by Karl K. Taylor

Notes on “The Killers” at the Visitation

By David Karl Taylor

I am confident others who read this story will recall similar feelings after attending a visitation as a teen or as a young adult.

This is the only fiction story that I am aware that my dad wrote. It was written when he was 21, a student at Knox College. Most likely his senior year 1959-1960. This piece was published in a college publication, SIWASHER Volume 38, Number 2. Although, this is clearly fiction, I believe this was primarily based on his own experience. Dad has acknowledged this fact, but his memory issues prevent us from knowing more. I thought the funeral that may have inspired this story could have been the visitation following the death of Dr. David Morton who dad wrote about on his blog. However, after a quick search of death records, I discovered that Dr. Morton died in April 1960, which was after the issue of the SIWASHER was published. Nevertheless, check out his essay about Dr. Morton.

In conclusion, although we don’t know whose funeral inspired this story, it is still interesting to read what dad was thinking when he was a young man. His other blog stories were all written later in life after he had more experience with life and death.                    

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Pete called Curt Thomas to the telephone. Curt took the receiver into his hand and muttered sleepily, “Hello?”

              “Curt, this is Mom. How is everything at school?”

              “Oh, it’s just about the same. I got that paper back in European Literature. Got an A on it. There’s a possibility I might get an A in the course.”

              “I’m glad to hear that things are going along well. The reason that I called is I wanted to tell you that Dr. Sander died yesterday afternoon. I figured that you wouldn’t see the notice in the paper; you are always too busy to read the paper.”

              “Doc passed away? I didn’t even know he was sick.”

              “Yes, he had been sick for about a month. They said that he had just about everything wrong with him. He was conscious to the very end. It’s really such a shame. Curt, your father and I thought you would probably like to come home to the visitation. It’s tonight at Young’s.”

              “Yes, I would like to come home. I have a paper to write, but, in a case like this, the paper can wait. I’ll drive home right after R.O.T.C. drill. I’ll come home in time for supper; how about fixing hamburgers?”

              “Yes, I’ll fix hamburgers and then we’ll go down to the funeral home right after supper. I know you can’t stay very long because you have a lot of work to get done. We’ll expect you at six. Bye.”

              “Goodbye.”

              Curt hastily placed the receiver of the telephone on the hook, opened the door of the telephone booth with a slam, and turned out the light in the booth. Briskly, he turned and walked to his room.

              My, the second-floor linoleum certainly is wearing out. Look at that big black worn space in the floor. So, Doc passed away! I wonder how old he was? Gosh, he must have really been getting up there. Let’s see. Grandad was born in 1880 and I think Doc was born that same year. Hmmmm, that makes him about eighty. What a guy! It hasn’t been too long ago since I saw him. Yes, that’s right. I went home to have him look at that infection in my leg at the beginning of this semester.

              Curt opened the door to his room, and the tan burlap-like cotton curtains at the windows fluttered gayly as papers and paperback books fluttered off his small desk.

              “Damn it! This son-of-a-bitchin room is a toilet,” Curt said.

              Curt hastened to his closet, pressing himself deep into the small, smelly nook in which he and his roommate kept their clothes. He pulled his R.O.T.C. uniform clumsily from the back clothes rod and commenced to dress. He said nothing. Curt finished, placed his hat on his head, looked into the mirror to check for anything out of place, and turned out the light as he opened the door and walked down the hall.

. . .

“Platoon leaders, dismiss your platoons,” shouted the company commander.

              Curt saluted, faced about, and shouted, “Second platoon, dismiss.” He walked home very slowly.

              So Doc had really passed away. What a real swell guy! I’ll never forget what he said to me when I called him to find out if Doc Curtis should open the infected placed on my leg. “If that guy lays a hand on you, call me up right away, and I will come up there and take care of you myself.” Or the time that I went home after my leg mended and had him check it over. “It looks all right now. That bump will be with you quite a spell, but it won’t hurt you. How is school?” He was always so interested in schools and kids. Doc must have been on the high school board for thirty years. Yes, he was. That’s right; we dedicated our yearbook to him my senior year. He had been president of the school board for about twenty years.

              He had seen the erection of the new high school while he was president and the new $150,000 library while he was president of the library board. Doc never charged very much for any of his services; he used to give me a penicillin shot and charge a dollar or sometimes he wouldn’t charge anything. He must have brought eight per cent of the native Parkviewites into the world. That was a huge reception the townspeople had for him a couple years ago. First, they thought they would hold it in his home, but after his fifty years of doctoring in Parkview, they decided to hold it in the high school gymnasium. There must have been a thousand people at that reception.

. . .

              Curt opened the door to his room for the second time that afternoon to change his clothes. He yanked off his R.O.T.C. coat and pulled his tie off with the knot still in the tie. He placed the tie on his makeshift tie rack, a bent black steel coat hanger. He pulled a hanger down from the first clothes rod and put his khaki shirt alongside his roommate’s purple and gold “M” jacket.

