CALEB'S UNDERTAKING
By
Art Montague

When you've worked Metro Toronto Homicide as long as I have, a dead body is as mundane as a bulging Glad Bag of garbage on a city curb. You don't take much notice; you just make sure you don't step on it. Probably undertakers become inured to corpses too. Having this in common may partly explain why Caleb Hooton, an undertaker by profession, was my best and oldest friend.

Of course, as you'll see, I had to arrest him. He was cooperative; he provided a detailed statement. The scene he described wasn't pretty, not coming from a friend. But it held up with what I knew of the man and of our friendship; and it held up with what I knew of his profession gleaned over the years from Caleb and various coroners over the time I'd had to personally witness autopsies, excavations, lake draggings and other corpse-related activities.

So, Caleb killed a guy, big deal, happens every day. But Caleb and I went back a long way, and that cuts deep. Caleb wasn't just anybody. As far as I knew he was connected, so to speak, plus he used to have the city contracts. Probably he needed one to get the other. The latter was retirement in itself; the former meant he was sacrosanct relative to any nonsense in the dead and dying field. Just goes to show what I knew.

As said, Caleb and I went way back. Same neighborhood, same school, same church on Sundays until we discovered together that there were better things to do with quarters than put them in a collection plate. My dad was a cop, Caleb's an undertaker. The dads played cribbage every Thursday night, leaving Caleb and me to horse around in the living room or, if it was nice weather, out in the yard. In the winter they'd sometimes take us to hockey games at the Gardens, and in the summer we'd go fishing at Jackson's Point. To us, this meant they were friends and that, together with the other things, made us friends, too.

For all I know Caleb might have been born in a coffin. The Hootons lived over top of their funeral parlor on Berwick Avenue. The main floor was where people came to make arrangements, pick out coffins, then sit around and look at dead bodies. Caleb and I would sometimes sneak down to the main floor viewing rooms, just like at the Ex the year we snuck in to see Reptile Man and Queen Fatima. By 'born in a coffin,' I mean Caleb was always going to be an undertaker. His dad used to say they were cut from the same shroud.

Eventually I went to law school, Osgoode. Caleb also went for training. He went to wherever undertaker wannabees go, probably the Marvel Beauty School. No matter, we kept in touch. I became a cop, just like my father, getting on the force in the nick of time to take over his pad before he retired. Caleb took over his dad's business, too.

We stayed close over the years. For a while we even dated twin sisters, but they eventually dumped us; said we were too much alike. Poker was our Thursday night game, Caleb and me, plus Ralph Wilson who did mysterious things on Bay Street. Also, Chuck Waddell, an accountant who gambled, using betting systems of his own design; and Brother Luke, who did well with TV prayer meetings.

Caleb and I took up fishing just like our fathers, adding duck hunting when our marriages started to flatline. I'd bought a summer place two and half hours north of the city where I could berth my ChrisCraft far from the snoops in Internal Affairs. Chuck helped me put together the numbered corporation for that. It pays to have friends.

Caleb and I were getting up in years when things started to go sour for him. His appearance gave me no clue to this. On his best days he looked sad as a basset hound staring at an empty Dr. Ballards can, part of his undertaker persona. His speaking voice was a slow, unctuous monotone that could cover you like sod in a cemetery. He'd practiced it so often when he was a kid it had become normal for him. For the rest, he was so average looking he was almost invisible, just a gentle hand guiding the bereaved's shaky pen to the signature line on the funeral contract.

Ralph's funeral, I guess, is when I noticed Caleb was seriously out of sorts. At first I thought he was angry because Ralph's family had contracted the funeral service to L.L. Bradley's, Caleb's main competitor. But even choking on sour grapes, while your friend, namely me, is risking a hernia carrying a casket out of a church, is hardly the time to bitch about the quality of the funeral arrangements. Ralph was no lightweight, and being one of his pallbearers was heavy slugging.

