Read Online Dangerous Undertaking by Mark de Castrique - Free Book Online

apple cobbler. Wayne excused himself, slid back from the table, and glided into the adjoining room. His lanky, thin frame was what the locals described as “a tall drink of water” or “high pockets.”
    Uncle Wayne and my parents were a disappearing breed. They personally cared for the funeral needs of their community in much the same way Reverend Pace cared for the spiritual needs of his flock. They were not employees of a large chain of funeral homes. Mom and Dad literally lived where they worked. Their antebellum, white-columned house, set off the street on a gently sloping lawn, was a beautiful home in the tradition of family residences and town funeral businesses. I had rejected both the home and the business when I moved to Charlotte. Clayton and Clayton Funeral Directors was a dying entity in more ways than one.
    In a few minutes, Wayne returned, his normally pale complexion flushed. “That was Freddy Mott. He was coming in to help us tonight, but he thinks his distributor cap has got moisture in it. Must be the rain. He can’t get his car started.” Wayne glanced at his wristwatch. “The Colemans will be here in less than thirty minutes.”
    “I’m planning to stay,” I said.
    “We can all help,” offered Pace. He stood up and tossed his white linen napkin on the table. “Make us earn our supper.”
    Mom barred everyone from the kitchen. Even Fats McCauley offered to help with the dishes, but she would hear nothing of it. “The rest of you get things ready for the Colemans,” she ordered. “I’ll work faster alone.”
    Susan arranged silk flowers in the Slumber Room and set out a “Those Who Called” book. Wayne and I wheeled in the casket on a rolling cart and Reverend Pace helped at my end to transfer it to the pedestal. We removed the lid and stopped for a moment to look at the boy. Pace said a spontaneous prayer.
    The child appeared to be sleeping. Last night my mother had washed and mended his clothes. Gone was the swelling and discoloration from the snakebite. He looked as if a call from his Mom or Dad, or the bark of his dog, would set him in motion, sneakers skimming across the ground in pursuit of a new day.
    Fats had had the child’s coffin in his inventory. It had been meticulously crafted as a final cradle, a work of art to ease a family’s pain that could never go away. The size was right. I hated the thought of a little boy lost in the wide span of satin and ruffles that adults required.
    Fats ran a soft cloth over the brass corner trim, wiping clean the dull haze of polish residue. The stillness of the moment was broken by his muffled sob. He turned away, his eyes brimming with tears.
    “Y’all leave now,” a voice called from the doorway. Leroy Jackson stood with his Bible under his arm and swept his gaze across the room. No one moved. “I said you should leave. You ain’t needed. I’m here on behalf of the Lord.”
    Reverend Pace stepped from behind the casket. He laid his hand on my arm as he passed, signaling me to keep my temper in check. I felt Pace quiver and feared if anyone lost his temper, it would be he.
    “The Lord is already here,” said Pace. “He has been working through these good people to bring dignity and honor to this child.”
    “You preach words of damnation, old man.” He lifted the Bible above his head. “The Spirit has forsaken you and all the heathen who refuse to heed the commands of the Almighty.”
    Before Pace could reply, Fats McCauley spoke in a low rumble, the words erupting from deep inside his corpulent body. “Judge not lest ye yourself be judged. For the Lord knoweth the way of the righteous, but the way of the ungodly shall perish.” With the last syllable, his face froze. His eyes never wavered from Leroy Jackson as he silently challenged the man to dispute him.
    “Amen,” said Pace.
    Leroy Jackson looked away, unable to tolerate the weight of Fats McCauley’s soul-piercing scrutiny. Through the doorway came Luke Coleman. He