The Funeral Makers Read Free

own high school yet. We might get one built in 1965 but I’ll be graduated by then. At least I hope.”
    â€œI’m sure you will,” the nurse said. “Just study hard.”
    â€œI got a new boyfriend, too.”
    â€œAren’t you too young for that?”
    â€œMama thinks I am, but she don’t really know about him. She just suspects.”
    The nurse put a fresh cloth in a pan of water and wrung it out. She folded it and placed it carefully on Marge’s forehead.
    â€œYou should listen to your mother, Amy Joy.”
    But Amy Joy had already turned away and headed down the hallway to the front door, her tight white pants making soft squeaking noises. She pushed the screen door open and went out to the back porch. Leaning forward, she studied her reflection in a square of windowpane. She slid a rattail comb up from her hip pocket and teased her brown hair a bit on the top. The kiss-me-quick curls on each side of her face had dried, so she removed the bobby pins. The tiny sample tube of lipstick that the Fuller Brush man had let her select was Shocking Pink, to match her blouse and flip-flops. Amy Joy had flip-flops and lipsticks to match every blouse she had. After a bit of trouble squeezing the tube back into her front pocket, she peered again at her reflection to check the results. Inside, Sicily screamed. Something broke into many pieces.
    â€œGod in heaven, Amy Joy! Is that you out there with your eyes bugged out?” Sicily was edgy. This was her first planned funeral. In the past, Marge had taken charge of family functions.
    â€œMama, can I dye my hair?” Amy Joy asked through the screen of the door.
    â€œLet me recover from one shock before you kill me with another one,” Sicily said. She was picking up the shards of a tumbler. Raspberry Kool-Aid was splattered about the kitchen floor. “The least you could do after scaring the daylights out of me is to help me mop this up.”
    Amy Joy let the screen door bang.
    â€œHave consideration for your dying aunt, young lady. And watch out for the ice cubes. They’re around here somewhere.” Sicily was on her knees, mopping up the mess. Amy Joy sat on a chair and pulled both knees up to her chin.
    â€œI’ve been thinking of Sensuous Ash,” she said.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œSensuous Ash,” said Amy Joy. “You know, if I was to dye my hair.”
    â€œWatch my mouth as I say this,” said Sicily, who felt the situation was important enough to stop mopping. “If you so much as alter a strand of hair on your head, especially so close to a funeral, if you so much as buy a bottle of Sensuous Ash hair dye to even read the instructions, your father will hear of it. And Amy Joy, do I have to tell you what will happen to you if your father hears of it? You wanting to dye your hair with him being principal of the grammar school. You know what kind of woman dyes her hair.”
    â€œOh, Mama,” said Amy Joy.
    â€œWhat’s wrong with your hair?”
    â€œIt’s mousy.”
    â€œIt is not mousy. It’s wholesome. Besides that, it’s God-given.”
    â€œWho is more wholesome than Doris Day or Debbie Reynolds? And they dye theirs.”
    â€œWho told you that?” Sicily asked with interest. She found one of the ice cubes.
    â€œI read it somewhere,” said Amy Joy, and went out to swing on the back porch.
    â€œAnd wipe that pink stuff off your mouth!” Sicily shouted after her.
    When Sicily went out later to tell Amy Joy that she had called everyone, had checked on Marge, and was now on her way home to cook supper, she found her daughter beaming into the unkempt face of Chester Gifford, who was only inches away from Amy Joy’s own chubby face. When Sicily cleared her throat, Chester jumped as though someone had shot him between the shoulder blades.
    â€œAmy Joy, may I speak to you for a moment, dear?” Sicily held the screen door open as an