"I'm embarrassed for my profession," Caleb muttered, as if talking to himself. "Did you see the feature setting on Ralph? Ralph always hated his buck teeth and this was his last chance to face the world without them coming first, to say nothing of tradition. You always seal the mouth."

"Caleb," I said, "spare me the chit chat and concentrate on holding up your end. Ralph's starting to tip."

"A lousy moment is all it would have taken to stretch the lips over the teeth and glue them together. Ralph's frown lines would have been softened, too. Forty-four cents worth of tissue filler and Bradley could have molded a respectable chin. Ralph hated his weak chin almost as much as his buck teeth."

"Shut up, Caleb. Ralph's wife'll hear you."

"Did you see how pale he was? Bradley used the wrong face powder; hell, he probably used cornstarch. Ralph looked dead, for Chrissake!" Then Caleb shut up; we were busy loading the casket onto the church truck, a folding bier with wheels, then sliding it into the hearse or, to use Caleb's term, the casket coach.

At the cemetery, Bradley came over to explain positioning the casket over the hole. That really got to Caleb. Young L.L., all flashy teeth, moussed hair, Armani suit, and tasseled shoes, telling him, thirty-five years in the business, how to place a casket.

"Bradley," said Caleb -- you could almost hear his teeth grinding "I've had more calls some years than you've had in your whole misbegotten career, so I guess I know what I'm doing."

Caleb's rudeness slicked right off Bradley, about as you'd expect. Bradley smiled tolerantly. "Mr. Hooton, we're using a newly designed computerized lowering winch. If the case isn't placed exactly, the winch won't synchronize with the music."

"You've got music at graveside now? What's that all about?" asked Caleb.

"An innovation of mine. A hymn playing softly in time with the lowering of the casket helps create a more comforting memory picture for the client."

I jumped in before Caleb could respond. "Caleb, let's get this done. You two can talk shop later."

"We've got nothing to talk about," said Caleb.

"One final instruction," said Bradley, fool that he was. "We're using a detachable round rail on the casket. When you've got the casket positioned on the straps, push in on the rail and lift. It pops off."

"No sense burying something you can sell again," said Caleb sarcastically. I don't think Bradley heard because he'd already turned to help Ralph's family members out of their limos.

Caleb's attitude at the funeral picked at my mind the rest of the day. This man was my oldest and best friend. Not counting sex, he was closer to me than my wife. Worrying some for him, I stopped by that night to tip a few and get the full story. It was not pleasant.

His monotone was gone; he sounded more like a politician with an audience. Worse, he was raging. Even his dog, a big black Lab named Hooter, had gone into refuge behind a couch. Not that Caleb was throwing things, just pacing and once in a while kicking furniture. I'd never seen him angry before; that was usually my department and I was big enough to get away with it. Size-wise, Caleb was the Mutt to my Jeff.

"We charge a standard two hundred dollars extra for a round rail on a casket and it's supposed to go down the hole with everything else. Bradley's recycling his; that's where his ethics are." Caleb was enough preoccupied I had to pour my own drink.

He continued his rant. "He calls his reposing rooms "Salons". Can you beat that? He's got one named the "Memories Salon" for calls with Alzheimer's. Another's the "Green Salon" for nature lovers. He pipes New Age music into that one. Then he's got the "Prairie Sunset Salon" for country and western music fans. Some guy drops from a heart attack and his family gets to hear "Achy Breaky Heart" fifty times during the viewings. Better still, he's got a rotating bier in one for what calls the "Deluxe Rites in the Round Service." He's got more profit centers than a Las Vegas casino.

"I complained to the Licensing Commission, supposedly my peers and fellow professionals. They responded by naming him Funeral Director of the Year with Special Mention for Marketing Originality."

Caleb knew how to beat some subjects to death. Professionalism was one of them. Tradition was another. He probably still kept the phone numbers of on-call professional keeners, even though they hadn't been used for centuries except in the isolated mountain regions of eastern Europe or the barrens of western Ireland. In those places, it's said, time doesn't stand still, it backpedals.

