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, he’d been able to strip mortality of its vestments and see its naked biology at work—thorough 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 Tomlinson’s home. Though Greg had assured the family that the hospice nurse was fully capable of handling the situation, Harold’s wife and sons had been insisting on regular visits from an MD for over a month.
“He hasn’t spoken since yesterday afternoon.” It was Harold’s oldest son, Dan. “I don’t think he’s opened his eyes today at all. The nurse left around lunchtime.”
“OK, Dan. I’ll take a look.”
Greg stepped into Harold’s bedroom and closed the door. “Hello, Harold.”
The old man was slumped on his side, facing the wall. As soon as Greg walked around the end of the bed and saw Harold’s face, he knew the man was dead. After confirming this, Greg rested two of his fingers lightly on Harold’s 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 Chapel—the bright, spacious crown jewel of the Cotterman Funeral Home and Memorial Gardens.
Ambrose and Allen Wannamaker, the funeral home’s co-operators, stood at the chapel entrance and greeted their guests. Although Greg’s 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.
“Good morning, Doc!” An old man in a dark pinstripe suit was hobbling up the aisle. Greg waved back. “Hello, Artis.”
“Think old Howard will fill up the overflow rooms today?”
“It’s early yet, Artis.”
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 Harold’s funeral would fall well short of the acclaimed benchmark.
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 booming—and 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 o’clock, 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 d’oeuvres, they handed each attendee a cigar and a stainless-steel lighter engraved with the letters HOT.
Then another tuxedoed man—older than the cigar butlers—entered and stood on the stage, above the dozens of flower arrangements. He held up a wireless microphone.
“Ladies and gentlemen! Welcome to the main event!”
A rhythmic beat began to pound from the speakers.
“Are you ready to rumble?”
He held out the word rumble for a few seconds as the music grew louder. The crowd remained silent. Unflappable, the emcee pressed on.
“And now . . . let’s welcome the man of the hour—the one, the only, Harold . . . Orson . . . Tomlinson!”
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 Harold’s two sons wheeled in the casket, followed by Harold’s wife, daughter, grandchildren, and several other people Greg didn’t 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.
“Good morning, everyone. Thank you for being here today. I speak for all of my family—and for my dad—when I say that it means a lot to us that you came out for this service.
“Dad 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 Spinks—he was a little disappointed at how short that one was since he’d 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 spotlight—about being welcomed into the ring like a champion.”
Dan looked up tenderly. “Well, Dad. You’re finally getting your chance. Your big introduction. You’re ready to rumble and so are we.”
Greg looked up as well. Staring at the ceiling, he thought, You watching all this, Harold? Maybe you’re a little busy just now.
“Anyway, we’re really glad you’re all here,” Dan continued. “What a crowd! Dad was a powerful man. He built his life—his fortune—from 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.”
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 post–World War II boom, and established his niche in the world of industrial manufacturing in the early sixties. It became obvious to anyone who didn’t 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. Harold’s smile looked as if it had expanded over the years as well—often punctuated by a cigar on one side.
After the slideshow, the eulogies began. Harold’s other son, his best friend, and a woman named Doreen extolled his virtues, though Greg felt—as he often did when listening to funeral orations—that 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 bank’s board was giving Harold this honor in return for his many years of patronage and support. A pewter plaque near the bank’s front entrance would announce to all who entered the board’s gratitude for Harold.
The recessional began. Leaving the casket at the front, Harold’s loved ones stepped slowly back down the aisle to the accompaniment of Simon and Garfunkel singing “The Boxer”:
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.
“What a lovely service, Ambrose!” Jane Lerner, in her late-70’s and a longtime resident of Emmitsville, was shaking hands with Ambrose Wannamaker near the back entrance, “Dignified and smooth as always.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” Ambrose wore a deep green tie and a black suit that seemed just sightly too long and spacious for his long torso. “You know we always aim for excellence.”
“You do, indeed.” Jane patted his hand. “And you always hit your mark, as far as I’m concerned. Cotterman funerals are simply the best. Everyone in town knows it.”
Ambrose spotted Greg approaching from the center aisle as he continued talking with Jane. “I hope that’s true.”
“It’s just a shame the cemetery isn’t bigger. I’ve always felt the property could’ve been planned better. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“Um,” Ambrose saw that Greg had scooted past them and was almost out the door. “Perhaps—would you excuse me?”
“Certainly.”
Ambrose caught up to Greg as Jane rejoined her husband who had already made it out to the parking lot.
“Greg! Can you hold on a moment?”
Greg paused by the front door. “Nice service today. A little odd, but memorable.”
“Yes.” 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 Emmitsville’s dearly departed.
“I think the bank thing is kinda funny.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, it’s a branch of a mid-level regional bank. Not terribly prestigious. Do you really think that’s how Harold wanted to be remembered for all time?”
“Perhaps not, but he will be remembered won’t he?”
“At least until they tear the building down.”
“Though you know how much I appreciate your cynical sense of wit, I need to ask you a serious favor.”
“Go for it.”
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. “Maybe 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.”
“No pallbearers?”
“Harold didn’t name any.”
“Probably didn’t want the hassle of narrowing down a list and ticking off anyone who didn’t make the cut.”
Ambrose ignored the comment. “Could I come by your office tomorrow morning?”
“Sure. I’ve got a few patients to see early, but around 10:30 would work.”
“Perfect. Thanks. See you then.” Ambrose turned toward the chapel.
“You said you needed a serious favor? Just how serious are we talking here?”
“Advice is probably a better way to put it. I need some advice.”
“Serious advice?” Ambrose nodded. “How serious?”
“That, of course, depends, but it could be quite so.”
“Now you got me curious.”
“I’ll tell you all about it in the morning.”
Ambrose rushed to meet his brother who was waiting by Harold’s 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.
