The Year's Greatest Science Fiction & Fantasy 2

THE DAMNEDEST THING by Garson Kanin

It may have occurred to you (even before the excursion with flashbulbs and amplifiers into the darkest interior of “The Other Man”) that the psychiatric profession is one requiring considerable poise and equanimity. But have you ever really thought of what it takes to be an undertaker?

Garson Kanin, the celebrated actor-director-playwright, herewith presents a homey scene in the life of one of the unsung heroes whose work begins where the doctor’s ends.

The undertaker came home early. He kissed his wife, then went upstairs to wash up for supper. When he came down, she kissed him.

“Be five, six minutes,” she said. “Legga lamb.”

“Okay. I’ll get me a drink,” said the undertaker.

“And boiled leeks,” she added, before returning to the kitchen.

The undertaker went into the sitting room and sat. Beside his chair, on a large end table, lay a copy of the evening paper. Beside it stood a nearly full bottle of whisky and a tumbler. He put the paper on his lap and smiled at the bottle as he would at a friend.

“Boy, oh, boy,” he mumbled. He reached out and grasped the bottle firmly by its neck, keeping his thumb on the cork. He turned the bottle upside down once, then uncorked it. Next, he slowly decanted about two inches of liquor into the tumbler, corked the bottle, set it down, picked up the tumbler and drained it. He then put his nose into the empty glass and took one deep breath. Finally he put the glass beside the bottle and picked up his paper. His face was without expression as he scanned the top half of the front page, but when he flipped the paper over to look at the bottom half, a small headline took his attention, and he said to it, quietly, “You don’ say so!”

He returned the paper to his lap, reached out and grasped the bottle firmly by its neck, keeping his thumb on the cork. He turned the bottle upside down once, then uncorked it. Next, he slowly decanted about four inches of liquor into the tumbler, corked the bottle, set it down, picked up the tumbler and drained it. He then put his nose into the empty glass and took one deep breath. Finally he put the glass beside the bottle and picked up his paper. As he did so, his wife appeared in the archway which led to the dining room.

“Let’s go,” she said. “Everything’s on.”

“Right there,” he replied, and made his way to his place at the table. His wife was already seated at hers, piling food onto her plate. He reached to the platter of lamb and served himself, meagerly.

His wife bristled. “What’s the matter? Against lamb?”

“No.”

“Then so what?”

“I think I just killed off my whole appetite.”

“Why?”

“I didn’t mean it, only I did. With an extry slug of whisky.”

“What’d you want t’do that for?”

“I didn’t want, I just did. A double slug, if you want the truth.”

“You’da told me in time, I coulda saved myself in the kitchen, Arthur. Far as I’m personally concerned, delicatessen suits me as soon as lamb.”

“I didn’t know I was going to.”

“How about tomorrow you cook a legga lamb and I’ll get crocked an’ not eat? Why not?”

“Don’ make a situation, Rhoda. I said I’m sorry.”

“When? I didn’ hear no sorry.”

“All right, I’m saying it now. Sorry.”

“You’re welcome.”

They ate in silence, until Arthur ended it. “Good piece of meat. Gristede’s?”

“A lot you know. Drunk.”

He put down his fork. “Rhoda, I want to assure you this much. That I’m not drunk. Far from it. In fact, I wish we had the habit of a glass of wine with meals. Red, white, I don’ know which it is you’re supposed to with lamb. But in the store, they prob’ly give a free booklet. It’s a nice habit to have. Very civilized. In many countries they wouldn’t think of without it. And got nothing to do with drunk in any way, shape, manner or form.” He picked up his fork and resumed the meal.

“If I knew what’s got into you all of a sudden,” said Rhoda, “I would be happy. I’m always telling how at least you, whatever faults you got, don’t make a pig of yourself when it comes to alcoholic beverage. You’ve always been strictly moderation. Practice and preach.”

“I’m still.”

“So what’s all this extry slugs and you want suddenly wine in addition?”

“The wine I just happened to mention. A civilized habit.”

“An’ the extry slugs?”

“Slug, not slugs.”

“So slug?”

“That’s something else again.”

“What else again?”

“Rhoda, if you knew the thing happened to me today, you absolutely wouldn’ begrudge me.”

“I don’t begrudge, Arthur. I like you to have anything in the world if you want it. Only I worry if I see you turning into like Gunderson over there with nothing in his stomach only rye whisky and prunes for a year an’ two months, Mrs. Gunderson tells me.” She munched her food sadly.

