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

years. His customer in his chair.”
    “Just a little off the top, Pete,” said my father.
    In the mirror I saw Pete Peterson Junior blink back tears at hearing his dad’s name. “Yes, sir, Mr. Clayton.” He hesitated, looking at his time-traveling customer through the mirror in a way that pulled him back into his own images of the past. Then he ran a comb straight through my father’s hair and began snipping air.
    “There’s some Pepsis in the back, Barry. Help yourself. Ain’t had a chance to put on coffee.”
    “No, thanks. Better save them in case the snow causes a Pepsi shortage for the regulars.”
    P.J. nodded without understanding my private joke.
    “How’d he get out?” asked the barber.
    “Just walked out. He woke up and saw the snow.”
    “Reckon y’all have to do something. How about them invisible fences?”
    I stared at P.J.’s reflection, expecting a wink. The man wasn’t kidding. “Wear a dog’s shock collar?” I asked.
    “Ssshh,” he said. “I don’t mean to upset him.” P.J. stepped around to the front of the chair where we could talk eye-to-eye. “Maybe something that would ring a bell or sound an alarm. They got all sorts of high-tech stuff these days, you know, for keeping criminals prisoner in their own homes.”
    I realized P.J. meant well. Although he considered my dad to be his father’s customer, Pete Peterson Junior and my dad were both in their sixties. Like so many others in Gainesboro, P.J. found it painful to see a lifelong friend disintegrating before his eyes. Was keeping Dad a prisoner in his home being suggested for my father’s security or for P.J.’s? An undertaker bears the extra burden of reminding a community of its mortality. An undertaker with Alzheimer’s shows that death may approach in insidious increments that can keep a body above ground long after the person has ceased to exist—a fate far more fearful.
    “Well, we’ll have to do something,” I admitted. “Can I use the phone? I’d better call my mother.”
    “Sure. Tell her I’ll run you home. Main Street ought to be plowed by now.”
    As I dialed from the wall phone at the rear of the shop, I watched P.J. and my dad framed against the bright whiteness outside—two boyhood friends: one sat falling into shadow, the other still stood in the light.

    Mom met us at the back porch with dry slippers for Dad and a mug of black coffee for me.
    “Did you let the neighbors know?” I asked.
    “Yes, and I notified the Sheriff’s Department everything was all right. A man telephoned a few minutes ago. Wondered if we found your father.”
    “Who was he?”
    “I’m not sure. Hard to hear because he was talking beside a highway. Do we know a Joshua?”
    I eased Dad into a kitchen chair and pulled off his wet boots. He hadn’t bothered to wear socks and his feet were like ice cubes. “Drives a Pepsi truck,” I said.
    Mom dabbed melted snow from my father’s hair and neck. “He told me P.J. must give a good haircut and that he’d have to try a store-bought one sometime.”
    I was touched by the stranger’s concern. “Joshua’s a nice guy. I met him on the road out front. I think we should start stocking Pepsis to offer families.”
    “I think I’d better take your father up for a hot shower,” said Mom. “Then I’ll get you some breakfast.”
    “Don’t bother. I can fix myself an English muffin.” I looked at the clock. Five minutes after nine. “I’m going to work on year-end inventory and I’ve got some calls to return.”
    Mom led Dad upstairs. I locked the deadbolts on the front and back doors and set the keys where Mom and I could easily find them. An invisible fence was out of the question, but something needed to be done. The morning episode had been an adventure I didn’t want repeated. Perhaps Ted Sandiford offered a solution.
    I closed the office door behind me, laid the magazine with Sandiford’s number by the phone and pulled a new legal pad from the drawer.