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No one was prepared for the turnout for Vic Volente’s funeral.  We’ll, no one perhaps other than Franklin Danbury Jr., being privy to more information on Vic than anyone else in Fort Stockton.   Danbury had a sneaking suspicion that the crowd might be larger than Pastor Peterson at Almost United Methodist might be prepared for.

Behind the scenes Danbury had made arrangements to have chairs arranged, a large screen set up, and a video feed installed at the National Guard Armory for an overflow crowd, should additional seating be required.  Only he, Colonel Cleburne, and the funeral director were aware of the additional steps taken.

Pastor Peterson, with the additional time he’d been granted to prepare, did as much research as he could on Vic in order to give him an appropriate send off.  The more he learned, the more he anticipated a full house for the service.  An hour before the service was even scheduled to begin, every pew was full.  The pastor started to panic.

“No worries,” Danbury told him.  “Have an usher go to the entrance to the parking lot and instruct people to drive to the armory.  There is plenty of seating set up and they will be able to view the entire service via closed circuit television.  There will be a couple gentlemen from the funeral home there to help direct parking and seat people.”  

Pastor Peterson was too flustered to ask any questions.   Besides, the hearse from Bridges Funeral Parlor was pulling up with Vic in the back end.  Behind the hearse was a 2005 Cadillac DeVille Professional Limousine with a number of Fort Stockton denizens, most of them women.

Rusty Hammer noted that the six-door body was modified with a third set of doors by the Federal Coach Company of West Chester Township, Ohio, and was finished in black. Details included a hood ornament, a bright grille, aftermarket headlights, fender-mounted flag holders, Federal Coach Company fender badges, a receiver hitch, and polished quad exhaust outlets. He noted a blemish on the door, and there was a repaired tear in the vinyl roof.

“All in all,” Rusty whispered to Rex Hall as they walked past it to serve as pallbearers for Vic’s casket, “not bad for a car that’s pushing 20 years old.”  Rex hadn’t noted the details of the Cadillac itself.  He’d been more focused on the passengers piling out of it.  As the last of the female passengers exited the cabin of the stretched De Ville, Rex glanced in and noticed the rear of the cabin featured two rows of bench seats as well as second-row climate controls, overhead lights, cupholders, and vents for the third-row passengers.  

He agreed with Rusty, “Still in pretty good condition, but I suppose it should be, only being used for occasions such as this.  It’s not like anyone’s hot-rodding the damn thing up and down Highway 10 trying to beat Camaros in a drag race.”  The funeral director loudly cleared his throat, signaling the two auto critics to take their places as Vic was slid out of the hearse.

Of course the casket remained closed throughout the service.  “There isn’t enough body bondo and makeup available in all of Southwest Texas to be able to show what’s left of ol’ Vic to the crowd,” Trixie from the Klip-N-Dye said to Rusty’s wife next to her in the pew.  “They think he might have been in that cabin a week or two before. Chief Martin made the discovery.”

The packed church stood in unison as the pallbearers carried Vic to the front and parallel parked him in front of the altar like his old GMC pickup in front of the feed store.  Chief Martin, in his full dress blue uniform complete with badges, service revolver, and white gloves looked around and noticed all the mourners who’d shown up to pay their respects.  Bobbie Jo began playing Nearer My God to Thee on the organ as folks sat back down.  Some could hear the old oak pews groan with the added weight they hadn’t experienced in years.

When Bobbie Jo finished the fourth chorus of the hymn, Pastor Peterson stood and began his remarks.  Chief Martin watched the assembled crowd as Pastor eulogized Vic.  He shared acts of kindness and generosity Vic had displayed throughout his life that people never knew of.  Families who were fed at the holidays because Vic had made arrangements with Chad at the Piggly Wiggly to have groceries delivered to them.  Medical bills that were paid because Vic had dropped off a check to Angelina Newton and had her take it to work at the Fort Stockton Memorial Hospital and Animal Testing Facility.

Vic had paid for counseling and rehabilitation services for young kids who’d suffered trauma of all sorts.  New uniforms were provided anonymously for the football team at Our Lady of Immeasurable Concern when Vic discovered the funds didn’t exist.  New playground equipment was purchased for Alamo Elementary School through an anonymous contribution Vic had made, thwarting the efforts of Mayor Goodman steering the contract to a shell equipment company owned by a cousin in Crane.