“Rhoda, I advise you put your mind at rest. With all my faults, as you mentioned—an’ one of these days, by the way, if I get the time I appreciate you telling me just what you call faults; not now, though—one of them is not I’m alcoholic or even nearly. The wine talk was one thing, just a topic of conversation, figure of speech, y’might say. The other thing, the extry slug—not slugs, slug—this is something else again. This I admit to, in fact, brought up myself. An’ the reason was what happened to me today down to the place. When I tell you, if I tell you, you will definitely not begrudge me. In fact, take a slug yourself, I wouldn’ be surprised. Only I don’ know should I tell you.”

“Tell, don’ tell,” chanted Rhoda.

“It was the damnedest thing ever happened to me in my entire life. In fact, God damnedest,” said the undertaker.

“Eat your meat.”

“Rhoda, listen. Because this is it.” He took a breath and swallowed before continuing. “I had an argument with a corpse today.”

“Eat a few vegetables, at least, if not meat.”

“Did you hear what I just told?”

“Yes.”

“Well, there’s more. Not only I had this argument with this corpse, but I lost the argument, what’s more.”

“The feature goes on 7:10,” replied Rhoda. “But if you wanna catch the newsreel an’ cartoon, then ten to.”

“I just as soon.”

“All right, then, don’t dawdle. Salad?”

“Yes. Look, I can’t seem to put my point over. Oh! You think I’m affected by the—but no, Rhoda. I take an oath, I raise my hand. I know what I’m talking of and this is the God’s truth what I’m on the verge to tell you.”

“All right, Arthur. But eat meanwhile.”

“Now the stiff I had the run-in with, the corpse, is Stanton C. Baravale. Was.”

“The department store.”

“That’s him. Last night he died, in the private wing of Summit General. 10:53 p.m.”

“I read it, yes.”

“This morning they brought him in early; in fact, they were waiting out front when I got there.”

“Because you got a late start, I told you. You wanna watch that.”

“You’re one hundred per cent wrong, Rhoda, but I got no time to argue because I don’ want to lose my thread. So they brought him in and we laid him out careful in the big room, and just about we were getting ready to go to work, Thor says to me, ‘Mr. Roos, could I be excused?’”

“I like to see you excuse him for good,” said Rhoda. “That dope.”

“No, he’s a good boy. But he says further, ‘I slammed out with no breakfast an’ I like to go to the Whelan’s get a bite to eat.’ ‘Go ahead,’ I says, ‘only I hope no trouble home.’ So Thor tells me how again his mother starts on him regarding learning the embalming game. How it makes her nervous he’s an embalmer’s apprentice. Some people!”

“How’d she like it there was nobody doin’ the type work?”

“The very point I made to Thor, darling.”

“An’ what’d he say?”

“That it was the very point he made to her.”

“I should think so, f’God’s sake!”

“Anyway, he goes to the Whelan’s, an’ I start in gettin’ the stuff prepared. An’ I was whistling, I remember well, because I was whistling ‘There Is Nothing Like a Dame’ an’ I was havin’ trouble to recall the middle part which slipped my mind.”

“Ta da da da da da da!” sang Rhoda, helpfully.

“Yes, I know. It came to me later. But while I was whistling, I heard this noise. Like the clearing of a throat. Well, I turned.”

“An’ what was it?” asked Rhoda, interested for the first time.

“It was the clearing of a throat.”

“What’re you saying, Arthur?”

“I’m saying that Stanton C. Baravale was sitting up, looking terrible sick.”

“Why shouldn’t he if he was dead?”

“Wait a second, Rhoda. Let me get on with it. The man sat there an’ he looks at me, then he looks around, then to me, then he says—but soft, he was so soft I could hardly hear ‘im. Like this. He says, ‘Who’re you?’”

Rhoda stacked their plates, pushed them aside, pulled the pie tin toward her and began cutting it, carefully.

“Arthur, are you telling the truth?”

“As God is my judge.”

“Then go ahead,” said Rhoda. “Only speak up while I get the coffee off.”

“In twenty-eight years,” shouted Arthur, “it’s happened to me twice only. The other time, you remember, the Winkleman boy how he came to in the shop an’ it was in all the papers, an’ he’s still around, I believe. Since nineteen twenty-eight.”

Rhoda returned with the coffee-pot, sat down and poured two cups.

“He’s still around,” she said, “and a very mean job he turned out. All the time in trouble.”

“So when Stanton C. Baravale said, ‘Who’re you?’ like that, I told him. Naturally. An’ where he was an’ he asks me how come. So I said, ‘Well, the fact is, Mr. Baravale, you died last night. 10:53 p.m.’ ‘I knew it must be something like that,’ he says. ‘I feel light as a feather. An’ cold, too,’ he says. ‘I must have a temperature of below zero.’ So I says, ‘You just relax, sir, an’ I’ll get Summit General on the phone in one second.’ ‘Don’t do that,’ he says. ‘It’ll just cause talk, an’ I’m goin’ out again in a minute.’ “

“Think of that,” said Rhoda, sipping her boiling coffee.