I don't mean to put the knock on professionalism; I'm a professional myself, and I care just as much about closing a case properly as Caleb does about closing a casket properly. I'd heard him complain about the up-and-comers in the trade before, but this time his tirade was different. It was tougher, and seemed to have some desperation to it. Usually Caleb wound down like an old watch, not this time.

"So, Caleb, apart from Bradley isn't a credit to his profession, what's really bothering you?" Even when I'm bored and exasperated, I can express concern and understanding. Cop training comes in handy sometimes. Nor am I totally immune to human despair. I know it when I see it.

Caleb sat down on the couch. He looked deflated. "Bradley has been killing my business," he said. Good pun from a guy who'd lost his sense of humor. "Have you noticed this year that official Metro business police, sewer workers, what-have-you killed in the line of duty, plus the paupers -- it goes to Bradley now. The paupers alone were enough to pay my taxes, more now with all the homeless in winter."

"No, I don't keep up on things like that."

"Every five years the business is tendered. Since my father's days, Hooton's always got the contract. Never a question. Remember when I did Mayor Tucker. We decorated the reposing room with posters from every election campaign he had won. Terrific memory picture; so powerful his protege got elected by a landslide.

"Bradley took my contract. Same price schedule, same everything, except he threw in a pre-service wine and cheese reception at every funeral. Free, he said, but I happen to know he has a kickback deal with the charities that do the in-lieu-of-flowers business, which more than makes up the cost of the wine and cheese."

I could see why Caleb was upset. "That's a big piece of your business, Caleb."

"Not the worst of it," he continued. "A few years ago Bradley got into what we call Grief Therapy. Everyone was doing a little of it, mostly to keep the lid on the family's emotions until they paid their bill, but not Bradley. He got a contract from the Board of Education to go around to schools and give kids Grief Therapy whenever one of their classmates got shot in a drive-by or run over at a cross-walk. The parents were impressed; Bradley made sure they were impressed. He sent pamphlets and videos home with the kids. Now the parents are throwing tremendous business his way because 'he shows true understanding of the trauma of loss, and the need to transform it into a growth experience.'" Here before me was a bitter, shattered man. "Maybe you should think about retiring, Caleb," I commiserated.

"Fat chance. I have, but I had some bad luck on a real estate deal."

"So?"

"So, I bought eighty acres of pasture up by Caledon. It took every nickel I could scrape together. My plan was to open a pet cemetery with the name, PerPETual Care, get it?"

I got it. I wanted to laugh. I needed to laugh. My good friend, Caleb, had whiffed up too many formaldehyde fumes. But I didn't. The look on his face -- damn, I thought he might be about to cry.

"Jesus, Caleb, what happened?"

"The pasture turned out to be an old landfill and the environment people wouldn't give me a license. Said it was too toxic. I mean, I ask you, what's going to hurt a bunch of dead dogs, cats, and parakeets?"

"Caleb, this is your home, your business. You put them on the line for a pet cemetery?" I was astounded; I'd always figured Caleb was sharper than this.

I let out some big air. "You were screwed, Pal."

"Bradley. That pressure rushed me into the deal without thinking. I blame him."

Two groups of people see things clearly at all times. Cops see things solely in terms of black and white -- not right and wrong like most people think; and undertakers see them solely in terms of dead and alive. Bradley was black and alive. This was the mix Caleb saw. To him it was as wrong as rigor mortis in a person with a heartbeat. I missed his vision then, anyway. Maybe cops don't see things so clearly after all.

I pieced together the rest of the story from Caleb's statement after his arrest. Back when Caleb was learning the trade at his father's knee, his father showed him one of the tricks of the trade to be used when local wise guys wanted someone looked after without a trace. This was the classic "over and under" casket. I knew they existed, Caleb had once shown me one. The end of the casket is hinged, dropping down like a trapdoor when a hidden latch is flipped. Running the length of the interior is a partition with enough space, over and under, for two bodies. The lid could be opened for viewing and the top body would be someone's bona fide dear departed, which meant, obviously, the bottom space was reserved for a less than dear departed.

