| Mortician mysteries with moxie |
EXCERPT
A Tricky Undertaking
CHAPTER ONE
For the record, I didn’t mean to grab his penis.
One minute I was standing there, apron coated in cheap cosmetics, fingers deftly fixing a baseball stitch above the clavicle while James Blunt crooned through the stereo system that I was — contrary to popular opinion — beautiful.
The next minute I’d high-stepped into a puddle of brown slime lurking in the cabbage rose pattern of the 1972 vinyl flooring. Before James could bellow any further words of tender admiration, my feet were scrambling beneath me like Scooby Doo’s paws in a cartoon blur. My right leg went forward, my left leg went backward, and my crotch began a hopeless plummet toward the sticky vinyl. I let out a pitiful yelp and grabbed for the closest handle.
Such as it was.
“Willie!” a voice shrieked from the doorway.
To someone unacquainted with me, it might seem my apprentice was commenting on my chosen handhold. Actually, she was shouting my name. Born Wilma Clarice Rising, I’ve been known as “Willie” since childhood — for reasons devoid of any connection to the object in my grasp.
“Ohmygod!” I panted in reply as I felt the inseam split on my brand new Banana Republic khakis — $9.99 at the Value Village thrift store, thank you very much — as my unmentionables touched down on the floor. Fortunately, I had the foresight to pull my left leg forward, narrowly avoiding an impromptu performance of a scene from Olympic Sports Bloopers.
Unfortunately for the owner of the penis in question, I did not have the foresight to let go. Down came Gerald Bortsman, all 172 pounds of him, squashing me against the vinyl like a weevil beneath a sack of moist flour. I heard the sticky smack of footsteps as my apprentice hustled to my side in her flowy black skirt.
“Willie, what are you doing?” Paulette cried, crouching down next to me in a pose that revealed the answer to an unasked question concerning her preference in undergarments (green thong, in case you’re wondering).
“Would you please get this body off me?” I grunted as I strained to shove Mr. Bortsman’s bulk off my shoulders. His right hand slid over my face, tickling my nose with fingertips that felt like shriveled sausages. I released my hold on his penis to swat the clammy hand aside.
Paulette’s skin went pale behind the smear of pink arterial conditioner across her left cheek. Her dark hair was pulled so snugly in a prim chignon that I could see every bone in her face.
“Willie! One of the first things you taught me is that we never refer to the deceased as, ‘the body,’” Paulette whispered in a tone a parent might use with a child caught screaming fuck in the library. “It’s disrespectful.”
I took a deep breath and tried to remember why I’d allowed Paulette to do her apprenticeship under me. I knew the reason had something to do with a lack of opportunity for women in the field, but the details were hazy to me at the moment.
“Right now, I’m pretty sure Mr. Bortsman isn’t offended by my lack of respect.” I wriggled myself free from an arm that reeked of formaldehyde. “Now help me get him back on the table.”
For once, Paulette was at a loss for words as we struggled to heft Mr. Bortsman’s considerable bulk back onto the stainless steel slab. We accomplished the task with minimal cursing, and I was feeling downright proud of myself as I rearranged an eye cap that had come loose. It wouldn’t do to have Mr. Bortsman winking at his widow from the blue satin nest of his casket.
“What did you want, Paulette?” I asked when we finally had Mr. Bortsman settled.
Paulette looked at me blankly for a moment. She drew her hand up to her mouth in the same gesture she’d used once when she belched during an embalming. Wordless, Paulette looked over her shoulder at the door.
That’s when I saw the reporter standing there. Make that the hot reporter. Make that the hot reporter who was scrolling through photos on his digital camera, looking quite pleased with the selections glowing on the viewfinder before him. His smile couldn’t have been broader if his CompactFlash card held celebrity porn. I stifled another curse and peeled off my gloves.
“Brad Johnson, I presume?” I said, adopting a haughty tone as I straightened to my full height of 5’3” and strode confidently toward him. Remembering the split in my inseam, I took the striding down a notch and offered my hand.
Brad eyed my outstretched palm with a look of mild alarm. If we’d been on the playground, I imagine he would have accused me of having cooties. He probably wouldn’t have been too far off. Dropping my hand, I made do with dusting cosmetic powder off my sleeve.
