Gabriel did not have to look to know Paul was there, would be there the whole time.  Mr. Bloom led them past the double-doors, and then the aesthetics of the place changed: down here was the other side of his business, the one he knew best.  No more cheap pictures, no more fake floral arrangements, and certainly no carpet.  Tile floors, white walls, and the distict mix of bleach and formaldehyde.<br/><br/>They were led to the morgue, printed in black letters on the glass panes of the doors, which Mr. Bloom held open for them to enter.  Once inside, one might have thought the smells to increase, but instead the room smelled like nothing-- or rather, it had at one time smelled a little like everything, and now it all blended together and faded into the background.  The stainless steel, the lights, the tools; all were taken care of much more than the public rooms, given the attention and care lacking outside.  Mr. Bloom took pride in his job, his real job.<br/><br/>"We have not begun our work, Mr. Isetti," he said humbly, moving to the wall of metal drawers.  Some had names slipped into the little slots on the front, like filing cabinet organizers.  "He may look a bit different..."<br/><br/>"I'm sure he will."  Gabriel had been gone for over 10 years; his father almost certainly looked different than what he remembered, regardless of the state he was in now.<br/><br/>Mr. Bloom accepted that as an understanding, and opened one of the drawers, carefully pulling the slab out until the upper half of the figure beneath the white sheet was in the room.  He looked between Gabriel and Paul only once, perhaps curious about how strange they seemed to him, then pulled back the sheet.<br/><br/>Joseph Isetti was a man in his 40s, though if he'd taken better care of himself he might not have looked older.  He had smoked, drank, and run himself into the ground well before his 30th birthday; in reality, he should have died years ago, but was too stubborn to keel over.  He had dark hair, now greying and lying limp against his head, and a broad body that was layered in fat-- too much booze, a bad diet, etc.  His eyes were shut, creased heavily at the corners and with deep pockets around them; when he was much younger, and alive, he might have been handsome.<br/><br/>Mr. Bloom had been right in his warning, though it was not because of some terrible accident or great trauma to the body... It was the subtler signs, the bits of greying skin, the blueness and waxy sheen in the light, the tight stretching around the lips and eyes.  All natural things, all barely offensive on their own, but added up they made a mocking example, a puppet of life.  His job was to smooth out these issues, to make the dead look a little less 'dead' but without promising anything.  He stood nearby, watching and waiting to give the bereaved a few minutes to grieve.<br/><br/>Gabriel did not move at first, just stood where he was and stared, but after a while he approached.  It was odd to look down at his father, he remembered him being so tall, or perhaps that was because Gabriel was always cringing, always trying to be small and unnoticed...  He took his time, green eyes trailing over every surface, taking in every detail; he even leaned in closer, just to really be sure he was seeing it all.  This was the image he wanted to replace all the others-- no more bad dreams of childhood, no more frightening memories, just this.  A dead man.  Dead men were harmless.<br/><br/>"How did he die?"  Gabriel glanced up at Mr. Bloom, who reflexively smoothed the front of his perpetually dusty suit.<br/><br/>"Heart attack, very quick and painless, yes, but quite a shock to the congregation, I think they said--"<br/><br/>"What congregation?"  Gabriel tilted his head just a little, a look of confusion on his pale face.  Mr. Bloom backtracked, hemming in his throat.<br/><br/>"Ah, the congregation of St. John's, of course, very lovely people, I believe they said they wished to send flowers or express their sympathies at the funeral..."  He seemed waiting for Gabriel to interrupt, but he arrived at the end of his sentence.  Gabriel was quiet, then very quietly asked, with a very careful, specific tone, "He died in church...?"<br/><br/>"Yes, sir--"<br/><br/>This time Mr. Bloom was interrupted, but not by Gabriel's words.  This time it was a laugh: a bright, bubbling laugh that escaped before the young man could pin it back behind his teeth.  He covered his mouth with a hand, though that couldn't hide the stiff smile forming behind his palm-- imagine, such a man as Joseph Isetti, going to church and dying in a house of God.  Another laugh, much more distilled, and Gabriel had to remind himself he had to pretend to be distraught.<br/><br/>Mr. Bloom had not been expecting that, and he did not seem to know how to respond.  He'd seen people react to death in many different ways, but none quite like that... and he began to wonder if the rumors about Joe Isetti's son were true.  He made a small motion towards the body as he began to speak again, eyeing Gabriel uncertainly.<br/><br/>"Your father never wrote a will or left any kind of record of his wishes for interment, but we have a variety of options for all kinds of services, and we have some wonderful casket choices, you may even design one of your specifications... And I am happy to show the different options available."  Mr. Bloom's fast-paced cheerfulness was put to the test by this bizarre young man and his silent companion; he looked between them both with no small degree of discomfort, though he did his best to hide it.<br/><br/>Gabriel could not have cared less about Mr. Bloom's feelings, too busy once again staring at his father's corpse.  It still looked like him, but a shadow of him, hollowed out and ready to shrink.  If he touched it, he wondered, would it crumble beneath his fingers...?  He tested his curiosity, running a hand along the dead man's cheek.  Stubble scratched at his palm, and Gabriel had to fight the sudden, intense desire to slap the body.<br/><br/>The room became silent, Mr. Bloom having finally stopped talking.  There was nothing more to say, just to let Gabriel have a few moments and then go back to the front office to finish up documentation.  Gabriel let his thumb stroke over the cold, weathered skin under his father's eye, thought about what would've happened by now if he'd done this while the other was alive-- a bruised wrist, a heavy slap, a broken finger-- and then pulled himself away.  Time to go.<br/><br/>Mr. Bloom noticed a shift, and started in his professional dialogue again.  "Do you have any requests for burial, Mr. Isetti?  Perhaps an ebony, or natural wood...?"<br/><br/>"Burn it."  Gabriel casually wiped his hand on the sheet, then draped it back over the body.  Mr. Bloom blinked rapidly, before recovering himself.  "Ah, cremation is a sensible choice, and we have a wide range of urns to choose from, you should have no trouble finding something you like..."<br/><br/>"Just burn it.  I'm not paying for a funeral."