We spent the next several minutes introducing ourselves to our hostess and locating our hometowns on the map. “So many of you from the same state,” Madeleine commented as she highlighted Windsor City with a pink marker. “How nice that you enjoy traveling together.”
“That’s a matter of opinion,” snorted Bernice.
“Is the name ‘Osmond’ a common one in Iowa?” Her voice grew animated as she questioned Osmond. “We have several in our family. Did you know it can be traced back to the time of the Norman Conquest? Although back then it was spelled A-S-M-U-N-D-R. The invading Norsemen had more of an influence on our language than we often realize.”
“I vishited Iowa once.” Irv knocked back his second apple brandy, sucking in his breath at the aftertaste. “And once was enough. Woo! This shtuff’s good.”
“Honestly.” The lady with the stiff hair drilled him with a look that oozed disgust. “Is it too much to ask you to conduct yourself with a little more dignity?” She’d introduced herself as Virginia Martin from Houston—a well-preserved socialite type with rhinestone reading glasses hanging from a rhinestone chain around her neck and stunning rings gracing every finger of her unblemished hands. And surprise, surprise, she was married to Victor Martin, who just happened to be Jackie’s boss and the founder of Mona Michelle cosmetics. “Do something, Victor,” she insisted. “He’s making a mockery of this lovely woman’s hospitality.”
“What would you have me do, my pet?” Victor Martin, financial mogul and cosmetic magnate, was an exceedingly old man. He still boasted a full head of hair, but that’s where Father Time’s generosity had ended. His skin was loose and wrinkled and ravaged with liver spots. His posture was stooped, his shoulders rounded. His gait was so unsteady, he couldn’t take a step without clutching his cane in one hand and his wife’s arm with the other. On his back he wore a portable oxygen pack that allowed a continuous flow of air to be pumped into his nostrils. I admired his pluck, but I questioned the wisdom of his decision to lead a bevy of beautiful blondes through France when he looked as if he’d be more comfortable resting in a skilled nursing care facility.
“Hey, Irv, why don’t you try the cider?” suggested the man who occupied the seat next to Tilly. “Guaranteed to be easier on your liver.” He’d introduced himself as Cal Jolly from Minnesota, a self-effacing guy in his fifties who was traveling with his dad, Woodrow Jolly the Third, a spry octogenarian of Victor Martin’s generation, but without Victor’s cane, oxygen pack, wife, or hair.
“Maybe he doesn’t like cider,” Woody spoke up in a voice that was surprisingly strong and confident. He scratched an ear that had grown too big for his bald head and fixed his son with a frosty look. “Would you stop trying to save folks from themselves? You young people have gone way overboard with the health issues. He’s not gonna live forever, Cal. None of us are. So if the man wants to pickle his organs in a sea of booze, let him.”
Irv tipped his head. “Thank you for that, shir.”
“You’re very welcome. And speaking of living forever”—Woody’s eyes twinkled as he addressed his captive audience—“have any of you failed to take advantage of the pre-planning options offered by your local—”
“Dad!” Cal went red-faced. “Will you give it a rest? You’re on holiday. We’re all on holiday.”
“Misfortune can strike at any moment,” Woody fired back. “Even on holiday. Which is why it makes so much sense to make those important end-of-life decisions before the need arises.” He probed our faces like a kindly grandfather, lecturing us in a hushed, almost hypnotic voice. “Advanced funeral planning is a gift that eases the emotional trauma of a loved one’s passing by enabling the grief-stricken family to focus on the more personal aspects of the event. The staff at Jolly’s Funeral Home has treated families with the utmost dignity and respect since my great-grandfather embalmed his first corpse in 1869.”