              Hell, I sure hate to get dressed up. This is the third change of clothes I’ve had today.

              Curt unbuttoned his R.O.T.C. pants and pulled them off with his shoes still remaining on his feet. He reached back into the closet and pulled out his dark blue summer suit.

              I think this blue suit will be acceptable. The last time I wore this suit was at the alumni banquet last weekend. Oh, that’s right; Mom didn’t want me to wear this until graduation. I don’t know why she thinks I should save some of my unworn clothes for graduation. That’s silly. Oh, well, I can’t gripe; she gets me everything I want. She’s a doll. What would I do without her? I wonder if Dad is going to Kiwanis tonight?

              By the time Curt had put his pants on and was buttoning his Ivy League white shirt. He walked back to the make-shift tie-rack and pulled off a dark blue paisley tie. He turned to the mirror and tied a knot in the tie. Once again, he shoved his large frame into the closet to reach and finally to succeed in grasping his dirty tan raincoat.

I must send that old raincoat out to the cleaners before too long. Maybe when I get my check from the government.

              As he pulled the raincoat over his shoulders, he closed the door to his room for the Nth time that day. He walked quickly down the hall, clomped down the stairs and out into the rain. In his room the curtains were blowing wildly as were his books and papers. Rain was coming in the window beside his desk. Faint drops would plop onto the unvarnished maple. They would settle there for a moment and then suddenly spread and disperse into the wood.

. . .

              It rained all the way to Parkview. The radio wouldn’t work because the static was so fierce. The windshield wipers drove him crazy as they scraped on the wet surface of the panoramic front window.

. . .

              They finished their supper that consisted of a hamburger feast with a huge salad and lots of relishes.

. . .

              They pulled up to the side of the funeral home. They couldn’t park in front because there were so many cars. The Thomas family walked along the wet, unpaved ground that served as a makeshift sidewalk. As they approached the front door of the single funeral home in Parkview, they met one of the school board members and exchanged very solemn greetings.

              The Thomas family walked, or rather baby-stepped, into the filled hallway of the funeral home. They had climbed a slight concrete grade into the main hallway. The building was a large house that had been converted into a funeral parlor. Anywhere you looked you could see a place in the building that had been pushed out and built on in order to expand the small-town funeral director’s business. The funeral director also owned a small forty-bed hospital in town. He got them when they were sick, kept them till they died and then buried them. It was a fine business-like way of doing things.

              The family walked into what at one time was probably a den. There they signed the registry and joined the line which stretched alongside the flowers which seemed painted on the wall of the parlor. There were flowers all over the place. There were flowers in one section from all the hospitals in the immediate area. There were flowers in one section from all the neighbors of the dead man. There were flowers in one section from the Parkview businessmen. Everything was so nicely systematic.

              “Why, there is Leo Wellington. I haven’t seen him for years,” said Curt’s mother.

              The astonished family relinquished their place in the line and moved through the crowd to Leo.

              Grasping the former Pet Shop owner’s old hand gently, Mr. Thomas said, “Well, you ole son of a gun, how have you been?”

              “Well, about as well as any ole businessman can be,” retorted Leo. “How are you, Harold?”

              “I’m fine and you certainly look well.”

              The conversation halted for a moment in order that Leo could greet Curt and his mother. They all exchanged greetings and the conversation became typically small-town news. Curt kept glancing from the group to the casket in the room to the front. The large, beautiful and undoubtedly quite expensive mahogany casket was blanketed in flowers. There were roses. Red roses, white roses, yellow roses, all kinds of roses. A tear came to Curt’s eye as he could not see the man in the casket for the flowers.

              I’m surprised they couldn’t find a place for these stinking flowers. You can’t even see Doc. Oh, there is his kind old bald head showing through those white roses. Damn it, I don’t know if I want to look at him or not. I think I would just as soon remember him as I last saw him. Oh, son-of-a-bitch. I wish Mom and Dad would shut up and go over and see him so we could get the Hell out of here. Must they keep talking to Leo? Who gives a tinker’s damn if business is better than last year? I feel hot. Ya know, I think I’m going to cry. Maybe if I put my head down, I can stop any possible tears. No, no good. I haven’t cried for years. I feel so sorry that Doc has gone. He was such a great guy. I’ve made up my mind I want to see him. I’ll go over now while the line is short and Mom and Dad are talking to Leo.

              Curt stepped away from the business discussion and made his way into the line which stretched to the flower-decked casket. Mr. and Mrs. Bill Gundy were in front of him in line. Bill was the implement dealer, the only one in the community. He also sold grass seed in his spare time. Bill and his wife acknowledged the presence of Curt by a rather rigid grunt. Curt’s father didn’t get along with the Gundy’s. Bill had accused Curt’s father of selling seed too cheap. Bill was going to report Harold Thomas to the “Fair Trade” officials or at least this is what he said a couple of years ago.

