Let us endeavor so to live that when we come to die even the undertaker will be sorry.

—Mark Twain, Pudd’nhead Wilson

1Death is a subject largely ignored by the living. We don’t discuss it much, not as children (when Grandpa dies, he is said to be “going away”), not as adults, not even as senior citizens. Throughout our lives, death remains intensely private. The death of a loved one can be very painful, partly because of the sense of loss, but also because someone else’s mortality reminds us all too vividly of our own.

2More than a few people avert their eyes as they walk past the dusty-pink building that houses the Goodbody Mortuary. It looks a bit like a church—tall, with gothic arches and stained glass—and somewhat like an apartment complex—low, with many windows stamped out of red brick.

3It wasn’t at all what I had expected. I thought it would be more like Forest Lawn, serene with lush green lawns and meticulously groomed gardens, a place set apart from the hustle of day-to-day life. Here instead was an odd pink structure set in the middle of a business district. On top of the Goodbody Mortuary sign was a large electric clock. What the hell, I thought. Mortuary are concerned with time, too.

4I was apprehensive as I climbed the stone steps to the entrance. I feared rejection or, worse, an invitation to come and stay. The door was massive, yet it swung open easily on well-oiled hinges. “Come in,” said the sign. “We’re always open.” Inside was a cool and quiet reception room. Curtains were drawn against the outside glare, cutting the light down to a soft glow.

5I found the funeral director in the main lobby, adjacent to the reception room. Like most people, I had preconceptions about what an undertaker looked like. Mr. Deaver fulfilled my expectations entirely. Tall and thin, he even had beady eyes and a bony face. A low, slanted forehead gave way to a beaked nose. His skin, scrubbed of all color, contrasted sharply with his jet black hair. He was wearing a starched white shirt, gray pants, and black shoes. Indeed, he looked like death on two legs.

6He proved an amiable sort, however, and was easy to talk to. As funeral director, Mr. Deaver (“Call me Howard”) was responsible for a wide range of services. Goodbody Mortuary, upon notification of someone’s death, will remove the remains from the hospital or home. They then prepare the body for viewing, whereupon features distorted by illness or accident are restored to their natural condition. The body is embalmed and then placed in a casket selected by the family of the deceased. Services are held in one of three chapels at the mortuary, and afterward the casket is placed in a “visitation room,” where family and friends can pay their last respects. Goodbody also makes arrangements for the purchase of a burial site and transports the body there for burial.

7All this information Howard related in a well-practiced, professional manner. It was obvious he was used to explaining the specifics of his profession. We sat alone in the lobby. His desk was bone clean, no pencils or paper, nothing—just a telephone. He did all his paperwork at home; as it turned out, he and his wife lived right upstairs. The phone rang. As he listened, he bit his lips and squeezed his Adam’s apple somewhat nervously.

8“I think we’ll be able to get him in by Friday. No, no, the family wants him cremated.”

9His tone was that of a broker conferring on the Dow Jones. Directly behind him was a sign announcing “Visa and Master Charge Welcome Here.” It was tacked to the wall, right next to a crucifix.

10“Some people have the idea that we are bereavement specialists, that we can handle emotional problems which follow a death: Only a trained therapist can do that. We provide services for the dead, not counseling for the living.”

11Physical comfort was the one thing they did provide for the living. The lobby was modestly but comfortably furnished. There were several couches, in colors ranging from earth brown to pastel blue, and a coffee table in front of each one. On one table lay some magazines and a vase of flowers. Another supported an aquarium. Paintings of pastoral scenes hung on every wall. The lobby looked more or less like that of an old hotel. Nothing seemed to match, but it had a homey, lived-in look.

12“The last time the Goodbodies decorated was in ’59, I believe. It still makes people feel welcome.”

13And so “Goodbody” was not a name made up to attract customers but the owner’s family name. The Goodbody family started the business way back in 1915. Today, they do over five hundred services a year.

14“We’re in Ripley’s Believe It or Not, along with another funeral home whose owners’ names are Baggit and Sackit,” Howard told me, without cracking a smile.