Caleb had one specially made for Bradley. It looked like solid mahogany polished to a rich luster; the rails and handles looked like solid brass, but it was all plastic. Caleb even ordered re-usable rails for it.

As soon as he had the casket, Caleb sought out a lowlife of his acquaintance and struck a deal. The lowlife agreed to handle the matter in exchange for one of Caleb's vintage Caddie limos. It remained then to coordinate Bradley's demise with the arrival at Caleb's of a fairly light body. Two bodies weighing just so would pick up the weight difference between plastic and mahogany but not be so heavy as to make the pall bearers suspicious.

On a Wednesday shortly after arrangements were in place, old Gus Simone, the skinny little guy who ran our local fruit and vegetable store, dropped dead while stocking shelves. Thursday morning L.L. Bradley disappeared on his way to a pickup at the downtown morgue. Thursday afternoon the lowlife had his vintage Caddie in a body shop getting it repainted robin's egg blue.

Gus Simone's funeral was Saturday morning. I'd been up all Friday night because one of the cases I was working broke, and we needed paperwork completed for Monday morning arraignments. Tired as I was, my family had shopped regularly at Gus' for two generations and I had to make an appearance at his funeral. I got there a little late and it was standing room only. Gus had a lot of relatives and friends.

Even from the back of the cathedral, that casket was impressive. Caleb had had to go an extra mile to get Gus' mother to take it. She was old country, dressing all in black even when she wasn't mourning something, and she was tight with a dollar. I could picture the scene:

"Itsa too much money even if I love my boy dearly," she would have protested.

"For Gus, I give you a deep cut discount. You can be as proud of him in his passing as in his living."

"The bread man says things like that and then hands us day-old."

"I don't do day-old. You know that; you've known me since I was a boy. You knew my father, bless his memory, and I am my father's son. For a mother's son I'll give you my lowest price." She would have groused long enough for appearances, then given in.

If the cathedral hadn't had so many steps down to the street, everything probably would have been tickety-boo for Caleb, at least so far as getting rid of Bradley. But it did and everything wasn't.

I was down on the street when the procession came out the cathedral's massive double doors. I have to say that casket belonged. It would have looked like overkill coming out of a small church. This was a true Catholic casket, as powerful a memory picture as Mass at St. Peters.

The pall bearers were burly enough to handle it easily, even with Mother Simone kind of hanging on to the back of it weeping and wailing. Maybe she caused the problem. Whatever it was, just as the first pall bearer touched the third step down, both detachable rails came off the casket. It plummeted like a bobsled down an icy chute, bouncing off every step to the sidewalk. The pall bearers just stood there stunned, holding on to the rails. I managed to get out of the way before the casket reached the sidewalk, but as it split apart some of the plastic bits and pieces still hit me.

There's Bradley lying on the sidewalk; fresh and firm, the feature setting exquisite. Maybe Caleb hated the guy, but he had still done him justice. He looked so alive, if he'd winked at me, I'd have winked back. He'd have had to be quick, because in a flash all of the Simones were screaming, wailing and rolling around. Mother Simone fainted flat out beside Bradley, causing even more stir because everyone thought she was having a heart attack. She was.

Now, in unctuous undertaker fashion, Caleb may have been able to smooth over the whole incident. I'd a lot of faith in his professionalism. But, dammit, he didn't. Instead, he just stood there looking down at the shattered casket, pointing at it, kicking pieces around, repeating, "Just what you'd expect from cheap plastic." I was the only cop there, so I had to make the collar. I knew in my gut that Caleb understood.


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Art Montague is a Canadian writer who has recently revived his writing career. His fiction has been published in Plots With Guns, Peridot Books, Lovewords, and HandHeldCrime. He is also a contributing editor for the upcoming e-zine, E-This!