“What brings you here, Mr. Johnson?” I asked, still not ready to abandon all hope of having the upper hand in this exchange. “I thought we weren’t scheduled to meet until 2:00.”
A lazy shock of blond hair fell over his right eye, and I watched him shove it back with his free hand. “Right, but you said I could come by earlier and scope things out for photos. That’s what I’m doing.”
“I said you could do that if you called first.”
“I did call,” he insisted as he tilted his wrist just far enough so I could see the photo in the viewfinder. My eyes settled on a glowing image of me floundering beneath a naked man whose backside was coated in so much white hair it looked like two piles of fishing net. Fantastic.
“I don’t remember any phone call.” I bit back the urge to snatch the camera from his grasp.
“I spoke to someone who answered the phone. A Jody something?”
I sighed and tried to refrain from gritting my teeth. “Joni. Joni Pierce. That would be our receptionist.” And that would explain the lost message, I amended silently. This day was getting better by the moment.
Undaunted, I tried another tack.
“May I see the photos?” I asked sweetly.
Brad eyed me with the same look my neighbor’s dog gives her when she tries to slip a thyroid pill in a spoonful of peanut butter, but he held the camera toward me. Keeping a protective grip on the device, Brad flicked the button to scroll through the images.
“You know, you already gave permission for me to shoot here, and health privacy laws don’t apply to funeral homes in the same way they apply to, um, living patients,” he answered as he nudged the button to scroll through a selection of photos even worse than the first as his fingers gripped the camera like a vice. “The readers of Feminine Edge magazine enjoy real-life glimpses into other women’s jobs. These images are a candid look at a side of the business most people never have the opportunity to see.”
“That they are,” I said, drawing my hand up as if to steady the camera. Sliding my thumb around the side, I felt for the little lever beside the battery hatch. With a quick flick of my thumbnail, I popped the media card out of the slot, snatched it from the camera, and stuck it down the front of my blouse.
Classy, Willie, real classy. But hey, I had the card. Brad stared at me with a look of disbelief.
“You can’t do that!”
“Oh yes I can. And unless you want to learn firsthand how a hydro-aspirator works, I suggest you move along, Mr. Johnson.”
“But my article —”
“I’m still happy to help you with an article on women in mortuary science,” I said, my voice steadier by the minute. “But these photos will appear in print over my dead body.”
Brad paled a bit at that, and I saw him cast a wary glance at Mr. Bortsman. I folded my arms over my chest. It wasn’t so much an effort to look tough. I was trying to keep the media card from sliding down the front of my pants.
“Are we done here for now?” I asked him.
Brad looked away from the embalming table and gave me a lazy smile, augmented by a shrug. He met my eyes again with a look halfway between annoyance and amusement. “For now.”
Damn, I thought. It shouldn’t be legal for men to have eyelashes that long.
I cleared my throat and made another effort to regain my professional composure. “Good. Come back at 2:00 and I’ll have time to talk to you. Until then, I’ve got business to take care of.”
With that, I turned my back on him, praying like hell he’d just walk out of the room. The sound of footsteps echoing down the hall gave me hope that the day wasn’t a total waste of clean underwear. Yanking off my apron and tossing it on the counter, I fished the memory card out of my blouse and opened a drawer beside me. I tucked it between the mortician’s wax and an assortment of cosmetics designed to make the dead look — well, less dead.
“Do you want me to finish up in here?” Paulette offered, her voice carrying an unspoken note of apology.
I nodded. “The suit Mrs. Bortsman brought is in the cupboard. She wanted the lobster bib over the tie, but behind the lapels of his jacket. Don’t ask,” I added, then hurried out of the room before Paulette could question me further about the culinary preferences of our deceased client.
As I walked down the hall toward reception, I practiced the deep breathing exercises I’d learned the week before. In-two-three-four, out-two-three-four . . . . Then I remembered who’d taught me the exercises. Suddenly, my pulse was racing like a hamster on a wheel.
“Joni!” I barked as I rounded the corner into the reception area where I ran headfirst into a cloud of incense as thick as mucous. Coughing, I waved the fumes from my nostrils and squinted in the general direction of Joni’s desk.
