cars decanted their passengers near a freshly dug grave in the Chichiteaux Cemetery. An unseasonably cold wind was rising and the clouds threatened rain. Douthit’s Funeral Parlor had already delivered the polished brass casket, and it lay on top of two iron rails next to the grave. Someone had hidden the excavated earth under a green tarp, and a wreath of flowers, donated by Katherine, lay on top of the casket. Crosgate, who was one of Douthit’s men, had just laid out two rows of folding chairs in front of the casket.
Katherine, Rose, Jac, and the children took the front row, with Richie squirming and grinning. Jac glared at him and the boy subsided, to Arthur’s surprise.
In the second row sat Bert, Phil, Mrs. Marshpool, and Armagnac. There was no minister or priest because James Boyle had never been a churchgoer. And except for the housekeeper, none of the other servants had chosen to come, despite invitations. Nor were there any family friends, for Mr. Boyle had none.
The relatives contemplated the casket silently. Crosgate stood with hands behind his back, his expression curious. He was obviously wondering what the family was going to do.
Armagnac stood up and took a position at the head of the casket. With a tight expression, he began to speak. “We are gathered here today to bury James Elmont Boyle; our father, brother, father-in-law, and grandfather.” Armagnac paused, trying to decide what should come next. A cry interrupted him.
“Cease! Stop the funeral!” a man shouted.
“What the hell?” asked Jac.
A hefty man was running towards them. Crosgate paled.
“Oh Christ,” said Jac, “it’s Douthit. What can he want? And what’s wrong with his face? My God, he’s wearing makeup!”
“He practices putting cosmetics on his own face so he can get the corpses’ makeup right,” Katherine whispered to her niece. “Sometimes he just forgets to take it off before he goes out in public. I thought you knew that.”
“Well, NOW I do,” Jac groaned.
Arthur gazed hard at the approaching man. Douthit’s eyes did appear to be rimmed with black. The undertaker was bald, and his powder-white face was strangely hairless on top of his formal black suit. Arthur decided that he had never seen anyone who looked so much like Uncle Fester from ‘The Addams Family.’
Douthit halted by the grave, panting hard. “You have to stop!” he insisted.
“Is anything wrong, Mr. Douthit?” Katherine asked in a stately way, a hint to the undertaker to compose himself.
“See here, Douthit,” said Armagnac. “We’re in the middle of a service. Can it wait?”
“Absolutely not. Something has been forgotten,” the undertaker gasped. “Crosgate, assist me.”
Before the eyes of the startled family, Douthit began to open the casket. A moment later, James Elmont Boyle lay before them on red satin plush. His arms were crossed over his chest and his face bore a sour expression. His hat and cane were in situ.
“My God,” said Bert. “They buried him with his bowler on!”
Arthur goggled. Briarly’s little black purse slid out of her lace-gloved hands. Even Richie was impressed. The boy leant forward and sniffed hard, expressively. Jac yanked him back down into his seat.
“Doesn’t he look magnificent?” Douthit sighed.
“Is this all!?” yelled Jac. “Do you mean you’ve interrupted us just to show Father off?”
The undertaker drew back, offended. “Can it possibly be that you don’t care to see him? You didn’t take a look at him when you stopped by the funeral home.”
“Mr. Douthit,” began Katherine in a pained way.
“Douthit,” Armagnac interrupted. “None of us came by to see him because none of us wanted to see him! Now will you close that goddamned casket?”
“But doesn’t he look wonderful?” the undertaker insisted. He gazed down at James with the satisfaction a chef might give to a
Katherine, Rose, Jac, and the children took the front row, with Richie squirming and grinning. Jac glared at him and the boy subsided, to Arthur’s surprise.
In the second row sat Bert, Phil, Mrs. Marshpool, and Armagnac. There was no minister or priest because James Boyle had never been a churchgoer. And except for the housekeeper, none of the other servants had chosen to come, despite invitations. Nor were there any family friends, for Mr. Boyle had none.
The relatives contemplated the casket silently. Crosgate stood with hands behind his back, his expression curious. He was obviously wondering what the family was going to do.
Armagnac stood up and took a position at the head of the casket. With a tight expression, he began to speak. “We are gathered here today to bury James Elmont Boyle; our father, brother, father-in-law, and grandfather.” Armagnac paused, trying to decide what should come next. A cry interrupted him.
“Cease! Stop the funeral!” a man shouted.
“What the hell?” asked Jac.
A hefty man was running towards them. Crosgate paled.
“Oh Christ,” said Jac, “it’s Douthit. What can he want? And what’s wrong with his face? My God, he’s wearing makeup!”
“He practices putting cosmetics on his own face so he can get the corpses’ makeup right,” Katherine whispered to her niece. “Sometimes he just forgets to take it off before he goes out in public. I thought you knew that.”
“Well, NOW I do,” Jac groaned.
Arthur gazed hard at the approaching man. Douthit’s eyes did appear to be rimmed with black. The undertaker was bald, and his powder-white face was strangely hairless on top of his formal black suit. Arthur decided that he had never seen anyone who looked so much like Uncle Fester from ‘The Addams Family.’
Douthit halted by the grave, panting hard. “You have to stop!” he insisted.
“Is anything wrong, Mr. Douthit?” Katherine asked in a stately way, a hint to the undertaker to compose himself.
“See here, Douthit,” said Armagnac. “We’re in the middle of a service. Can it wait?”
“Absolutely not. Something has been forgotten,” the undertaker gasped. “Crosgate, assist me.”
Before the eyes of the startled family, Douthit began to open the casket. A moment later, James Elmont Boyle lay before them on red satin plush. His arms were crossed over his chest and his face bore a sour expression. His hat and cane were in situ.
“My God,” said Bert. “They buried him with his bowler on!”
Arthur goggled. Briarly’s little black purse slid out of her lace-gloved hands. Even Richie was impressed. The boy leant forward and sniffed hard, expressively. Jac yanked him back down into his seat.
“Doesn’t he look magnificent?” Douthit sighed.
“Is this all!?” yelled Jac. “Do you mean you’ve interrupted us just to show Father off?”
The undertaker drew back, offended. “Can it possibly be that you don’t care to see him? You didn’t take a look at him when you stopped by the funeral home.”
“Mr. Douthit,” began Katherine in a pained way.
“Douthit,” Armagnac interrupted. “None of us came by to see him because none of us wanted to see him! Now will you close that goddamned casket?”
“But doesn’t he look wonderful?” the undertaker insisted. He gazed down at James with the satisfaction a chef might give to a
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