“Direct cremation. Basic container. Ninety-five dollars.”
The funeral director slid the paper across the desk toward me. He did it gently, the way he’d probably done it a thousand times. His name was Gary Nygaard. He’d buried my grandparents. He’d buried half of Pope County.
I looked down at the paper.
At the bottom, in my brother’s handwriting, was his signature. Kevin Sorensen. Next of kin. Dated Friday.
Dad had died Thursday morning.
“Kevin,” I said. “What is this?”
My brother was sitting in the chair next to me with his arms crossed. He’s forty-four. He sells used cars in Alexandria. He has two kids, an ex-wife, and a mortgage he’s been behind on since spring.
“It’s what we’re doing,” he said.
“Did you talk to Mom about this?”
“I talked to Gary.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Kevin uncrossed his arms and leaned forward. He talked low, like Mom couldn’t hear him. She was sitting right there. On the little loveseat by the window, with her purse in her lap and her coat still buttoned.
“Julie, Mom doesn’t have money for a casket. Have you seen what they cost? Gary showed me the room. The cheapest one’s twenty-eight hundred dollars. The nice ones are eight, ten thousand. For a box. That goes in the ground.”
“It’s Dad.”
“Dad’s dead.” Kevin said it flat. “He’s gone. He’s not in there anymore. He won’t know the difference.”
I felt my face go hot.
“You don’t know that.”
“I know he’d rather Mom keep her money. He was the cheapest man alive. He drove the same truck for twenty-two years. He fixed his own shoes with Shoe Goo. You think he wants Mom spending ten grand on a box?”
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
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