On the drive there, the carriage had carried two honored guests.
On the drive back, it carried two jars of honored guests.
Though the funeral had been simple—slipshod, even—the heavens showed some courtesy on the return trip from the crematorium by letting rain fall, helping set an atmospheric farewell for Jeff and Mr. Mossan as they parted from the world of the living.
Karen looked at the ash jars before him. Sure enough, those jars down in the basement were definitely not meant for pickling vegetables!
Freshly cremated ashes were piping hot. To save time, the family usually brought jars from the basement to hold them on site. Once back, the remains would be transferred into urn boxes bearing their funeral home's brand label.
Jeff's urn box still had to clear one final procedure before being placed in the welfare section of the cemetery, while none of Mr. Mossan's children were willing to take his urn home. Standard cemetery plots, even without in-ground burial, were far from cheap. Thus, they preferred to pay extra to have the Inmeles family grease some wheels so their father could piggyback on the welfare benefit.
So, in essence, Jeff had piggybacked on Mr. Mossan's funeral to lie in state, while Mr. Mossan would piggyback on Jeff's welfare case.
If nothing went awry, once their urn boxes were delivered together to the welfare cemetery, they would be placed in two adjacent niches.
That wasn't bad either. If they ever got lonely, they could knock on the wall with each other's skulls.
Still turning over the cost price of the urn boxes that Old Darcy had mentioned, Karen turned to Uncle Mason behind the wheel and asked curiously, "Uncle, how much profit do our coffins make?"
"Ordinary ones run about a hundred percent markup—double the cost. Custom-made ones or specialized designs can bring two or three times that. People who lived respectable lives, like civil servants, tend to choose somber, understated styles. Those with noble titles and substantial wealth order luxury coffins tailored to their family traditions, complete with engraved coats of arms. The nouveau riche are far simpler; they love anything dripping in gold. By the way, we have a color catalog of coffin designs at home with over two hundred models. If you're interested, you can flip through it when we get back. Oh, the list prices in there are basically five times the wholesale cost. When pitching them to clients, we give them a 'discount.'"
Several times the cost, Karen calculated in his head. That wasn't so bad—nowhere near as outrageous as the urn boxes at Hughes Crematorium, where something costing under fifty lubi was sold for a thousand, a twenty-fold markup!
As luck would have it, Uncle Mason had also hit his stride and happened to cite that very example.
"Don't be fooled just because our margins aren't as crazy as Hughes Crematorium's urn boxes. Even marked up that many times, how much can one urn fetch? Our most basic coffin goes for ten thousand lubi. Besides, we cater to entirely different clienteles. Around here, those ultimately sent off for cremation are... well, they're low-margin clients, yet that's their primary base. They burn bodies all day, every day, for an entire month, while we only need to land three normal orders to match their monthly profit. Of course, someone like Mr. Mossan doesn't count as a normal client."
"Have you ever thought about expanding the business, Uncle?" Karen asked.
Mason shook his head. "My investments tanked. I traded on leverage. By the way, do you know what leverage is?"
"I do."
"Good. In any case, I'm sorry to inform you, my poor nephew, that your grandfather's money—the inheritance you stood to receive in the future—has shrunk considerably thanks to your good-for-nothing uncle."
Pausing, Mason added, "Don't be mad at me."
By the traditions of Ruilan, the eldest son usually inherited the family business, while younger sons struck out on their own. Thus, by custom, Karen, as the eldest grandson of the primary branch, should have been the future head of the funeral home, while Mason would at best receive some money or a dividend share without any say in running things.
"I don't blame you, Uncle."
In the previous Karen's memories, he had always held a good impression of his uncle.
Over the past two weeks or so of contact, Karen had also realized that while Mason liked to slack off, possessed a loose tongue, and was fond of money—flaws shared by most ordinary people—the most important thing was that his attitude toward life, his family, and money was genuinely upright.
He was actually the one who longed most to make money and stage a comeback. Having once worked in financial investment in the big city, driving a hearse now was hardly something he relished.
Yet when Karen had asked whether to deposit that nearly twenty-thousand-lubi consultation fee into the family account, Mason had refused without hesitation, showing he wasn't the sort to take money from his nephew.
The only working members entitled to dividends were Mason, Aunt Mary, Grandfather, and Aunt Winnie. Had those twenty thousand lubi been pooled into the family coffers, Mason and his wife would have split half of it next month.
