I can’t describe the shot as sexy. I know the rules of the naked selfie; I had looked at them online occasionally. Usually, the dudes were sitting on the edge of a bed with an erection, pushing their hips up a bit to make themselves look bigger. If not, then they were flexing in the mirror with their lips curled like smirking porn stars.
Daniel was just there, no affectation. No staging. Not that I’d really given him time for that kind of thing. But the effect was startling. It wasn’t anything like the profilephotos of Jonah I’d been looking at for the last year. It was just a naked guy in his room with an imperfect body. And it prompted me, finally, to turn off my phone. But not before another text came in and sat there in the palm of my hand.
WHAT ELSE?
20
The next day, I came downstairs for breakfast and found my dad more animated than I’d seen him in a decade. He was sitting at the table, doing twenty things at once. Looking at the paper, chewing his toast, bouncing his leg. I could barely focus on him. I would have been more concerned if I didn’t recognize the energy. He was excited about a new idea.
“Morning, pardner!” he said when he saw me.
In the old days, he used to pitch schemes to my mom before she was even awake. Secretly, I think she found it a little exciting. Until all the ideas failed.
“How many cups of coffee have you had?” I asked.
“I lost count,” he said. “Sit down. I want to tell you a story.”
I sighed and rubbed the crusty sleep from my eyes. Then I poured some coffee and threw myself down into the chair across from him.
“I want to tell you about this guy I met when I first got started. Irving Breeze.”
“That’s not a real person,” I said.
I grabbed a piece of toast from his plate and took a bite.
“Just listen. He owned his own funeral home in South Minneapolis for forty years. And it was incredibly successful, but not because there was anything exceptional about it. He buried people. He cremated people. He gave wakes and viewings. He was, quite literally, your grandmother’s funeral director.”
“Is this going somewhere?”
“The X-factor,” said my dad, “was Irv himself. He was a former football player who liked to wink and shake hands, and he was the undisputed champion of the church potluck. He subscribed to the newsletters of every congregation in town and he scanned them every week for any event open to the public.
“It didn’t matter what religion. He’d show up clutching a pan of hotdish or homemade Scotcheroos in his enormous hands. And on his way out, he’d always leave the man of the cloth with a wink, a donation, and a lovely notepad with the name of his parlor stenciled on the top. The next time one of the flock met their maker, guess which funeral home was recommended to the family?”
“Irv the Perv’s?”
“Don’t call him that.”
His smile momentarily faltered.
“So, what do you think?” he asked.
“I’m down for crashing potlucks,” I said, “but you don’t know anything about church. They’re going to smell the Godlessness on you.”
“I don’t want to go to churches,” my dad said. “There’s a larger message here, Tessie, if you would just listen for it. You can’t just wait around. Sometimes, you have to drum up your own business. Even in the death industry.”
His leg was bouncing like crazy now. I reached out and took the coffee mug from his hand. Then I waited and listened for the brilliant idea that was surely on its way.
“Nursing homes,” he said.
I looked at him.
“Isn’t that a little crass? Even for you?”
“No,” he said.
I thought he was done speaking. Then he started up again.
“I remember when I was in the hospice with your grandma, one of the nurses was telling me that most of the residents didn’t have a plan. They wanted one, but they weren’t mobile enough to go to parlors. Their needs weren’t being met. They might be our ideal customers,Tess. Practical and quickly approaching their time of need!”
