next life, and proceeded to finish the book. By the time he had tremblingly turned the last page and wallowed in the story’s stirring ending, he was reading by the streetlight, and some semblance of peace had re-entered his soul. He took a final glance at the rushing stream of opposing red and white lights below, and turned to return home.
Two weeks later, and a hundred-or-so miles along the very same highway, Flam’s life did change. His father, just heading out for a cross-country haul after having waited out the rush hour between the ample thighs of a bleached blonde truckstop waitress named Amber, was fishing around in his jacket for a pack of matches when he was cut off by a minivan. Steve lost control of his rig, jack-knifed, went sliding off down a steep embankment, and was killed instantly when the nineteen tons of galvanized steel rod he was hauling crushed his cab like a pop can.
Flam was reading in his lair beneath the dining room table, while Mary darned a priest’s cassock, when the policeman rang the doorbell with the news. Flam was astounded by the ensuing display of his mother’s grief. In the nineteen years of his life, he had never once known his parents to exchange a tender word or an intimate embrace. On those rare occasions when Steve had been at home, he and Mary had fought constantly, usually over Steve’s drinking, and the meagre wages finding their way home.
Now Mary grasped her son to her bosom like a life preserver and wailed uncontrollably. At first Flam just stood there in shock, arms dangling limply by his side, but then the warmth of this mother’s embrace spread through him. A lifetime of deprived closeness washed over him like a tsunami, and he put his arms around Mary, and squeezed her tight.
Eventually she looked up, like she was seeing her son for the first time. He had grown to be tall, and had his father’s dark hair and eyes, along with her fair complexion, although unfortunately, he had neither parent’s striking looks. “Oh, Flam, Flam. We’re all alone now. We only have each other,” she sobbed.
He soothed her, stroking her hair, supporting her as she leaned against him. “It’s okay, Mother, it’ll be alright . . . we’ll survive.” She looked at him again, and nodded bravely.
“Of course we will, son. We’re Flams, after all. Misfortune is nothing new.”
Flam spent the next three days almost entirely at the funeral home, acting as a silent sentry to his father’s remains, and witness to his mother’s periodic wailings of grief to her Lord and saints. It was there, in that place and time, that Flam Grub found a calling in life.
He absorbed the immaculate surroundings, revelling in the polished wood and plush velvet, all of it looking like it had manifested itself straight out of one of his Victorian novels. Flam watched the staff perform their solemn duties with quiet reverence, and he thought, I can belong here. This was a world where adolescent horseplay and sadistic pranks didn’t exist. Here, a serious, sombre soul was not out of place. Dignity and a sensitive nature were in fact valued.
The funeral was attended mostly by Steve’s cronies in hopes of a free piss-up afterwards, and once his father’s corpse had been delivered to the earth, Flam approached Mary with the idea of joining the funerary profession.
“Mother, I’ve been thinking. I really want to become a funeral director,” he announced, and tensed up to await the fireworks. Based on a lifetime of disapproval and criticism, he fully expected her vehement opposition.
Mary blinked hard, and her surprise was blatant. Before Flam had a chance to even flinch, she grabbed her son and wrapped him up in her arms. A whole new generation of tears sprung to her swollen eyes. “Oh, Flam! Praise God! I’m so happy to hear you say that. It’s a good profession . . . a revered profession. I was so afraid you’d end up like all the other Flams . . . working for pennies at some menial backbreaking job that’ll put you in an early grave. The parish has sent me to a lot of viewings and funeral services, believe you me, and I can tell you those from the home get respect. Why, I’d say they’re almost above the priests themselves when it comes to the dead, yes I would. Oh my son, you’ll be a proper holy worker.” For the first time in his life that Flam could recall, his mother actually smiled at him.
Buoyed by his mother’s blessing, Flam enrolled in the Funeral Services course at Prentice College, a vocational school on the outskirts of the city. He was helped in the matter by some insurance money, a posthumous windfall from his father, who had otherwise failed miserably to provide for his son.
With the teen purgatory of high school behind him, and a shiny destiny looming ahead, Flam felt like he was reborn. The newfound closeness with his mother was like rain coming to the desert, and his heart bloomed in the belated love and acceptance. Still, Flam was eager to plunge wholeheartedly into his new adult life, so he decided he would move away from home, and take a small apartment near the campus.
Mary voiced some displeasure, but largely took the news like a seasoned martyr. “First my husband, now my son. I don’t know why the Good Lord is punishing me like this,” she sighed, after Flam had meekly declared his intention to leave.
“I’m not a child anymore, Mother. Didn’t you tell me once that Grandpa Flam already had a child and a fulltime job driving a cab when he was my age?”
“It seems like a waste of money, when this apartment is just sitting here empty most of the day anyway, what with my work and all.”
“There’s enough money to get me through school alright . . . and then, after that, I’ll have a good job. Don’t worry, Mother, I’ll come and visit you every week. And, if you need me, I’m only a phone call away.”
Flam also inherited his father’s old but functional Ford Fairlane, and spent the summer acquiring his driving license. His mother, reasoning he would be called upon in his chosen profession to drive a hearse, made him gain extra practice by chauffeuring her to and from church and related social functions. In payment, the parish’s thrift store supplied the sparse second-hand furnishings for Flam’s new student apartment.
Chapter 5
Flam anxiously appeared for his first day of classes in September, his ingrained timidity heightened by the roomful of strangers around him. As he waited for the lecture to begin, out of reflex he stuck his nose into a textbook, and tried to shut out the people shuffling in to take their seats around him.
“I was expecting a roomful of weirdos,” a female voice commented from beside him.
Flam reddened, thinking perhaps the statement had been some kind of barb directed at him. He pretended not to hear, and resumed concentrating on his book.
“Mind you, they’re probably saying the same thing about us: ‘Those two look normal enough,’” the voice added, and Flam realized the tone was self-deprecating, not derisive.
He turned to reply, and his mouth practically plopped open as he took in the young woman who had addressed him. She was a ravishing blonde with sparkling aquamarine eyes and a halogen-intensity smile. Even though she was seated, he could see she was tall and extremely shapely. To Flam, the girl looked like she would be better suited to strolling fashion runways than rolling away caskets. The thought of speaking to any woman, let alone one so beautiful, petrified him. Still, she had addressed him first, and her look was casual and inviting, so he swallowed hard and replied.
“Yeah . . . I was kind of curious myself as to what kind of student body would show up to study bodies,” he quipped, and was rewarded with an appreciative chuckle.
“Hi, I’m Lucy, by the way. Lucy Giles,” she introduced herself.
“Hi . . . um . . . I’m Flam . . . Flam Grub,” he replied, and could instantly feel a flush of embarrassment come over his face.
“Ha! Great name!” someone exclaimed from the row behind them, then laughed—a loud staccato cackle that sounded like an air horn had been mated with a jackhammer. Flam spun in anger, but the speaker, a well-tanned young man with stylishly spiked brown hair and an expensive-looking sweater knotted around broad shoulders, seemed unfazed by Flam’s ire; instead, he leaned forward with a menacing squint in his eyes.
“Something on your mind?” he snarled.
“Just