in your back
for a bowl of rice a day…
The family would be there any minute. He jogged over to the stairway that led to the Dungeon.
“Gibson! Turn that shit down,” he said, hoping the family wouldn’t walk in.
“What?” he responded from down the stairs.
He went double-time down the stairs to find Gibson leaning over a corpse, getting ready to reconstruct the face of the Chinese man who burned to death in his house in “T-town,” Gibson referred to the man as a “rice crispy.”
“Gibson turn that down, there’s a family coming any minute.”
“What you don’t like D.K.?”
Menke unplugged the CD player.
“Turn it down or off,” he said as went back up the stairs.

Just as he got to the top the front door opened and in stepped two haggard individuals. A woman and a man, she had the darkest bags under her eyes he had ever seen in his ten years in the industry. She was wearing a tan pantsuit, it looked old but it was still in style. There was some fraying around the edges but it still looked good on her. The man was wearing a black suit, like they all did, and he tightened his lips in an attempt to look strong.
“Mr. and Mrs. Baldwin?”
She didn’t say anything; he had to take the initiative.
“Yes, we had an appointment,” he said. His voice sounded like it had been hit by a semi. No doubt a result of finding out that not only was his daughter dead but a hardcore drug had killed her.
He put on his condoling face; dignified and strong, like he could lead them through the whole process. He’d done it so many times before. He stood straight and talked gently.
“We here at Menke and Son offer are deepest condolences and hope we can guide you through this difficult time in your life,” he said, “please step into my office and we can begin planning your daughter’s memorial.”
His son was too young to be in the industry, but “Menke and Son” sounded more professional. None of the customers had ever called him on it and the people who did, Jenny and Gibson, asked out of idle curiosity more than discomfort.

The woman in the pantsuit was holding back tears. Her lips would quiver occasionally and she’d shut her eyes had hard as she could. The tight-lipped man acted as professionally as he could.
“There are a variety of internment options for your daughter,” he said, “is there any religious affiliation that you would like me to keep in mind before I show you your options?”
“We’re Catholic,” the tight-lipped man said, “we were thinking about Wyuka.”
Wyuka was the massive cemetery in the middle of town. Charles Starkweather, the famous Nebraska serial killer, was buried there.
“Wyuka is an excellent choice. It is an extremely peaceful location to lay your daughter to rest.”

Almost two hours later they were done. It hadn’t been too difficult. They selected lilacs because their daughter loved them, they were going to have her buried in the northeast section of Wyuka and they picked the most expensive coffin and vault available.
“Just one more issue,” he said, “embalming. Do you wish to have your daughter embalmed for the visitation? If not we will have to go to immediate burial.”
“Of course we would,” the tight-lipped man said.
Menke opened the upper right-hand drawer and removed the necessary forms.
“If you could just sign this we can get to work immediately.”

“Gibson, that addict, get her rolling,” he said.
Gibson moaned.
“I know, I know, but the shit goes down in four days.”
If only Jenny Baldwin knew how difficult she made things for them. Intravenous drug users are an interesting problem for morticians. All the broken blood vessels and deteriorated heart tissue would require Gibson to watch the corpse the entire time it was being pumped with juice. He would have to scope out the cadaver for puncture wounds. He would have to massage those wounds so fluid didn’t build up.
The only other time they had to deal with an IV drug user, she shot up into her breasts.

They took a break around three o’ clock.
“So let me get this straight,” Gibson said, “you sold them a plot at Wyuka but they don’t know they can get the same services from them as us?”
“Yeah.”
“Hefelbower is going to be pissed.”
“Fuck him. It’s not like there’s some massive shortage of corpses.”

He was had a few minutes before the last appointment of the day. He sat at his desk, getting the last pieces of information ready for the last bit of work that day when he looked at the wedding photo on his desk.

It was her flirting brown eyes that made him fall for her; eyes that could glance at anyone or anything and give the impression that she was interested. It was those eyes that made him propose to her, to buy the two-thousand dollar ring that caused him to live on peanut butter and crackers for two months.
He would do anything for those eyes, give anything to make her gaze his. He held open doors and put his coat over puddles downtown. It was those flirty eyes that moved them to ninety-third and Old Cheney, twelve miles from his business.
It was the possibility of another pair of those eyes that brought Evan into this world.

He smelled like embalming fluid and sweat. It had been a long day. After he arranged all the funerals he had to go to the Dungeon and help Gibson out a little bit. He was tired, beat-down and ready to go to bed.
He walked in and his wife was asleep. He took off his suit and took a shower. This time he got to enjoy the warmth. When he finished brushing his teeth, he lay down beside her. She turned over to face him in slow motion.
“Hey baby, how was work?” she said with her eyes still closed.
“Busy, go back to sleep.”
She turned away from him and he pressed the front of his body to thee back of hers. He put his fingers on her stomach and felt her bulging tummy.

Saturday was a much deserved day of rest for Menke. After the constant running around from the previous week he was glad to be able to putter about the house he worked so hard for.
It was noon and his wife was still asleep. The doctor recommended and he insisted that she rest as much as possible. She was so fragile that sometimes it amazed him that she got their son out without and complications.
He sent Evan over to her parents’ house. He loved going over there. He did as he pleased and every time he came back he was difficult to keep in line. They spoiled him but he had it coming.
He remembered when Jenny’s parents first found out they were engaged. They were ecstatic.
“The best part,” his father-in-law said, “is going to be the grandkids. We will spoil them rotten. Think about it as our revenge.”

The mailman came by and he walked down the small hill their house rested upon and picked up the mail.
He flipped through; bills, junk mail, and a letter from the justice department?
He opened it up and was immediately shocked.
His blood ran cold. He was about to get sued. Matt Hefelbower was pissed, like Gibson said. The bastard was going to sue him for failing to tell the Baldwin parents about the option of getting their daughter worked over at Wyuka.
This was a massive problem. He knew that a lawsuit would put him out of business. His best option, he thought, was to settle quietly out of court, quickly before the Journal Star found out. If there was a story in that rag that’d be it for his business.
He went inside to lock the letter away until he could come up with a plan. When he closed the door to his study, he heard footsteps upstairs. He began to panic. He locked the door and stopped for a second. He took a deep breath and went to his mahogany desk. He found the key and opened the drawer. The footsteps were getting closer.
“Tom? Where are you?”
He locked the letter away and came out of the room.
“Hey baby. How’d you sleep?”
“Really good, do you want breakfast?”
“I’ll cook it,” he said, “You need to take it easy.”
She smiled and they went into the kitchen.
“What a great husband,” she said.