Agnes and the Art of Post-Mortem Punctuality
Agnes, a woman whose laugh lines were suspiciously deep for someone who spent her life around the stiffest of company, meticulously arranged a particularly flaccid tie on old Mr. Henderson. “Jeremy,” she barked, not looking up from her delicate work of turning a former accountant into a passable sleeper, “the number one rule in this business isn't discretion, it's *punctuality*. You wouldn't believe how many families want their dearly departed looking spry for viewing hours. Can't have 'em missing their own last hurrah, can we?”
Jeremy, a recent mortuary school graduate whose ideals were still stubbornly fresh, winced. “Agnes, is it really appropriate to refer to the deceased as 'them' missing 'their last hurrah'?”
Agnes straightened, a faint smirk playing on her lips, which, if one observed closely, seemed permanently stained with a faint hint of formaldehyde. “Appropriate? Jeremy, the deceased are past 'appropriate.' They're past 'inappropriate' too, for that matter. They're just… past. Our job is to make sure they look presentable for those who *aren't* past.” She gestured with a perfectly manicured hand towards Mr. Henderson's serene (if slightly waxy) face. “Look at him. He hated mornings. Always late to work, late to bed. Now? He's finally early for something. And he looks absolutely thrilled about it, don't you think?”
Jeremy stared at Mr. Henderson, who indeed wore an expression of timeless peace, or perhaps the blank stare of someone who had just remembered they left the stove on. “I… I suppose so, Agnes.”
“Good,” she said, patting Mr. Henderson's chest with a professional tap. “Now, about Mrs. Gable. Her family specifically requested 'radiant.' She always wanted to look like she was glowing. Think we can give her that posthumous shimmer without making her look like a disco ball? We don't want to overdo the 'eternal rest' with 'eternal rave,' do we?”
Jeremy sighed, adjusting his mask. Agnes winked. “Just remember, Jeremy: a good embalmer doesn't just preserve a body. They preserve a family's fondest (and often highly edited) memories. And sometimes, they just make sure the latecomer makes it to their own party on time.”