After all, earning that money had cost practically nothing in operational expenses... if Karen hadn't given a thousand lubi to Old Darcy, the only cost would have been a few spent breaths.
"By the way, Karen, next time we have a client, why don't you try handling the communication? We'll see how it goes. If it works out, you can join the company as a family member and receive dividends."
"Alright, Uncle."
To work for the Inmeles family—no, to work for Diss—would be my honor.
"Also, about the expansion you mentioned, I don't think it's necessary right now. Even if we could get a bank loan, there's no way we could compete in scale against the chains. So my feeling is that we need to improve our service quality while finding new revenue streams—like what you did today."
"Couldn't Grandfather handle that kind of work, actually?" Karen asked.
Grandfather was a priest.
Mason dismissed it with a wave of his hand. "Come on, who ever tells the truth to God?"
Just then, the hearse hit a puddle ahead. The wheel dipped, causing a violent jolt. The vehicle was fine, but the two ash jars clattered against each other with a sharp clunk—fortunately without breaking.
Mason glanced back and said, "When I die in the future, I don't plan on having a funeral at all. Never mind a coffin; I don't even want Mina and Lunt to buy me an urn box."
"Oh? You're that open-minded about it, Uncle?"
"When you see enough of these things, they stop meaning much. Once I'm old, as long as Mina and Lunt treat me decently while I'm breathing, then after I close my eyes, I won't complain even if they scoop my ashes into the kind of black plastic bag you get when buying fish at the market."
"And what would they do with the ashes?" Karen asked.
"That's easy. Find a big flowerpot, dump me inside, add some soil, and plant whatever on top. Put it in the flower garden. When you're all home, you can water me; when you're out, I can watch the house for you."
By then, Ron, who had fallen asleep in his w-sit on the way back, was jolted awake by the bump. Hearing their exchange, he asked curiously, "Mr. Mason, Master Karen, are you two talking about such heavy topics?"
"What about you, Ron? What are your plans for your funeral?" Mason held the steering wheel with one hand while flicking his lighter to ignite a cigarette with the other, asking casually.
"Heh, I'm definitely going to plan things so I spend my last lubi right before I die."
"What about your family?" Karen asked.
"Tomorrow after work, I'm asking out that caregiver from the nursing home. If she doesn't end up with me, I probably won't have any family, let alone kids."
"Then what about your final arrangements?"
"Final arrangements?" Ron patted his round belly. "That's simple. I heard Rojia Medical School accepts body donations from the public. They even respectfully call the donated bodies... what kind of teacher was it again?"
Karen said, "Silent mentors."
"Right, right, right! Master Karen really knows everything. Heh heh, when my time comes, I'll sign an agreement donating myself to be a silent mentor."
Mason tapped his ash and chuckled. "Never pegged you for that, Ron. You just shot up in my estimation."
"Well, uh..." Ron scratched his head. "I was never good at school growing up. Book smarts just wouldn't stick, so I dropped out early to find work. But I know that anyone who gets into Rojia Medical School is top of the class. I just think that when a thickheaded slacker like me is lying there, and all those brilliant top students are standing beside me, bowing and calling me their teacher—man, what a thrill that would be!"
"Hahahaha!" Mason burst out laughing.
Karen couldn't help smiling either, though he chimed in with a warning, "Then you'd better lose weight, Ron."
"Lose weight?" Ron blinked in surprise. "Being a silent mentor has fitness requirements?"
"Not officially. But do you know what happens when they cut open your belly? Your fat will be piled up in layers. Then those students will probably be holding back their nausea, cutting and flipping through mounds of blubber while cursing under their breath: Oh God, why does my silent mentor have to be a fat bastard?"
Ron immediately snapped his back straight. "Is it really that awful?!"
With that, Ron sank into deep, troubled contemplation over his postmortem fate.
Mason asked curiously, "Karen, how did you know that?"
"Aunt Mary told me. As you know, she sometimes has to work on bodies in terrible condition, so she can't help venting at the dinner table."
Mason nodded in full agreement. "Yeah, her temper's been getting worse and worse."
With a sigh, Mason flicked his ash once more and muttered, "It's all my fault."
***
By the time they returned home, it was already nine in the evening. After placing the ash jars in the basement, their work for the day was finally done.
Dinner had been set aside as a late supper: mashed potatoes, bacon, and vegetable salad.
