The Undertaker's Daughter (Ilka #1)(49)



“Hello,” she said, closing the door behind her.

“Where do I put the food?”

You actually showed up! she almost cried out. But instead she simply smiled and showed him out to the kitchen. When he saw the table she pointed at, he shook his head. “Usually we put food on long tables; are they ready?”

Ilka tried to think where the long tables might be, when Sister Eileen came out and took over.

“They’re out in the front hall.” She followed him out toward the stairway. “When we receive funeral guests, we take them directly in to the service, so it won’t be open out here until the service is finished. That should give you enough time to set up.”

Once again Ilka sensed the nun was deliberately not letting her in on procedures in the funeral home. As if she didn’t think it was worth the effort. Or maybe she wanted Ilka to remain an outsider. She watched the sister show the boy exactly where she wanted the various dishes placed. But that wasn’t what was gnawing at her.

Ilka had the feeling Sister Eileen was keeping something to herself. It was hard to put a finger on what it was. It just seemed that she kept Ilka at a distance most of the time. And then suddenly she could be pleasant and helpful.

For a moment, she thought about insisting on participating in the planning, to show she wouldn’t be brushed aside, but then she looked at the clock. The funeral service would begin in less than half an hour, and the relatives were already getting things ready in the chapel.



Ilka stayed in the background while the family made the final preparations. She watched Helen arrange the pillows, shift the Kleenex boxes at the end of every row by a few inches, and light all the candles, even though sunlight streamed through the windows. She also took care of the flowers, while the two brothers stood with arms crossed, speaking softly to each other. Ilka tensed up when they started walking over to where their mother lay. She wished she were invisible.

She held her breath while the brothers approached the coffin. The upper half was open, and the elderly woman was visible from the waist up, her hands folded and her eyes closed. As usual with corpses, the skin on her face was smooth, almost like that of a little girl.

Ilka stared at the floor while they circled the coffin. After a few minutes, she looked up and breathed out through nearly closed lips. They hadn’t noticed any scratches; the shoe polish had worked. The only thing bothering them was the missing easel for the life board they’d ordered.

She pretended not to have eavesdropped. First and foremost because she didn’t know what a life board was, and therefore couldn’t tell them where it and the easel could be. It dawned on her that it was something Mrs. Norton had told Ilka’s father she wanted, back when she had preordered her funeral. When they had gone through all the details after the first meeting, the sister had been assigned to take care of it.

Knowing she would have to confront the nun about something that should have been taken care of felt great—but only for a few seconds. The sister appeared with the life board and easel. It was a long sheet of cardboard, the size of the mirror on the back of the closet door in her father’s room, with photos of the deceased illustrating her life story. A black-and-white photo of a young Mrs. Norton with big curls and a sugary smile, then a grinning young college graduate wearing the coveted square graduate cap. Then a happy wedding photo. Then a large leap in years to an older lady smiling pleasantly at the camera. An entire life in four photos. It almost looked to Ilka like a poster for someone running for office, promising voters a long and prosperous life. Then a sharp odor of food interrupted her thoughts, and she turned to the door, where Mrs. Norton’s grandchild walked in holding a full plate in each hand.

It wasn’t until he pushed aside the box of Kleenex on the small table between the sofas that Ilka realized what she smelled: a combination of macaroni and cheese and pecan pie, a dessert his grandmother had loved to make. Still warm, Ilka discovered, when she walked over to the boy and asked if she could help.

“I want Grandma to have this in her coffin. Mom helped me, but she says it can’t go in until the guests leave. But she’ll forget it for sure; she’s more worried about whether there’s enough food for everybody.”

“I’ll make sure we remember,” Ilka said. She was just beginning to enjoy how everything was going as it should, when she noticed the younger brother prowling around the back of the coffin, again with a critical eye. He stepped back and took a good look; then he walked around to the head of the coffin. Again he stepped back, as if the light wasn’t exactly right where he was standing. He kept to the front of the podium; it couldn’t be the scratches he was looking at, Ilka thought, as she listened distractedly to the grandson.

“The plates are ovenproof, but Mom says we don’t need to tell the guy who’s burning the coffin.”

“Don’t worry about that,” Ilka murmured. Joe was at the back of the coffin again, and he called over his older brother. They began scowling in Ilka’s direction. She couldn’t hear what they were saying, but she was certain they were discussing how big a refund they should demand if they could prove the coffin was damaged or the wrong color.

“You’re right; it’s not the right coffin.” The older brother spoke so loudly that Ilka couldn’t help hearing. Ilka was beginning to catch on; the older brother was less conflict shy, while the younger brother was the brains of the outfit. They walked toward her.

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