15I followed him through an arched doorway into a chapel that smelled musty and old. The only illumination came from sunlight filtered through a stained glass ceiling. Ahead of us lay a casket. I could see that it contained a man dressed in a black suit. Wooden benches ran on either side of an aisle that led to the body. I got no closer. From the red roses across the dead man’s chest, it was apparent that services had already been held.

16“It was a large service,” remarked Howard. “Look at that casket—a beautiful work of craftsmanship.”

17I guess it was. Death may be the great leveler, but one’s coffin quickly reestablishes one’s status.

18We passed into a bright, fluorescent-lit “display room.” Inside were thirty coffins, lids open, patiently awaiting inspection. Like new cars on the showroom floor, they gleamed with high-gloss finishes.

19“We have models for every price range.”

20Indeed, there was a wide variety. They came in all colors and various materials. Some were little more than cloth-covered cardboard boxes, others were made of wood, and a few were made of steel, copper, or bronze. Howard told me prices started at $500 and averaged about $1,800. He motioned toward the center of the room: “The top of the line.”

21This was a solid bronze casket, its seams electronically welded to resist corrosion. Moisture-proof and air-tight, it could be hermetically sealed off from all outside elements. Its handles were plated with 14-karat gold. The Promethean casket made by the Batesville Casket Company is the choice of celebrities and the very wealthy. The price: a cool $25,000.

22A proper funeral remains a measure of respect for the deceased. But it is expensive. In the United States, the amount spent annually on funerals is around $12 billion (Grassley). Among ceremonial expenditures, funerals are second only to weddings. As a result, practices are changing. Howard has been in this business for forty years. He remembers a time when everyone was buried. Nowadays, with burials costing more than $7,000 a shot (Grassley), people often opt instead for cremation—as Howard put it, “a cheap, quick, and easy means of disposal.” In some areas of the country, according to Howard, the cremation rate is now over 60 percent. Observing this trend, one might wonder whether burials are becoming obsolete. Do burials serve an important role in society?

23For Tim, Goodbody’s licensed mortician, the answer is very definitely yes. Burials will remain in common practice, according to the slender embalmer with the disarming smile, because they allow family and friends to view the deceased. Painful as it may be, such an experience brings home the finality of death. “Something deep within us demands a confrontation with death,” Tim explained. “A last look assures us that the person we loved is, indeed, gone forever.”

24Apparently, we also need to be assured that the body will be laid to rest in comfort and peace. The average casket, with its innerspring mattress and pleated satin lining, is surprisingly roomy and luxurious. Perhaps such an air of comfort makes it easier for the family to give up their loved one. In addition, the burial site fixes the deceased in the survivors’ memory, like a new address. Cremation provides none of these comforts.

25Tim started out as a clerk in a funeral home but then studied to become a mortician. “It was a profession I could live with,” he told me with a sly grin. Mortuary science might be described as a cross between pre-med and cosmetology, with courses in anatomy and embalming as well as in restorative art.

26Tim let me see the preparation, or embalming, room, a white-walled chamber about the size of an operating room. Against the wall was a large sink with elbow taps and a draining board. In the center of the room stood a table with equipment for preparing the arterial embalming fluid, which consists primarily of formaldehyde, a preservative, and phenol, a disinfectant. This mixture sanitizes and also gives better color to the skin. Facial features can then be “set” to achieve a restful expression. Missing eyes, ears, and even noses can be replaced.

27I asked Tim if his job ever depressed him. He bridled at the question: “No, it doesn’t depress me at all. I do what I can for people and take satisfaction in enabling relatives to see their loved ones as they were in life.” He said that he felt people were becoming more aware of the public service his profession provides. Grade-school classes now visit funeral homes as often as they do police stations and museums. The mortician is no longer regarded as a minister of death.

28Before leaving, I wanted to see a body up close. I thought I could be indifferent after all I had seen and heard, but I wasn’t sure. Cautiously, I reached out and touched the skin. It felt cold and firm, not unlike clay. As I walked out, I felt glad to have satisfied my curiosity about dead bodies, but all too happy to let someone else handle them.

Works Cited

Grassley, Chuck. “Opening Statement of Chairman Grassley.” U.S. Senate Special Committee on Aging. 21 Sept. 2000. Web. 6 Jan. 2012.

Twain, Mark. Pudd’nhead Wilson. New York: Pocket Books, 2004: 45. Print.