Alicia, my sister-in-law’s adopted daughter, faithfully phoned me up today, mid-afternoon, with the results of her research. First, there is plenty of room in the family plot for my dear departed husband. Certainly enough for his funerary urn. (I’m expecting there will be enough room for me when I go in 20 years—but all in good time.) Second, it’s prohibitively expensive to ship a corpse from New York to Boston. $10,000 was the quoted rate. That no doubt means a private hearse driver, city-to-city, to the crematorium or funeral home. So it would be cheaper to cremate in town, and then ship or take the ashes up to a family member near Mount Auburn. Thus I must find a local crematorium, or funeral home with crematorium connections, to do the job.
I get back to bed, anxious and sleep-deprived still, and thumb through the Yale Alumni Magazine and the NYAC’s Winged Foot house organ. No funeral directors in the YAM, but there is one in the NYAC periodical, and what do you know? It’s the president of Frank E. Campbell’s. No doubt he is familiar with the name of my illustrious spouse. I shall plead poverty and incapacity, and ask for his help in getting the body cremated. An NYAC discount, perhaps? I’m hoping to keep that under $1000. $795 seems the rock-bottom floor for this sort of thing.
Put that on my agenda for tomorrow, after I’ve sent in the Bowden review to Greg.
Slept a few hours in the evening, under the influence of vodka but no Trazodone. Just ate some microwaved potatoes. Gearing up to finish the Bowden piece.
I remembered I had all those puppets, and put two of them on pillows, on Michael’s side of the bed. I shall never be lonely again. You’d be surprised how normal it all seems now.
