Curtains by Tom Jokinen

cover them with the AstroTurf mats, their green tongues hanging into the hole. We use a big mat to cover the mound of dirt, presumably to disguise its purpose. Putting together the Device is like constructing a playground swing set when the instructions are in Mandarin: pipes fit into gear-boxes that fit into other pipes and then canvas straps are stretched over the frame and wound tight around the side rails. It works on friction and gravity: no batteries required. As long as the gears are locked, the straps will hold the weight of the casket. Once the brake is released, the side rails turn, slowly, held back by the gears, and the straps grow more and more slack. The casket sinks into the hole. The effect is as if God’s own hand is lowering the box. Richard says when he dresses a grave he usually turns his suit inside out. Then, when it comes time for the service, he can flip it around and no one will see the dirt. I decide I’m too superstitious to take my clothes off in a cemetery, and besides, all I’ve got is a ring of muck around my pant cuffs. I wipe them on the grass.
    When we get to the church, Neil’s already there with the hearse and the casket. On top of the casket, in place of the usual spray of flowers, is a bundle of dried wheat, in honour of the dead man, who was a farmer. Inside, the church is late-model Lutheran with exposed brick and skylights, blond-wood pews and a Henry Moore-esque stone baptismal font. A sign by the door says B LESS Y OU F OR N OT S MOKING. Richard decides to stay, to corral pallbearers andwork out the seating for the family, who’ve yet to arrive, freeing Neil and me to head into town for lunch.
    The main street of Starbuck is deserted, save four men in hunting camo outside Archie’s Meats and Groceries, loading brown-paper bundles of bloody meat into the back of a pickup truck. Only the store and the hotel restaurant appear to be open. At the hotel, the man behind the counter asks us if we want the bar or the coffee shop. If we want the bar, it’s closed but he’ll open it. If we want the coffee shop, he’s it. He opens a fridge and studies our options. He can offer us ham and cheese sandwiches, but he has no bread because it’s the end of the week. The best he can do is to thaw a couple of frozen hamburger buns in the microwave. We pour ourselves two cups of coffee and sit down. The place is painted bright pink and green, and hanging on a bare plywood wall is a picture of a chicken.
    I ask Neil about the dream.
    Some people, he says, are born into funeral service. They have the name. They have no choice. Others think they’ll make a whack of money, and they get into the trade for the nice suits and expensive cars, but they don’t know how hard they’ll have to work, answering calls at 3 a.m. and doing removals on weekends. Then there are those with natural talent. Natalie, he says, has it. She could tell just by looking at a body what chemical index to use in the embalming room. She set features like a sculptor. It’s too bad, he says: Natalie had this idea I favoured Shannon over her.
    “Do you?”
    “I’m grooming Shannon for bigger things. She has natural talent too. She understands families. She understands where this business is going. If Natalie had stayed I would’ve given her all thespace she needed in the prep room. It was hers. But I guess you can’t have two queen bees in the same hive.”
    Or two brothers: Jon, it turns out, has left the funeral home too, to put all his efforts into becoming an electrician.
    The sandwiches are delicious. As we’re leaving, the man behind the counter says it’s a good day for a burial. In our black suits we’re either funeral directors or mobsters, and he guessed right.
    “I want it storming for mine,” he says. “Same as when I came in. I come from a farm family. So I’ve been crying from day one.”
    Back at the church, Richard fills us in on recent developments. The brother and sister are at war, he says. The