Karen washed his hands and came over. Honestly speaking, he was slightly disappointed by what was on the table, especially tonight; having gone out and returned late, he was hungrier than usual and had looked forward to something rich and delicious.
Still...
Next time, he would just cook it himself.
"Darling, I opened a tin of canned herring for you."
Hearing "canned herring," Uncle Mason immediately threw his arms open with a wide smile and shared several kisses with Aunt Mary right in front of Karen.
"What a blissful dinner. I love it, and I love you for preparing it for me, darling."
The day before yesterday, Uncle Mason had sat in the hearse and told Aunt Mary that her homemade meat pies were one of only two culinary loves in his life; the other delicacy—the one he ate in the bathroom—referred to canned herring.
Karen blinked. He suddenly had a terrible premonition.
Pop!
There had been gas pressurized inside the tin, producing a muffled pop as it opened.
Immediately afterward, a stench like rotting meat billowed out.
Karen's stomach spasmed violently, the reflex surging straight to his throat, though he managed to force it down.
Faced with this smell, stinky tofu was practically a fragrant little angel with built-in air freshener!
Uncle Mason speared a piece with his fork, popped it into his mouth, and chewed with an expression of pure bliss.
Then, without even asking Karen, he speared another piece and dropped it straight onto the mashed potatoes in front of him.
"Eat up, Karen! In this house, you and I have always been the most loyal fans of canned herring—no, its disciples!"
Holding his breath, Karen looked at Mason. Mason speared another chunk and called out, "Come on, let's toast to our faith!"
With that, he popped another forkful into his mouth and chewed with sheer ecstasy.
Karen looked troubled.
Yet who was he to argue when the previous Karen had actually loved this stuff?
Besides, as someone who had loved stinky tofu in his past life, Karen vaguely assumed that this might be similar—smelling foul, but tasting delicious?
Plucking up his courage, Karen speared it and put it into his mouth.
Instantly—
Whoa—!
Karen's eyes flew wide.
Unable even to swallow, he grabbed a napkin, spat every bit of it out, shoved away from the table, and bolted straight for the washroom to heave.
At the table, Mason, still seated, and Mary, standing by, looked on in mild bewilderment.
"What's wrong with him?" Aunt Mary asked, puzzled.
Uncle Mason ventured a guess. "The hearse was drafty on the way back and it was raining. Maybe he caught a cold?"
"Then I'll go fetch some medicine for him."
***
After vomiting, Karen panted helplessly.
Turning his head, he noticed Purr standing by the bathroom door. The cat was staring right at him, and from the curve of its mouth, Karen had a distinct feeling it was laughing at him.
"Are you mocking me?"
Purr's expression didn't change, though its tail flicked.
Just then, Aunt Mary's voice drifted in from outside. "Karen, did you catch a chill? I brought you some medicine."
"Alright, Aunt Mary. I'll take it when I come out."
"What about your supper...?"
No. That cursed supper. Karen had no desire to return to that dining table. In fact, right now he didn't even want to stay on the second floor!
The entire second floor had to be reeking of canned herring by now.
"Lunt has plenty of snacks. I'll just grab a bite from him. My stomach feels a bit upset, so I shouldn't eat too much anyway."
"Well... alright. Take care of yourself. If you still feel sick tomorrow morning, I'll take you to the clinic."
"Thank you, Aunt Mary."
Aunt Mary turned and walked away.
Faintly, Karen could hear her scolding his cousin Lunt: "Lunt! So many of your teeth are already rotted, and you still dare hoard snacks? If you don't care about your teeth, I might as well tear your mouth apart right now!"
Inside the bathroom, Karen felt a pang of sympathy for his little cousin, his heart swelling with guilt—after which he enjoyed a thoroughly comfortable bath.
Once clean, Karen toweled his hair dry as he walked back to their bedroom.
On the desk sat milk, bread, a glass of water, and pills.
Lunt was sitting on the floor, sorting through a box that had previously been stowed under his box-spring bed. Hearing Karen enter, he looked back, gazing up with an aggrieved pout.
"Bro, Mom confiscated all the candy and chocolate I hid."
There was no resentment in the boy's face, nor any blame toward Karen—only a dejected resignation. "If I'd known, I wouldn't have been so stingy, eating only one piece a night. I should've just stuffed my face."
