I awakened Karen and told her the news. Like myself, she was only slightly shocked at hearing of the death of my father. We had all expected it at any time. Dad hadn't been well for the past couple of years, and this last while he had gone downhill very rapidly. His life had been long and full, owning and running his very successful furniture business for over forty years until he sold out and moved to the year-round sun in southern Utah, where, twenty years ago, other elderly people had discovered the lush green valley just waiting to become the settling place of the well-to-do retired folk that could no longer take the hustle and bustle, let alone the cold winters, of Salt Lake City.
Gunlock was the newest retirement community in the state of Utah. St. George, the last civilized oasis before traveling the 125 miles southwest into Las Vegas, Nevada, and the city which financially supported the development and continued operation of the Gunlock Retirement Community, had been established early in Utah history, when the Mormons spread out and settled many areas of the territory. St. George was where the great Mormon leader Brigham Young had built his summer home. The home of the legendary Mormon friend of the indians, Jacob Hamblin, had been built a few miles west and was still standing and open to the public. And the infamous Mountain Meadows Massacre, a still festering sore that the church wished it could somehow remove from its history, took place only a few miles northwest of Gunlock in the early years of the Mormon settlement in this area of Utah. It was here in Gunlock that my dad and mother had chosen to spend the rest of their days.
Fortunately, Mother was still in relatively good health and so was able to take care of Dad until the end. In the seven years they had lived in Gunlock, they had felt more at home than they ever did in Salt Lake City. In their letters they spoke more and more about being buried in the Gunlock City Cemetery when their time came. And this was the decision repeated by my mother on the phone that night. The burial would be in Gunlock, where my parents had already bought several plots. Anyone wishing to pay final respects to my dad, Mr. George Matthews, would have to make the trip to Gunlock. And I, in just a few hours, would be one of the first ones to arrive.
We decided to let Karen take care of the matters at home first thing in the morning. She would inform my office staff that I would be gone for several days and then follow me down to Gunlock later Monday afternoon. Luckily, we didn't have any young children to worry about. An hour later I was on the road leading southward through Provo, then southwest through Nephi and on down through Cedar City and the final fifty miles to St. George. From there, I left the freeway, traveling due west through Santa Clara, Shivwits, then turning northward again through beautiful Snow Canyon and on into the little, but still growing, city of Gunlock. The roads in that area were largely unimproved, but much construction on the roads had started several years back and was still continuing. Through the dust kicked up by the tires I was able to make out the old homes and farms as I approached the limits of the city. Then as the road turned into asphalt and, a little later, curb and gutter, there appeared the old city building, Hanson's corner drug store, and the newly built food market. There were many new and expensive homes here and there along the main strip as I traveled through the small city. Before I turned onto the side street where my parents had built their home, I noticed that one of the homes seemed larger and more elaborate that the others. "It must be the mayor's residence or that of some wealthy, retired doctor or lawyer," I mused. I would find out otherwise at a later date.
The only other vehicle at my mother's house when I arrived was the big black hearse. I stopped the car, and with stiff hands and wobbly legs from the long trip, I slowly walked into the house. The atmosphere inside was still and dark, as if the hearse had brought its inherent solemnness with it and had draped it over the house itself. My mother was talking softly to a well-dressed man as I stepped into the room.
"No," she said with a certain heaviness not usually heard in her otherwise sweet voice. "He made me promise to have only the grave side burial. No funeral. And no viewing unless the family and I really wanted it."
"But, Mrs. Matthews, there will be many people coming down to be here with you and your husband. A man like that has many friends that you don't even know about. How can you disappoint them?" pressed the man, trying to change her mind.
"The viewing will be allowed, but I have to respect my husband's wishes about the funeral," she said. "The people will simply have to be disappointed if that's what happens. I'm sorry, but that's my final decision."
I cleared my voice to subtly announce my arrival. My mother looked up, then rose to her feet and stepped toward me and took my hand.
"Hello, Mother." My voice trembled.
"Son. I'm glad you came so soon. Thank you." She kissed me on the cheek and slid her hand under my arm. "This is Mr. Godfrey, the funeral director of Godfrey Mortuary. Mr. Godfrey, my son George, named after his father."
He extended his hand, and I shook it, feeling a little bit awkward holding the hand of a man that handled dead bodies. "Nice to meet you, George," he said. "Your mother has told me much about you. Please call me Thomas."
"I have hopefully convinced him that all your father wanted when he died was a simple grave side burial," my mother broke back in. "But I'm afraid he has talked me into at least the viewing. Is that all right with you?"
