Chapter 10
Ezekiel
The church overflowed with mourners. Politicians. Lawyers. Business owners. Judges. People who spent their entire lives pretending they were better than everybody else. Today they all sat in polished pews and wearing all black, speaking softly and acting holy.
Judge Samson Whitmore rested at the front of Saint Mercy Baptist Church beneath a canopy of white magnolias.
How he looked lying in his casket gave peace in an eternal way, but the irony wasn't lost on me because there wasn't a damn thing peaceful about the way that man died.
I knew cause I was the one who prepared him.
The casket that his body was laid in, now that was a peaceful sight.
All caskets that were offered at our funeral home were meticulously designed by me I just wasn’t the one that made them.
We had a casket making factory that my mother managed and she did an amazing job making sure that my designs were brought to life.
Judge Samson’s casket was one of one. It was breathtaking in a way that most people would find unsettling except for me.
It was exquisitely put together which made it perfect to associate with death.
The interior was a luminous champagne-pearl color and the outside of the casket shifted between soft ivory and pale gold and when the sunlight shined through the window and hit it, it gave it an iridescent hue almost like it was carved from polished mother-of-pearl instead of metal.
The sides of the casket had silver-toned swing bars that were held in place by intricately detailed supports. Each support was embellished with tiny ornaments that were an exact replica of the magnolia emblem… our towns branding mark.
On each corner were column-like pillars that were finished in the same silver tone as the swing bars that mimicked miniature Corinthian columns that supported ancient monuments. And the interior cushioning created the impression of a soft cloud rather than a final resting place.
The casket didn’t give a sense of coldness, instead it radiated tenderness…
it was stunning and perfect. It didn’t look like a funeral vessel but more like an elegant bedroom prepared for eternal sleep.
It was a combination of grief and beauty that existed side by side in the most heartbreaking harmony.
The scent of lilies, candle wax and sage hung heavily throughout the sanctuary.
As I stood near the casket, I watched people move through the receiving line. Most couldn't meet my eyes for more than a second. They never could. The town called me The Undertaker, and it wasn’t because I buried the dead. It was because everybody knew I saw things.
Things that families hoped and prayed stayed hidden. Things that doctors missed and things that ministers ignored. I knew the things the dead carried with them into eternity. And unlike most people in Magnolia Graves... I remembered.
The service dragged on for nearly two hours.
Stories. Prayers. Songs. More stories. Then finally, Judge Whitmore's widow approached the pulpit.
She was a fragile woman with silver hair and swollen red eyes.
The sanctuary grew silent as she unfolded a sheet of paper then looked out at the congregation and smiled sadly.
"My Samson always kept records."
Her opening statement caught my attention immediately. I straightened slightly and his widow laughed through her tears.
"Lord knows my husband trusted paperwork more than he trusted people."
A few mourners chuckled as she shook her head.
"Our children used to joke that if the world ended, Samson would probably leave behind three filing cabinets explaining exactly how it happened. The keys to the file cabinet tucked somewhere away that only he knew of the whereabouts."
More laughter. But my attention was stuck on the words records, key and the hidden pocket that was tucked in his robe and the engraving on the key.
W.
Box 24.
Something cold settled in my chest and Judge Samson’s widow continued speaking yet I barely heard the rest of her speech.
Because now, the key wasn't just a key anymore. It was a breadcrumb, a clue that she dropped that no one else would’ve caught but me.
I felt like she was letting it be known that somebody had gone to great lengths to make sure his hidden key had disappeared with the judge and not just something that was an oversight.
The final hymn faded into silence. One by one the mourners filtered out of Saint Mercy and Judge Samson’s widow was escorted toward the fellowship hall.
The politicians, lawyers and the people who spent their lives pretending they were indispensable followed.
Soon only a handful of funeral staff remained and me.
I adjusted the cuff on my black jacket and turned toward the casket.
Something caught my attention immediately.
From my peripheral I could see it was a figure standing at the front of the sanctuary alone and motionless.