Karen chuckled. He pulled out a thousand lubi from his pocket, paused, thought that handing so much money to a kid wasn't wise, and finally drew out three bills, offering them to Lunt.
"Take this to buy sweets. When it's gone, ask me for more."
Lunt didn't reach out to take it. Shaking his head, he said, "I can't spend your money, Bro."
"Isn't it only natural for a younger brother to spend his older brother's money?"
"No. Mom said we have to look after you, because you don't have..." Lunt caught himself and quickly changed course. "Actually, I have allowance too!"
Counting Karen, there were four children in the household.
Technically, all four received the same monthly allowance, funded through the common family pool. But because his cousins had living parents, their allowances were held for safekeeping by their mothers—Aunt Mary and Aunt Winnie—leaving very little in the children's own hands.
Karen, on the other hand, had neither mother nor father. The elders were too embarrassed to hold his money for 'safekeeping,' so his allowance was always disbursed in full every month. That was how Karen had managed to save up six thousand lubi.
"Just brush your teeth thoroughly every day and don't go overboard with the sweets. It'll be fine."
Karen set the three hundred lubi on Lunt's bed anyway. As he did, he noticed quite a few books and notebooks lying on the mattress—likely unearthed by Aunt Mary during her search, as they had previously been stored under the bed.
Among them was a notebook. Its cover bore a white rose, though someone had deliberately traced over it in red pen to turn it red.
Karen opened it casually.
On the first page was a drawing of three people—two adults and a child. Though the art was very abstract, one could clearly tell that the father was on the left, the mother on the right, and the child in the center.
The child in the middle was evidently a boy, lacking the long hair drawn to indicate female traits like the mother on the right.
"You draw well," Karen remarked to Lunt.
"Bro, that's not my notebook."
"Not yours?"
In this room, if it wasn't Lunt's, it could only belong to... Karen.
Karen searched his thoughts, but couldn't recall anything about this notebook.
Still, that was normal. Judging by the quality of the paper, it had some years on it. While he had inherited the previous Karen's memories, he naturally couldn't remember things that Karen himself had already forgotten.
"Lunt! Time to brush your teeth and get ready for bed!"
Aunt Mary's shout echoed from the stairway.
Fortunately, the Inmeles family lived in a detached villa; had they lived in an apartment, Aunt Mary's booming voice would have guaranteed noise complaints from neighbors.
"Coming, Mom!"
Lunt scurried out of the room.
Karen sat down on Lunt's box-spring bed and continued flipping through the notebook.
The drawing on the second page was no different from the first: still a married couple flanking a child.
The third page was identical.
Karen was beginning to lose interest, but when he turned to the fourth page, his brows drew together slightly.
The drawing on the fourth page had been blackened out entirely, leaving only a single circular void in the center.
Analyzing it from a professional perspective regarding children's artwork, this drawing signified that the child who created it suffered from a profound lack of security.
Black was, after all, a color of self-preservation.
The composition conveyed a feeling akin to being terrified of the dark as a child, wrapping oneself tightly in blankets yet leaving a tiny gap to peek out—or to breathe fresh air.
Of course, what this drawing conveyed was far more severe than that.
Karen kept turning the pages. The next several sheets showed similar compositions, differing only in the position of the blank circle: sometimes near the bottom, sometimes at the top, or shifted slightly left or right.
When he turned another page, Karen's hand froze.
In this drawing, a man and a woman were drawn horizontally. Going by the earlier artistic style, they were supposed to be "Father" and "Mother."
Drawn horizontally, they were meant to be lying down.
For another figure in the drawing was drawn vertically—standing upright.
From the bellies of the "lying" father and mother, clusters of black scribbles extended outward, and pools of black ink had been smeared across the paper beside both bodies.
Karen couldn't help swallowing hard.
Were those wounds... and pools of blood spilling onto the floor?
As for the standing figure, it was an adult who hadn't appeared in any of the previous drawings, and in his hand, he gripped an object.
Karen brought the notebook close to his eyes, scrutinizing the item. The artwork of children often had to be inferred and guessed.
"Is he holding a sword? Though... isn't that sword far too short?"
Suddenly, an image flashed into Karen's mind—from the ride back from the hospital that day, when he had helped clean the charred skin on his grandfather's arm. He had seen it lying inside the black case...
That sword hilt!
"Diss!"
"Mm."
Chapter 10