Photography/Artwork:
Nik Ranieri and Jenifer Ranieri
Release Date:
September 15, 2011
Price: $2.99
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Kate Malcum is a third-generation funeral director who lives in a speck of a town called Poppy Lake. The population is made up of senior citizens where only a few of the next generation have decided to stay among the elderly.
Kate receives a visit from Mr. Shomer when she attends the wrong service. He guides her to the right one, and from there on, he keeps her hoppin’ by showing up at the memorials where he sends her. Some are for people she doesn’t even know but have done something in their life from which Shomer wants Kate to learn, but what he’s really teaching her is that she’s not living her own life.
EXCERPT
I was at the wrong funeral.
Having a chance to see into the coffin, I noticed a shiny bald head and a nose like W.C. Fields. The problem was, my deceased client was a woman. I'd come in late, when the ceremony was already underway, so now I was stuck. I closed my eyes and tried to envision the address I scribbled down that morning. When I opened them, I noticed the dark coffin and blue carnations in bouquets scattered throughout the platform, and I didn't recognize a soul.
The minister was wearing a white robe, and the mourners wore various hues. I was in full-blown black, from head to toe. Even my underwear was black. I jolted, wondering if I should be thinking about that in a church. I attended a couple funerals a month, so it was my standard attire. What happened to the respectful mourning color, basic black?
Back to the scribble. My brain shifted into hyper-drive as I zeroed in on the letters. Was it a first of something? First Presbyterian, First Baptist, First Episcopal... do Catholic churches have firsts? Now that I thought about it, my client, Georgia, was Catholic, even though she went to the Presbyterian Church back home. The woman next to me held a program. Catching a glimpse of a picture on the front, I slowly tilted my head to get a better look. At the same time, the woman began to tilt hers until we were eye to eye. I snapped my head up and smiled politely at the older woman. "Sorry, may I look at--"
"No, you may not," she hissed, knitting her brows and flipping the program over.
Shocked by the woman's discourteous move, I peeked over the shoulder of a guy in front of me. He shifted to one side, giving me a full shot of the picture on the front. The deceased was a bald man with a snout that made Barbara Streisand look like a pug. His face closely resembled a prune, and his smile was so friendly, it made you wonder if he was really dead. I didn't have a chance to catch the name, but saw the dates -- 1916-2010.
How does anyone live to be ninety-four years old? Would I really want to live that long? It sounds good when you're in your thirties, but maybe not so much when you hit ninety and arthritis and dementia kick in.
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