In the wealthy town of Emmitsville, the most sought-after real estate isnât the sprawling properties outside of town or the stately residences along Main Street. Itâs the plots in Cotterman Cemetery, the townâs most historic and prestigious burial ground.
As physician to most of the townâs elite for the last 15 years, Dr. Greg Patterson has focused on keeping his patients out of the cemetery for as long as possible. When his friends who run the funeral home face an unexpected rush of interest in the last few burial plots, Greg reluctantly gets a close-up look as the townâs richest and most powerful race to the finish in a bizarre bid to secure their place for all time.
The Last Line of Their Lives gives readers a thoughtful, funny, and heartwarming look at the human tendency to seek out significance and carve our names in the earthâin whatever ways we can.
In the wealthy town of Emmitsville, the most sought-after real estate isnât the sprawling properties outside of town or the stately residences along Main Street. Itâs the plots in Cotterman Cemetery, the townâs most historic and prestigious burial ground.
As physician to most of the townâs elite for the last 15 years, Dr. Greg Patterson has focused on keeping his patients out of the cemetery for as long as possible. When his friends who run the funeral home face an unexpected rush of interest in the last few burial plots, Greg reluctantly gets a close-up look as the townâs richest and most powerful race to the finish in a bizarre bid to secure their place for all time.
The Last Line of Their Lives gives readers a thoughtful, funny, and heartwarming look at the human tendency to seek out significance and carve our names in the earthâin whatever ways we can.
To Dr. Greg Patterson, dying was no big deal.
Though he had yet to die himself, his career of more than three decades had brought him face to face with it hundreds of times. Rarely had he flinched. Since his earliest days in medical school, heâd been able to strip mortality of its vestments and see its naked biology at workâthorough and mercilessly efficient.
On a Monday evening in early fall, Dr. Greg drove from his private practice on the southwest side of Emmitsville to Harold Tomlinsonâs home. Though Greg had assured the family that the hospice nurse was fully capable of handling the situation, Haroldâs wife and sons had been insisting on regular visits from an MD for over a month.
âHe hasnât spoken since yesterday afternoon.â It was Haroldâs oldest son, Dan. âI donât think heâs opened his eyes today at all. The nurse left around lunchtime.âÂ
âOK, Dan. Iâll take a look.â
Greg stepped into Haroldâs bedroom and closed the door. âHello, Harold.âÂ
The old man was slumped on his side, facing the wall. As soon as Greg walked around the end of the bed and saw Haroldâs face, he knew the man was dead. After confirming this, Greg rested two of his fingers lightly on Haroldâs forehead. Then he returned to the living room where Dan was waiting.
Three days later Greg sat near the back of the Robert C. Hunt Memorial Chapelâthe bright, spacious crown jewel of the Cotterman Funeral Home and Memorial Gardens.Â
Ambrose and Allen Wannamaker, the funeral homeâs co-operators, stood at the chapel entrance and greeted their guests. Although Gregâs relationship with the brothers was based primarily on the close connection between his work as town physician and theirs as funeral directors, he considered them his friends. Maybe not close friends, but good acquaintances.Â
âGood morning, Doc!â An old man in a dark pinstripe suit was hobbling up the aisle. Greg waved back. âHello, Artis.â
âThink old Howard will fill up the overflow rooms today?â
âItâs early yet, Artis.â
With its vaulted ceiling and wide padded chairs, the chapel could hold just under five hundred people. Two overflow rooms with closed-circuit projection screens accommodated another 150 mourners each. Only two funerals that had ever taken place there had filled all three rooms to capacity, though several came close. People in town often talked about who among them would be next to accomplish this feat.
As the stream of finely clothed men and women entering the room slowed to a trickle, it was obvious that Haroldâs funeral would fall well short of the acclaimed benchmark.Â
Like Artis, nearly every person who walked through the double doors at the end of the center aisle was a patient of Dr. Greg. As one of the only full-time physicians in the valley, his business was boomingâand not just because of his near monopoly in the area. In Emmitsville, the average age was fifty-seven, the life expectancy seventy-nine, and the median income well past the six-digit barrier.
At exactly eleven oâclock, a door at the front of the chapel opened and eight young men in tailed tuxedos entered with silver serving platters perched on their fingers. They began moving among the funeral attendees like the wait staff at a state dinner while the crowd stared in intrigued silence. Instead of hors dâoeuvres, they handed each attendee a cigar and a stainless-steel lighter engraved with the letters HOT.