"It's fine, Mother. Whatever you think best," I answered her reassuringly.
"Mr. Godfrey says that the mortuary will make an extra nice setting for the viewing if he can't talk me into the formality of a funeral service itself. The funeral home prides itself in its ability to make the departure of life as beautiful as possible for those left behind. He and his son Jake work together. Jake is caretaker of the city cemetery, and in the evenings he helps with the embalming work with Mr. Godfrey. Mr. Godfrey and Jake are very busy people, since, heaven knows, with all of the old retired people here in Gunlock, there's a funeral going on nearly every day. But the Godfreys treat their customers like family, never in a rush to leave for other business and such. And they have such wonderful advice and suggestions, like..."
"Yes, yes, Mother. I understand," I said, reluctant to interrupt her, but afraid that she would go on and on like she usually does. "Whatever you want is fine. I'll support any decision you make. But, Mother, you look tired. I think you should rest if you can."
A few minutes later and after repeated condolences, the funeral director left. We spent the next several hours sitting and quietly talking about old times, wiping tears from our eyes on many occasions. The next couple of days would bring many guests, both family and friends, making it impossible to find moments of solitude in the house. But for these few hours, we sat in virtual silence, allowing the significance of the present event to sink deeply into our hearts and imbed itself in the fertile area that would, at some future time, sprout the feelings of grief that would inevitably come.
Two days later the viewing was held. Other than the fact that it was my own father that was being viewed in his death state, it was an ordinary viewing--except for one very peculiar thing. As I stood before the open solid mahogany casket looking down at my father, I noticed how different he looked since the last time I had seen him. How drawn and pale his face looked. He had certainly lost a lot of weight shortly before his death. He had been clothed in his eight hundred dollar black suit, white silk shirt, and fifty dollar silver and blue silk tie. But what I found peculiar was that my father was also wearing a beautiful, sparkling triple two-caret diamond lapel pin neatly attached to the lapel of his suit. In addition, he was wearing the diamond studded gold wedding band that Mother had given him on their 50th wedding anniversary, and on his right hand was a large ruby ring, encircled with still other large diamonds, that, I later learned, had come as a gift from Mother on some other occasion, bought with money generously shared with her by my father from his lucrative business. I assumed that this was just some show of status or something. I wondered what Mother would do with the expensive jewelry after it was removed and given back to her when the casket lid was closed and locked.
The answer to that came almost immediately when the funeral director's voice spoke above the conversations in the room. "Can we now have the family members and friends please gather at the casket to offer their final respects to our beloved husband, father and friend George Matthews." After several minutes of tearful goodbyes and moments of weeping silence, the funeral director stepped to the casket, tucked in the casket side coverings, and then lowered the lid to its closed position, concealing the body of my father for the eternity to come. My mind immediately sprang to thoughts of the jewelry still on the body of the soon-to-be-buried. I whispered into my mother's ear, "Mom, what about the rings and the lapel pin? Aren't they to be removed?"
"Shhh, Son," she quickly whispered back. "I'll talk to you about that later."
"But, Mother...," I objected.
"Be quiet, Son. You told me you would support any decision I make. I'll talk to you later," she said back almost impatiently.
The funeral cortege moved out of the funeral home and into the cars and limousines and headed for the city cemetery. It was not long after that the casket was placed on the grave framework, the dedicatory words said, more tearful goodbyes, and the people were gone, even my mother. I, however, decided to remain at the grave site. Maybe the feelings of grief had begun to voice themselves, and I couldn't bear to leave my father just yet. Or maybe my mind was still on the jewelry my father was still wearing. I hated to think that was it. My mother had explained to me on the way to the cemetery that the funeral director suggested that unless she needed the jewelry for financial reasons, it would be very appropriate for her husband to wear the pieces he loved the most. The money was no object to my mother, of course, so why not. She had agreed to have it that way. I tried to protest, but she quickly, and again, reminded me of my promise to support her decisions. Since she didn't need the money, and since no one in the family really needed it either, why shouldn't my father walk into the next world in elegance.
In any case, I remained there at the grave as the sun slowly began to settle behind the west mountains and cast the creeping shadow that slowly moved over the cemetery grass. As I sat there on the bench reserved for the immediate family, I suddenly realized that I was not alone. There in the shadow of the closest tree stood a man. As my eyes adjusted to the figure in the shadow I saw that he was clearly unshaven, wearing worn and dirty overalls, and had with him a wheelbarrow loaded with what looked like three-foot boards, like two-by-fours, cut to a point on one end. He stood there silently, not moving at all, like a statue, just watching me.
