Good-bye, Son and Other Stories. Janet Lewis

      HE STOOD looking down at the casket with its blue velvet casing, its inner lining of puffed white satin, and its rows of silver handles.

      “Haven’t you anything more–ah–more dignified? A little plainer and more dignified?” he said.

      His coat was unbuttoned, showing the vest and the gold watch chain with its dangling seals and trophies. His hands were in his trousers pockets, and his straw hat was shoved far back on his head. He glanced at the mortician with an oddly worried, humorous look; and the mortician, a young man with a red, freckled face, wearing a brown-and-white checked suit of an unbecoming shade, led him to the other side of the room and indicated a simpler casket finished in gray velvet.

      “This is real dignified,” said the mortician. “Its quite a bit cheaper, too; as a matter of fact, seventy-five bucks less. We sell a good many of this model,” he added.

      “Can’t say it appeals to me awfully,” said the customer.

      “Well, now, you don’t expect any of ’em to do that exactly, do you?” said the mortician with a macabre grin.

      “Don’t get funny,” said the customer.

      “Well, now, Johnnie,” said the mortician, “I’ll show you everything we’ve got, but I bet you take the gray one in the end.”

      They continued their tour of the big room, Johnnie whistling softly, as the mortician, tapping with his pencil, explained the virtues and values of his various models. Johnnie’s eyes retained their expression of semihumorous concern, but by and by he stopped whistling and said with resignation, “You win. Gimme the gray one and I’ll write you a check for it.”

      They went into the next room, which was the reception room, their feet making no sound on the heavily carpeted floor. Johnnie sat down in an upholstered mahogany chair and began to write out a check, holding the book on his knee.

      A diluted sunshine fell through the tan silk curtains. A fern in a wicker flower stand in the corner of the room was growing quietly, exhaling the freshness of its slight breath upon the air; and on the walls were small pictures in narrow gold frames, depicting spring woods at evening, heathery hills, a thatched cottage, sheep coming home along a country road, the colors and the compositions all properly subdued and quiet. The mortician took the check which Johnnie held out to him and waved it slowly up and down to dry it.

      “Thanks,” he said. “I’ll hold it for you. But say, what’s struck you, pickin’ it out so young? You look as if you’d last forever. You’re not contemplating self-destruction by any chance?”

      “I should say not,” said Johnnie. He leaned back in the chair and crossed his legs, his right ankle resting on his left knee. “I was around to see my doctor, just for a general look-over before I get settled at the island for the winter. And he says to me, ‘Johnnie, my boy, how often do I have to tell you that you’d better get your affairs fixed up while there’s time? You may last twenty years,’ he says, or you may pop off tonight. Go and get your affairs straightened out, and then amuse yourself in peace.’ ”

      “Heart?” interpolated the mortician.

      “Yeah. So I overhauled my will and what not, and then, seein’ as there’s nobody else to do this little job for me, I thought I’d better do it myself. Selah. I never felt spryer.”

      He got up and, buttoning his coat, made for the door. The mortician opened it for him.

      “So long, Johnnie,” he said innocently. “See you again.”