“Dammit, Joni, how many times have I asked you to knock it off with the incense? You want the fire department here again?” I fumbled beneath her desk for the fire extinguisher, ready to aim if necessary. It wouldn’t be the first time.
“It’s not incense,” she replied matter-of-factly, her voice floating toward me from somewhere in the haze. “It’s sage. Mr. Bortsman was one-sixteenth Cherokee, you know. I’m trying to contact his spirit.”
I sighed. I’d long ago given up trying to dissuade Joni from her fervent desire to commune with the lifeless souls taking up temporary residence in our facility. Her sensitivity with customers was unmatched, and she’d been with Barstow Funeral Home long before I’d taken over the business.
Besides, she made the best chocolate marshmallow cookies on the planet. I couldn’t let her go.
Instead, I’d learned to tolerate her desktop Zen garden, her lunchtime yoga breaks, and her need to cleanse my aura whenever I emerged from the back room.
And I’d disarmed the sprinkler system, just in case.
“While you’re waiting for Mr. Bortsman’s spirit to get in touch, would you mind telling me if I’ve had any phone calls from the living today?” I asked, hoping Joni remembered her job duties extended beyond her role as Barstow Funeral Home’s self-appointed Necromancer — a term she’d had printed on her business cards, hoping to add credence to her claim to communicate with the dead. Clients weren’t convinced, nor was I, so I helpfully suggested she replace the word with “receptionist,” and keep her necromancy skills under wraps.
I heard papers rustling in the sage-scented haze, and a delicate “achoo” from Joni.
“Yes of course, you had three calls this morning.” She parted the haze with a narrow hand adorned with rings the size of walnuts. Her frizzy red hair looked ready to explode from beneath the colorful scarf she wore as a headband. “That realtor called again. He said he’s really serious about having an eager buyer for the property.”
“Next,” I said, waving a dismissive hand.
“Brad Johnson called. Said he wanted to come by today and get a few shots for the article.”
“That would have been nice to know before he showed up here today,” I muttered as I crossed the room to open a window. No clients were due to drop by for at least two hours, but I didn’t want a walk-in visitor to mistake us for a hash bar.
“You’ve been busy in the embalming room all morning,” Joni argued. “I didn’t want to interrupt.”
“Joni, you know you can interrupt me anytime I’ve got an important call.”
“I felt it was important not to disturb Mr. Bortsman’s karmic balance. His animal guide seemed unclean when he came in.”
“Unclean?”
“Very.”
“Well rest assured it’s very tidy now,” I said, leaning back against the windowsill. The cool September air felt nice on the bare six inches of thigh exposed by the split along my inseam. I considered doing the same to all my slacks. I closed my eyes and thought about Joni’s cookies.
“What was the third message?” I prodded, sensing Joni was on the verge of slipping back into a trance.
“Kurt Williams. Calling to say he can’t make it tonight.”
“Did he say why?”
“Something about a sick grandmother.”
A sick grandmother. That had a nice ring to it. A tug at the heartstrings, a touch of valor, enough ambiguity to keep him from committing to any social engagements for an indefinite period of time. The perfect excuse.
And the third time in a month I’d heard it from a man looking to avoid a second date with me. I wasn’t surprised.
“What’s in your hair?” Joni asked, startling me out of my funk.
I touched a hand to the uncombed frizz that had escaped confinement in my sloppy ponytail. Drawing a hand back, I inspected the human tooth pinched between my thumb and forefinger. With a sigh, I placed it in Joni’s outstretched palm.
“Could you buzz Paulette? Tell her Mr. Bortsman is going to have some difficulty with his lobster in the great beyond if she doesn’t give this back to him.”
I ignored the frantic blessing Joni performed above the yellowed canine. Shaking my head, I pushed my way out the front door and out into the crispy, damp air of downtown Portland.
Over the last decade, I’d watched the Pearl District go from ghetto to chic like an aging stripper with a good plastic surgeon. Day spas had replaced mini-marts. A cigar shop had gone in where my favorite thrift store had been. Close your eyes for a second in downtown Portland and you’ll run smack dab into a chi-chi new bistro where a phone booth stood minutes before.