"Hello," I called out. "Can I help you? Do you need me to go away? Are you here to close the grave?"
The statue came to life and slowly moved in my direction. Not saying a word, he walked all the way up to me and came to a stop right in front of me. He looked down at me for several seconds, then finally opened his mouth to speak. "I'm here to close the grave. I don't like people watching me. Would you mind leaving?" His voice could have come from the casket itself, so cold and quiet it was.
"I...er...I'm sorry. I just wanted to stay here for awhile," I stammered. "This is my father in the casket. You understand, don't you?"
He just looked at me, not blinking his eyes at all. Then he whispered, "I understand. You're welcome to stay if you wish. I'm Jack Godfrey. You know my father, the mortician." He pronounced the word slowly and distinctly, leaning towards me and baring his teeth as he said it. "I'm the caretaker of the cemetery," he continued after a slight pause. "I'm here to close the grave. You can watch if you really want to."
I felt a little more comfortable, but not much. Such a strange man. He had the piercing eyes of a shark, black and dead. At least I knew who he was now. "Thank you," I whispered. My voice was still shaking. "I'd like to stay a little longer and watch a little bit if you don't mind."
At that, he turned around, returned to his wheelbarrow back by the tree in the shadow, and slowly pushed the one-wheeled cart back to the grave site. He then proceeded to unlatch the straps suspending the casket over the grave, and with a flip of a switch on the framework surrounding the grave, the casket began to lower into the freshly dug, six-foot rectangular pit. The only noise during these several minutes was the soft whirring of the motor. Everything else was still, no breeze, no insects in the air, nothing. When the motor stopped, dead silence. We, Jack and I, stood there and looked into the grave. The casket could no longer be seen. Just blackness, deep blackness. I was mesmerized by this seemingly bottomless pit that my father had been lowered into. And the utter silence made it seem that time had simply stopped, and was waiting for something to start it up again. I have no idea how long it was that I stood there motionless, just looking. I finally blinked and time found its way forward again.
When I looked up, Jack was gone. I looked around but couldn't see him. Suddenly, I was startled by the starting of a motor. It sounded like an old motor that doesn't want to start, kind of a sputtering. Then I heard a grinding of gears. I turned in the direction of the sound just in time to see an object that looked halfway between a tractor and a golf cart moving in my direction. It was pulling a medium-sized trailer. I realized then that it was the dirt taken from the grave that was being returned to close it. I thought about leaving at this point. Then I thought of the jewelry again and decided to remain, just for a few more minutes.
Jack was in the old seat of the motorized cart that slowly turned and backed the trailer up to the grave and stopped. Jack got out, turned off the engine, and then stepped between the cart and the trailer. He started to turn a crank with his hands. After several cranks the trailer began to tip; and as it tipped, dirt began to fill the gaping black hole that contained the casket and my father. Just as the last several feet of dirt was about to slip out of the trailer into the hole, Jack stopped cranking, then cranked the other way several turns to stop the dirt from emptying completely. He then got into the grave itself and walked around in the almost completely filled grave with stomping steps. There was about two feet left to be filled with dirt. At this point Jake removed the stakes from his wheelbarrow and proceeded to hammer them into the sides of the grave, three at equal distances on each long side. Though I really didn't want to talk to Jake again, I just had to ask why he was doing this.
"What are the stakes for, Jake," I asked simply.
He paused and looked up. "It helps the top couple feet of dirt look better is all."
I guess I was satisfied in an eerie sort of way. "Thank you, Jake," I said, as I turned and walked away. I pressed the button on my watch to see what time it was. Nearly ten o'clock. So late. And so dark now. I moved off into the darkness, then stopped, turned around and looked back. Jake had left the grave site, leaving the cart and trailer there. I waited some more, wondering where he had gone. When, after nearly an hour, I realized that I would be leaving for Salt Lake City in a few short hours, I walked the rest of the way to the car and drove back to Mother's.
I hardly slept at all, and only two hours into trying to sleep and after hearing Mother's mantle clock chime the three o'clock hour I arose, got dressed and started back to Salt Lake. My goodbyes to Mother had already been said upon my return from the cemetery, where I found her and Karen sitting at the dining room table talking about the events of the day. Karen would be staying a day or two longer to be with Mother, but I had to get back to the office. Before leaving town, I drove back to the cemetery, silently tiptoed back and shined the light of my small flashlight onto the grave. Jake had apparently returned after I had left. The final two feet of earth had been added, and the sections of grass that had been removed when the grave was originally opened had been replaced. I was satisfied that what I had seen started earlier, had been completed. I turned around and returned to my car.
Go to Part II