There wasn’t a dry eye in the chapel when Pastor Peterson finished his talk.  Even Rusty Hammer was reaching for the wadded up handkerchief in his back pocket.  It was then that Chief Martin realized that Mayor Goodman’s wives were in attendance.  All three of them, the current and two former ones.  He couldn’t remember them all being seen in the same place at once ever before.

The mayor himself had elected not to make an appearance.

At the conclusion of Great is Thy Faithfulness the crowd lined up to file past the simple pine coffin and pay their final respects to Vic.  Once each had circled the coffin they made their way back down the aisles and out the front door, shaking Pastor Peterson’s hand as they made their way to the parking lot.  Several mentioned what a moving service it had been.  Even Trixie, not usually prone to bouts of reverence or self reflection said, “I had no idea just who Vic was.  It puts him in a whole new light.”  Chief Martin, standing behind her on the red brick porch of Almost United Methodist Church couldn’t have agreed more.

The long black Cadillac DeVille from Bridges Funeral Parlor was one of the first cars out of the parking lot, beating the steady stream of cars coming from the armory down the street.  Only the funeral director and the six pallbearers remained inside.  They took their positions and carried Vic out to the hearse for his final ride back to the funeral parlor where he would be cremated the next morning.

Chief Martin drove the Galaxie cruiser back to the station at city hall.  Somehow Nelda had beat him back to the office and was still visibly shaken at her desk.  Neither spoke as he retreated into his office and closed the door silently behind him.

Pulling out Vic’s old, leather bound journal from the bottom left drawer of his desk where it had been since he brought it back from Vic’s house, he sat back in his chair.  He’d already read it cover to cover before he locked it away in the drawer.

Leafing through it one last time, the chief put his size 11 EEE Justin boots up on his desk, pondering random pages.  Vic had meticulous handwriting, especially for an old cowboy.  It was the kind of cursive they used to teach students back in the day when letters were written and all important documents were written rather than typed.

The journal contained a list.  A list of every woman Vic had ever had carnal knowledge of.  Dates and locations were noted.  Perhaps more interesting were the finer details of each encounter, spelled out in painstakingly graphic description.  Sometimes clinically, sometimes as though written by a romance novelist, facts were laid as bare as the 97 women named in the journal.

There were a few names the chief didn’t recognize.  Perhaps they were from out of town, because he certainly recognized all the others.  Of course it was no surprise that Trixie was included in the list.  Shannon Hudspeth was noted, along with some details that were somewhat flattering.  It was probably when she was younger and more limber.  Chief Martin doubted she would be capable of such moves anymore, despite her undiminished willingness.

All three of the mayor’s wives were listed.  “That explains their attendance at the funeral,” Chief Martin chuckled to himself.  “And maybe why hizzhonor failed to appear.”

Looking for Lucinda’s name he was relieved to not find it on any page included in the extensive list, though he thought he would have enjoyed reading those details.  If anyone’s name shocked him, it was Nelda’s.  But her reviews were stellar.  He also understood why she took such long lunches, but still came back to work hungry.

Pulling the bottle of whiskey out of the drawer from behind where the journal had been, he poured two fingers worth and said a silent toast to Vic.  For a man who led such an incredibly simple life, the guy was as complex as anyone the chief had ever known.  He put both the bottle and the journal back in the bottom drawer and locked it.

The next morning he got to the office early, then headed over to Bridges Funeral Parlor.  He went to the side door, the one not normally used by the general public.  The one the horizontal customers were usually brought in through.  He wound his way through a maze of hallways, past closed doors, all the way to the room at the back where the crematorium was.

The attendant was surprised when the chief walked in.  It was unusual to have anyone enter.

“I need you to open the box for me, Son,” he said.

Assuming the request from a law enforcement official, particularly the highest ranking one in town, was legitimate and unquestionable, the employee did as he was asked.

Inside the pine box, Vic was enclosed in a cloth bag.  Chief Martin was glad he didn’t have to see him again.  He tucked the journal in next to Vic, and then stood back.  The attendant closed the lid.  He thought the chief would turn around and leave, but it quickly became obvious that Chief Martin intended to stay till the process had begun.

With the chief off to the side, Vic was rolled over on a cart to the door of the crematorium. The door slowly raised, the heat from inside taking the chief by surprise.  Vic and his coffin and his journal were all slid in rapidly and the door lowered behind them.

Wood burns quickly at 1800 degrees.  Paper even quicker.   Vic took longer, but his legacy remained intact.

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