Then another tuxedoed manâolder than the cigar butlersâentered and stood on the stage, above the dozens of flower arrangements. He held up a wireless microphone.
âLadies and gentlemen! Welcome to the main event!â
A rhythmic beat began to pound from the speakers.Â
âAre you ready to rumble?â
He held out the word rumble for a few seconds as the music grew louder. The crowd remained silent. Unflappable, the emcee pressed on.
âAnd now . . . letâs welcome the man of the hourâthe one, the only, Harold . . . Orson . . . Tomlinson!â
Cheering and thunderous applause bounced around the room. Greg leaned forward to see where the noise was coming from. Everyone that he could see was sitting and staring. Greg realized that the crowd sounds were part of the music track.
The entrance doors swung open and Haroldâs two sons wheeled in the casket, followed by Haroldâs wife, daughter, grandchildren, and several other people Greg didnât recognize. The shimmering black casket had a gold inlay engraved with an intricate, Celtic-looking design. Its sleek, rounded corners and edges gave the whole container the look of a dapper sports car.
After Harold had been rolled gently to a stop at the front of the chapel and the processional had been seated on the front row, Dan approached the wooden podium onstage.
âGood morning, everyone. Thank you for being here today. I speak for all of my familyâand for my dadâwhen I say that it means a lot to us that you came out for this service.
âDad loved sports of all kinds. Football. Basketball. Racing. Golf. He especially loved boxing. It was always one of his favorites. He did a little of it back during his days in the Army. He loved going to watch a good bout . . . or two . . . or three! He was able to see some pretty big fights, too! Bowe versus Holyfield, Tyson versus Spinksâhe was a little disappointed at how short that one was since heâd paid for an entire skybox of seats! He even got to see Ali fight once. Oh, yes! He loved being there in the middle of it all. He always dreamed about being in the spotlightâabout being welcomed into the ring like a champion.â
Dan looked up tenderly. âWell, Dad. Youâre finally getting your chance. Your big introduction. Youâre ready to rumble and so are we.â
Greg looked up as well. Staring at the ceiling, he thought, You watching all this, Harold? Maybe youâre a little busy just now.Â
 âAnyway, weâre really glad youâre all here,â Dan continued. âWhat a crowd! Dad was a powerful man. He built his lifeâhis fortuneâfrom the ground up, and he deserves to have so many people hear about his spectacular life. A great crowd for a great man! Thank you.â
A prayer and Scripture reading followed. Then the lights dimmed, and a large screen unraveled from the ceiling. Classic rock songs blared as a montage of photos scrolled across the screen.
The images told the story of a boy who was born in the Great Depression, came of age during the postâWorld War II boom, and established his niche in the world of industrial manufacturing in the early sixties. It became obvious to anyone who didnât already know the story that Harold had hit pay dirt shortly after. His clothes became newer and finer. The houses and landscapes behind him grew larger and more opulent. Golf courses. Court-side seats. Snowbound chalets on remote mountainsides. Haroldâs smile looked as if it had expanded over the years as wellâoften punctuated by a cigar on one side.
After the slideshow, the eulogies began. Haroldâs other son, his best friend, and a woman named Doreen extolled his virtues, though Greg feltâas he often did when listening to funeral orationsâthat the sentiments were trite, generalized, and likely exaggerated.
The final segment of the service featured Eric Pettigrew, senior manager at the Emmitsville branch of the Pennsylvania First Trust Bank. He timidly read an announcement that his branch would henceforth be known as the Harold O. Tomlinson Branch of the Pennsylvania First Trust Bank. The bankâs board was giving Harold this honor in return for his many years of patronage and support. A pewter plaque near the bankâs front entrance would announce to all who entered the boardâs gratitude for Harold.
The recessional began. Leaving the casket at the front, Haroldâs loved ones stepped slowly back down the aisle to the accompaniment of Simon and Garfunkel singing âThe Boxerâ:Â
Greg watched his patients and neighbors empty out of the room as he fiddled with the silver lighter in his hand. Never one who much enjoyed crowds or small talk, he waited until the room was nearly empty before leaving.