“Darling,” continued the undertaker, “I want to tell you, I just stood there. I was in a state of shock. Next thing, he was talkin’ again. ‘What was it?’ he says, still whisperin’, y’know. ‘There was something worryin’ me I didn’t settle, that’s why I came back. I know,’ he says, a little louder. ‘You!’”

“You?” echoed Rhoda.

“That’s it. He says to me how like a fool he never specified any burial details, an’ just left it general. That it was the last thing he was thinkin’ about before he went off, an’ some kind of leftover power in his brain must’ve brought him back for long enough.”

“Arthur, I don’t begrudge you that extry slug. Not for one moment.”

“ ‘Now then,’ he says to me, ‘what’s it going to cost?’ ‘I really couldn’t say,’ I says. ‘You better,’ he says. ‘The way that fool Immerman drew the damn thing it reads “after all funeral expenses have been paid,” and so forth. Well, hell,’ he says, ‘that can mean anything. Moment like this, my kids feel bad, they’re bound to spend more’n is necessary and what’s the sense to that? Now what’s the cheapest?’ he says. ‘All depends,’ I answer him, ‘how many persons, cars, music or no, casket.’ At this he leans on his elbow an’ he says, ‘Six people, one car, no music, cheapest box you carry.’ So I says, ‘But what if the instructions I get—’ He never let me finish. ‘God damn it,’ he says. ‘Give me some paper an’ pen’n ink.’ I give it him, he writes a page, then he says, ‘You have any trouble, show that!’ Well, Rhoda, by this time I was comin’ to myself a little more. An’ I says, ‘Please let me use the phone.’ ‘No,’ he says, ‘just give me your gentleman’s word you’ll handle it my way.’ ‘But, look,’ I says, ‘this paper’s no good. You’re legally dead as of 10:53 p.m. last night. ‘That’s why I put last week’s date on,’ he says. ‘An’ it’s in my handwriting, no mistake about that.’ Then he says to me, ‘What’s the time now?’ ‘Eight thirteen a.m.,’ I says. ‘Well, let’s make it 8:15, officially,’ he says, and lays down again and says the date. ‘January five, nineteen fifty-six,’ he says. Thank you, Mr. Roos,’ he says. ‘Been nice talkin’ to you.’ An’ then, Rhoda, he just by God went out!”

“Well, I never,” said Rhoda. “Gimme a hand here, will you, Arthur, please?”

Together they cleared the table, replaced the lace centerpiece and the wax-fruit bowl. In the kitchen, he washed, she dried. They worked for a time with swift efficiency, without speaking. Finally Rhoda asked, “What’re you goin’ t’do?”

“Y’got me there, dear.”

“You mentioned to anyone? Thor?”

“Not yet, no.”

“They ordered up anything yet?”

“Doggone right. Man brought a letter from the lawyer’s place. Big chapel, minimum three hundred guests. Organ and string trio. Thirty cars. Canopy and chairs. Memorial reception after, main hall. Organ and string trio. Refreshments. Rhoda, one of the biggest things we’ve ever handled. I mean it’s between seven, eight hundred clear profit no matter how you look.”

“You got the page he wrote there?”

“Right here,” said Arthur.

“Lemme have a look it.”

“Wait’ll I wipe my hands here.” Having dried his hands, he took the paper from his breast pocket and handed it to his wife.

She read it carefully. “Well,” she said. “Only one thing to do.”

“That’s right,” said Arthur. “You want to or me?”

“I’ll,” said Rhoda, stepping to the gas range.

“Careful, dear,” cautioned Arthur. “Don’t burn yourself.”

“No, darling,” said his wife. She turned on the gas jet nearest her. The automatic monitor ignited the burner and Rhoda held a corner of the paper over it. She turned the jet off as the paper began to burn, neatly. Holding it before her she crossed the kitchen to the sink and joined her husband. Now she carefully placed the flaming handful in the sink. They both stood there, watching the paper turn to ash. Arthur put his arm around his wife, tenderly.

“It’s not like he couldn’t spare it,” he said.

“An’ anyways,” added Rhoda, “why cheat family and friends from paying proper last respects?”

“—crossed my mind, too,” said Arthur.

“Furthermore, he had no right to do what he did.”

“None whatsoever,” agreed Arthur. “A man legally dead, after all.”

“You know where we’re gonna sit tonight?” asked Rhoda.

“Loges.”

“Yes. Costly, but smoking.”

In the sink, the flame died. Rhoda slapped at the black ash, lightly, with her forefinger. Arthur turned on the faucet. Suddenly the sink was clear.

The undertaker and his wife washed their hands together and went to the movies. They arrived in time to see not only the newsreel and the cartoon, but Coming Attractions as well.