When I turned toward the figure, I saw that it was my uncle, Reverend Bishop Dubois.
The afternoon sunlight poured through the stained-glass windows and painted fragments of color across his dark suit.
At sixty-two years old, Bishop Dubois still carried himself like a man twenty years younger.
He was tall, distinguished and perfectly groomed.
Bishop Dubois was the kind of man people instinctively trusted, the kind of man entire towns built monuments around.
Most people looked at Bishop Dubois and saw a true man of God, but I looked at him and saw a question nobody could answer. For several moments neither of us spoke as his eyes stayed fixated on the casket. He wasn’t praying or grieving, just watching.
Finally, without looking at me he said, "You did great work."
His voice echoed softly through the empty sanctuary. I looked down at the Judge then back at Bishop. "I always do."
A faint smile touched his mouth. "My father used to say the same thing."
The mention of my grandfather Elijah immediately tightened something inside my chest. Bishop finally turned toward me his dark eyes studied me carefully. Measuring. Weighing. Calculating. The same way they always did.
"It’s a shame."
I folded my arms. "What is?"
His gaze drifted back toward the casket. "When good men die before their time."
The words settled heavily between us because we both knew Samson Whitmore was nearly eighty years old, he was nowhere near before his time. A strange silence followed then Bishop stepped closer but not enough to invade my space, just enough to make his presence impossible to ignore.
"You seem bothered…troubled."
I almost laughed. “Do I?"
"You do."
He looked back at the casket as I followed his eyes to the Judge’s robe on the exact place where I'd found the key. His gaze lasted less than a second, it was so fast that most people would've missed it, but I didn't.
Something cold slid down my spine as Bishop smiled warmly. It was the same smile the congregation loved, the same that politicians trusted and the same smile I knew to understand held a secret bold enough to tear the same town that respected and trusted his smile all the way down.
"Take care of yourself, Ezekiel."
"I always do."
His smile widened as he turned and walked away.
The sound of his polished shoes echoed through the sanctuary until he disappeared through the side doors.
I stood there long after he left progressing what I had revealed.
I thought about the way his eyes told me everything I needed to know and immediately my mind drifted to what my grandfather used to tell me.
Most dangerous people were never the loud ones.
As my grandfather’s words replayed over and over outside, thunder rolled in the distance and for the first time since finding the key, I figured out exactly who else knew it existed and I was surprised.
Hours later the cemetery stood quiet as most of the mourners had already left.
Judge Samson’s casket was now resting six feet beneath the Georgia red dirt.
The unofficial story was now buried with him and his casket…
for now. I remained at the cemetery as I always did after services just waiting, listening and watching because funerals didn't end when people went home, at least not for me.
Once the grounds were empty, I walked alone through the cemetery headed toward the back end of it, toward my grandfather’s grave the bleeding magnolia growing beside it the landmark that always guided me directly to it.
As I got closer, I could see the crimson blooms shifting softly in the afternoon breeze like wounds refusing to heal.
This time, instead of sitting on the bench next to the gravesite, I crouched beside his headstone.
Today, instead of going back to my office to cap my day off, I removed my worn journal from inside my suit jacket and opened it carefully as the leather on the spine creaked.
Generations of names staring back at me back at me, I flipped to a blank page then wrote:
Judge Samson Whitmore: Official Cause: Cardiac Arrest Observed: Defensive trauma. Injection site left side jugular. Truth withheld.
Before closing the journal, I stared at my entry for a couple of minutes before closing it and tucking it back into my suit jacket. Another secret was preserved and another truth was buried. Once again, the Undertaker's job was never to expose secrets, it was only to remember them.
Before heading out to the marsh, I detoured and found myself downtown.
I was hungry, tired, and the key that rested in my pockets felt heavy.
I decided to go to the old Magnolia Graves institution that was now a diner that sat across from the courthouse in the center of town.
I parked across the street in the lot then headed inside.
As soon as I stepped foot into the diner, I froze because there was Noa sitting at one of the front booths and to my surprise, she wasn’t alone.