Free If You Lived Here by Dana Sachs Page A

business appointments by noon most days and the afternoon events won’t begin until five
    o’clock. Empty, the place looks so forlorn that I have to remind myself that people call ours the prettiest funeral home in Wilmington. That’s probably because, unlike some of the newer mortuaries, designed to look like corporate conference centers, our building started out as a private home. In 1912, a Wilmington banker named Thomas Lask constructed it for himself and his family of seven. Martin’s grandfather Paolo bought it from the Lask family and converted it into a funeral home in the 1930s, building for himself a smaller private home next door, where Martin and I now live. Except for the Marino and Sons sign, and our oversize parking lot, the building still resembles a private home, antebellum in style with its stately white columns and forest green trim. We get a lot of trick-or-treaters at Halloween. Some kids mistake it for a real house. Some approach on a dare. Most come for the ice-cream cups, which Martin offers to anyone in a costume.
    The building hasn’t changed much since Paolo bought it. Traditionally, wakes and viewings took place in the living rooms of the families of the deceased, so it made sense to keep the spacious entry hall, grand staircase, and elegant receiving rooms. A few years ago, Martin and I changed the color scheme from reds and golds to more muted blues and mauves, but we considered it an update, not a redesign. We kept the chandeliers, the mahogany furniture, Paolo’s portrait over the mantel. I appreciate Paolo, who looks solemn but also faintly confused. The idea that he might have struggled in this profession gives me confidence because it took me a while to feel comfortable here myself.
    I step into the front receiving room, which resembles a living room, only more professional, like the waiting area in a bank. We keep the tables empty except for boxes of Kleenex and small stacks of business cards announcing the services of grief counselors and therapists. Mr. Sloane sits in an armchair by the window. In his blue nylon sweat suit, he seems quite virile for a man in his sixties, except that he’s hunched over, staring into the space between his legs like someone leaning over the railing of a bridge, contemplating a jump.
    “Mr. Sloane,” I say. “I have to apologize to you. I’m so sorry.” I hold out my hand.
    I seem to have startled him and it takes him a moment to reconnect with his surroundings. “No problem,” he says. His handshake is firm enough, but automatic.
    I take the chair next to his. “How are you doing?” I ask. In our line of work, this is not an idle question.
    Mr. Sloane pats his hands forcefully against his legs. “Mrs. Marino, I’ve made a decision about Sylvia and I need your help.”
    “I’ll help you in any way that I can.” I hold my hands in my lap and wait for him to continue. His wife, knowing she had only a few months to live, dictated a fairly detailed set of instructions, including seating arrangements for the funeral and the directive that the organist should play “Be Thou My Vision” just before the service.
    Mr. Sloane leans back in the armchair, sighs, smooths a few displaced strands of hair against his head. “You’re going to think I’m crazy,” he chuckles.
    “I doubt that.” I’ve seen it all.
    He glances over at me, gauging my possible reaction, then says, “I’ve decided to bury Sylvia on her stomach.”
    I nod. Well, it’s a new one.
    “Do you have a problem with that?”
    “I don’t suppose so. I’ll need to talk with Bennet, who did service on her. He’s probably already positioned her on her back.” I stand up and glance at my watch. I know very well what time it is, but I want to under-line the fact that we have only a few hours until the viewing.
    Mr. Sloane looks surprised to see me move so quickly. “No, no. Sit down, Mrs. Marino. We don’t have to do it for the viewing. I’m not insane.” He pulls my