âWhat a lovely service, Ambrose!â Jane Lerner, in her late-70âs and a longtime resident of Emmitsville, was shaking hands with Ambrose Wannamaker near the back entrance, âDignified and smooth as always.â
âThank you, maâam.â Ambrose wore a deep green tie and a black suit that seemed just sightly too long and spacious for his long torso. âYou know we always aim for excellence.â
âYou do, indeed.â Jane patted his hand. âAnd you always hit your mark, as far as Iâm concerned. Cotterman funerals are simply the best. Everyone in town knows it.â
Ambrose spotted Greg approaching from the center aisle as he continued talking with Jane. âI hope thatâs true.â
âItâs just a shame the cemetery isnât bigger. Iâve always felt the property couldâve been planned better. Wouldnât you agree?â
âUm,â Ambrose saw that Greg had scooted past them and was almost out the door. âPerhapsâwould you excuse me?â
âCertainly.â
Ambrose caught up to Greg as Jane rejoined her husband who had already made it out to the parking lot.
âGreg! Can you hold on a moment?â
Greg paused by the front door. âNice service today. A little odd, but memorable.â
âYes.â Ambrose looked around the lobby to spot any lingering guests before loosening his tie and top shirt button. The lines on his face were deep from years of solemnly tending to the final arrangements for Emmitsvilleâs dearly departed.
âI think the bank thing is kinda funny.â
âWhat do you mean?â
âWell, itâs a branch of a mid-level regional bank. Not terribly prestigious. Do you really think thatâs how Harold wanted to be remembered for all time?â
âPerhaps not, but he will be remembered wonât he?â
âAt least until they tear the building down.â
âThough you know how much I appreciate your cynical sense of wit, I need to ask you a serious favor.â
âGo for it.â
A pair of stragglers emerged from the chapel. Two old men were engaged in a heated discussion about Muhammad Ali and George Foreman as they hobbled toward the door.
Ambrose cinched up his tie without re-fastening the button. âMaybe it would be better for me to explain it when we have more time and privacy. Allen and I have to get the casket loaded into the hearse. The graveside service begins soon over at Bluebird Meadows.â
âNo pallbearers?â
âHarold didnât name any.â
âProbably didnât want the hassle of narrowing down a list and ticking off anyone who didnât make the cut.â
Ambrose ignored the comment. âCould I come by your office tomorrow morning?â
âSure. Iâve got a few patients to see early, but around 10:30 would work.â
âPerfect. Thanks. See you then.â Ambrose turned toward the chapel.
âYou said you needed a serious favor? Just how serious are we talking here?â
âAdvice is probably a better way to put it. I need some advice.â
âSerious advice?â Ambrose nodded. âHow serious?â
âThat, of course, depends, but it could be quite so.â
âNow you got me curious.â
âIâll tell you all about it in the morning.â
Ambrose rushed to meet his brother who was waiting by Haroldâs black casket at the front of the chapel, and Greg walked to his car still holding the engraved lighter the old man had given him from the grave.
It might seem a big obvious but when I die, I would like for my funeral to have Stayin Alive by The Bee Gees as its theme song. That probably means Iâm thinking of more of a party vibe for my funeral but I havenât really planned for what the service would be like. I know Iâd have to be cremated for legal reasons but I think I would like for my urn to be placed with my partnerâs grave.
In The Last Line of Their Lives, Dr Patterson is the primary care physician for majority of the citizens in the town of Emmitsville. And unsurprisinglyâconsidering the high elderly populationâhe gets invited to his fair share of funerals. That is until the one cemetery in town has some spots open up, and now everyone is suddenly a lot more eager to get their foot in the grave. And the poor doctor is finding that his patients are drying up faster than he thought.
The idiosyncrasies in Andrew D. Doanâs novel is what gives the novel its charm. As someone who is (hopefully) a couple of years away from dying, watching this makeshift retirement village scramble to die faster was honestly quite adorable, if perplexing. Sure, the novel explains fairly well why the villagers are so eager to get one of the coveted six spots in the cemetery but Iâm on the side of Dr Patterson here who spends the majority of the book confused at his patientsâ motivations. Maybe itâs because I already have my ashy demise planned out for me, but I donât feel a strong attachment to any cemetery plot at all unless my family is there. The plot is not necessarily for me, but it definitely could be for someone else.Â
Regardless, seeing the shift from confusion to empathy in Dr Patterson as he works together with the funeral home owners to find a solution to appease everyone did tug at my cynical heartstrings a little. The characters are sweet if a little flat but I did enjoy my time with this novel, grappling with honest conversations about death and afterlife arrangements.