              Behind Curt was the Stevens family. Fred, the head of the Stevens family, was one of the numerous lawyers in town. The Stevens family were good customers at the Thomas grocery, so they spoke in a very friendly manner to Curt.

              “My, that is certainly a beautiful bouquet that the Gorrell family sent, isn’t it?” remarked Mrs. Stevens in a loud whisper to Mrs. Gundy.

              “Yes, that is quite attractive,” said Mrs. Gundy. “But look at this beautiful thing from the Citizen’s National Bank employees.”

              “I noticed that,” Mrs. Stevens added. “But just look at that shoddy looking thing from the Nelsons. I’d be ashamed to have my name attached to such a monstrosity.”

              All this time Curt had not said a word. He simply stood there between the two families and tried to push the tears back. The tears could not be pushed back. By now Curt stood opposite the casket.

              Should I look at him or not? I want to, but I am ashamed. I can’t, I just can’t.

              At this point, the line dispersed, having passed the casket, and people in the line began to drift into the large, chair-filled room where little groups formed, and the problems of the small world of Parkview were being solved. Curt saw his parents leaving Leo. He walked over to them.

              “Curt, there are some people we want you to meet over here,” Curt’s father said. “You remember your mother and I have often spoken of Paul Sander. Well, he and his wife and two children are over here. Paul, this is my little boy.”

              “It’s nice to see you again,” said Mr. Sander as a faint odor of liquor reached Curt’s nostrils. “This is my wife, Mary, and my son Andy; he’s a freshman down at Marshall College. Gosh, I almost forgot this is my daughter Sandra. She is going into nurses’ training in the fall.”

              Curt quietly but politely managed a respectable greeting. His father had told him that Doc had sent Paul to Chicago College years ago to medical school, but Paul had flunked out the first semester. Paul was Doc’s only child and had hoped he would become a doctor. Curt thought Paul worked for Cat and lived in South Peoria.

              Mrs. Sander certainly seems like a nice lady. This Sander looks like the town drunk. That’s an awfully faded blue suit that he has on. Andy looks like any dumb ass who hated his parents and hates white shirts even worse. This sister of his is pretty cute. In fact, she isn’t bad at all. Lord, I want to get out of here.

              Both families had sort of split up. Mrs. Thomas was talking to Mrs. Sander. “My, that is a lovely daughter you have. Doc sure would be glad to know that she is going into nurses’ training.”

              “Yes, Doc wanted her to register at Methodist in Peoria,” remarked Mrs. Sander. “That son of yours is certainly handsome. I guess I shouldn’t say that too loud for fear of embarrassing him. He’s married now, isn’t he?”

              “No, he isn’t married,” said Mrs. Thomas.

              “Well, my girl has never been too serious either. You know he won’t be too far from Peoria next year. Maybe he and my daughter…”

              To Curt’s left Mr. Sander was talking to Mr. Thomas. “No, Harold, I quit farmin’ quite a spell ago. I work on second shift down at Cat.”

              To Curt’s front stood Andy glancing off somewhere a million miles away probably taking off his tie with a yank and throwing that damn white shirt in the dirty clothes. Momentarily Sandra stood with Andy. Then all of a sudden she lurched in her high school manner over to where Curt was standing with a solemn bowed head.

              “So you go to Midwest College and are a senior, huh?” Sandra questioned.

              “Yes,” reluctantly responded Curt.

              If she gets any closer to me, I think I will drop tears into her blonde hair. Damn it, I wish to Hell she’d get out of here. I wish that I could get out of here. She is pretty, but not now. Not at a time like this. I’ve got to get out of here before she kisses me right here. I wish to Hell she would quit looking at my mouth. Oh, shut your mouth, little girl.

              “Do you belong to a fraternity at Midwest?” Sandra again questioned, “I’ve never been to a fraternity dance. I’ll bet that would be lots of fun. I’ve heard such great things about fraternity parties.”

              I can’t stand it anymore. I feel weak. I want to crawl off in a corner and bawl my head off. I’ve got to get out of this Hell hole. I’ve got to. I’ve got to. I’ve got…

              “I’m terribly sorry, but I don’t feel well,” Curt finally stumbled. “I’ve got to get some fresh air.”

              Sandra said nothing, but her mouth remained open as she watched Curt walk past her and proceed through the door at the far end marked EXIT in big red painted letters.

              Curt walked out to the car with tears running down his cheeks. He opened the door and slid himself onto the seat. Great gushes of tears came from his eyes that had been dry for a long time.

              In a few moments, Curt saw his parents in the rearview mirror walking to the car in a zigzag manner apparently trying to avoid the large mud puddles. Mr. and Mrs. Thomas systematically climbed into the back seat.

              “I never want to go to a visitation again,” sobbed Curt. “That was awful. If Doc could see what I saw tonight, he would get up and spit all over the people in there. I just hate to think of such a distasteful thing.”

              “Oh, I don’t know,” responded Mr. Thomas, ‘Well, you better not think about it.’ “