Beach Strip by John Lawrence Reynolds Page A

morgue. That way, they wouldn’t have to drive very far. Maybe hearses have meters. I figured the shorter the distance, the lower the fee. It might be a silly reason for choosing an undertaker, but it was the only one I could think of.
    Tina was appalled. Tina likes ceremonies, including funerals. They are an opportunity to wear new clothes. I didn’t tell her what I planned. She heard it for the first time after driving me to the funeral home and listening to me inform the undertaker that I wanted Gabe cremated and the whole procedure done for the lowest price they offered. The undertaker, or at least the guy who took the orders at the office, was young enough to believe that his own mortality was merely a rumour. It was easy to picture him as the class nerd in high school, which was probably last year. He nodded, closed his eyes, and smiled when I said I wanted no ceremony, just cremation in a plain wooden box, and I could pick up the ashes myself if it saved a few bucks.
    “Returning the remains to you,” he said with his eyes still closed, “is included in our services.”
    I signed the order, used my credit card, and we left.
    “You’re just going to …” Tina said as we drove away and, after waiting for the courage to say it aloud, “… cremate him?”
    “He has no other family,” I said. “He was an only child and his parents are gone. I’m it. And I’ll remember him my way.”
    “But he was a police officer. Won’t they want to do something for him? I mean, when a police officer dies on duty, cops show up from all over the country—”
    “He didn’t die on duty. And the police have decided he wasn’t shot by somebody else. They’ll have some ritual. A bunch of out-of-town cops will show up, march around wearing white gloves and a serious expression, and spend the night at a Holiday Inn playing poker and telling dirty stories. Or maybe they’ll forget the whole thing, considering it was suicide.”
    “So you also think Gabe killed himself.”
    “No, I don’t. The cops do.”
    “Shouldn’t you have a funeral anyway?”
    “For you and me? Listen, Gabe and I talked about this last year, when an officer was shot while checking a warehouse. Theyreally went overboard on that one, two thousand cops marching behind the hearse, tying up traffic all across the city. Gabe said if he was ever killed on duty I should comb his hair, dress him in a sweatshirt and jeans, and set him on a bench looking out at the lake.”
    “Men can never talk about death seriously.” Tina folded her arms and glanced at me. “That’s why they have affairs.”
    “To avoid discussing death with their wives?”
    “No, because they’re afraid of dying. They want one more lay before they go, and they think the next might be their last.”
    “You’re such a romantic.”
    “It’s true.”
    “Why do women have affairs?”
    “Because their men let them down.”
    That hurt. Gabe never let me down. Well, maybe once.
    WE WERE OUT OF THE CITY and driving along the south end of the beach strip, the low-rent section studded with small cottages whose residents gathered at Tuffy’s Tavern on the days their welfare cheques arrived. Tina wrinkled her nose at the sight of people sitting on their front steps smoking and drinking beer out of long-necked bottles. “You really like living here?” she asked.
    “I love it.”
    “Will you love it without your husband?”
    “Not as much. But I’m staying anyway.”
    “Daddy always said you were stubborn.”
    And he always said you were a spoiled little bitch, I thought.
    “There’s a car in your driveway.” Tina looked apprehensive.
    I recognized Mel’s red Mustang convertible. When Mel was on duty, he drove brown and grey Chevrolets, but he refused to drive anything so mundane on his own time.
    “Don’t panic,” I said. “You’ll enjoy this.”
    I parked at the curb, and we walked down the driveway to the rear of the house and into the garden, where Mel stood looking out