Even so, the area had retained a certain charm. The change had certainly impacted our business at Barstow Funeral Home. We’d seen more trophy wives seeking costly caskets for their sugar-daddies. Cremation had become the preferred option for Portlanders conscious of the value of real estate occupied by cemeteries. And at least once a week, we’d field an inquiry from someone confused about the nature of our business — an inquiry usually met by Joni’s enthusiastic offer to realign their chakras.
Tucking a chunk of hair behind one ear, I trotted up the concrete steps toward the tiny apartment above the funeral parlor. It was the place I had called home since the day I graduated with a degree in Mortuary Science more than a decade ago. It was cozy and comforting, with the added bonus of downstairs neighbors unlikely to disturb me with loud parties.
I’ll be the first to admit, most guys are creeped out at the notion of sipping Pinot Grigio and playing footsie on the sofa in a room just 20 feet above where cadavers slumber slack-jawed in a walk-in cooler. Sometimes I don’t tell them. Sometimes I pretend the puff of smoke from the crematorium is just a byproduct of the wood-fired pizza joint down the street. Sometimes they believe me.
But let’s be honest, what’s the first question you ask a new date? I mean when you’re just getting to know someone. Do you ask about fond childhood memories? Probably not, though my perfect, middle-class upbringing gave me plenty of those. Do you inquire about academic honors, gourmet cooking habits, or your date’s ability to put her ankles behind her head? Not likely, though I’m certain my male suitors would be impressed to know I possess all those skills.
No, first dates want to know about your career. What does this person do all day long between 8 a.m. and 5 p.m.?
And the answer to that question for me is simple: I’m an undertaker. A mortician. A funeral home director. I’m a licensed embalmer in the state of Oregon, and during the early years of my career, I used to dig graves.
I spend my days counseling widows, retrieving the newly deceased from nursing homes, dressing naked dead guys, smearing cosmetics on faces set with rigor mortis, and draining bodies of their fluids so I can inject them with embalming solution.
Can you pass the butter, please?
Yeah. Watch me tell a new date about my career. Watch his eyes grow wide. Watch him edge back almost imperceptibly in his chair. Watch him set down the roll he’s been chewing like he’s just discovered it was baked in a crematorium. Watch him glance at my hands in silent wonderment at whose organs I handled before carving into my filet mignon.
Sure, I’ve met guys who are fascinated. Some even ask questions about what it’s like to go on retrieval at 2 a.m. in the slums of Northeast Portland. Some want to know about embalming techniques or what made me decide to enter the profession. But give it time. Inevitably, one by one, the calls stop coming. The dates grow few and far between. Finally, they stop altogether. Eventually, I’ll hear through the grapevine that the guy married an aerobics instructor or a lawyer or a writer. Anyone whose daily routine doesn’t involve handling dead people.
Don’t get me wrong. I love my job. I love being a part of the most significant moment of people’s lives — the end. I’m good at counseling a grieving family through a loved one’s death, skillfully blending conversations about fond memories with details about casket prices. I love the feeling of completing a perfect embalming, or reconstructing the face of an accident victim so attendees at the open-casket service exclaim, “but he looks so peaceful!”
And I’ll be honest, I like most dead people a lot better than living ones.
I thought about that as I stripped off my torn slacks and scrounged through my closet for another clean pair. As I stuffed myself into a pair of Ann Taylor wool trousers, I zipped up and glanced in the mirror. There was the same oval face, the same frizzy black hair, the same amber eyes that have been staring back at me for the last 31 years. Cute. Not beautiful, but interesting enough that I have my fair share of men asking for my phone number. So how do I keep the calls coming after the first couple dates?
As if conjured by the thought of telephones, mine trilled on the nightstand behind me. Tossing aside last night’s pizza box and a tattered paperback, I made a grab for the cordless.
“Hello?”
“Willie, it’s Joni. I think you’d better get down here right away.”
“Why? What’s going on?”
“I can’t tell you right now. I just need you to hurry down.”
I hung up the phone, and made a grab for my keys, wondering how this day could possibly get any weirder.
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A Tricky Undertaking
CHAPTER ONE
For the record, I didn’t mean to grab his penis.
One minute I was standing there, apron coated in cheap cosmetics, fingers deftly fixing a baseball stitch above the clavicle while James Blunt crooned through the stereo system that I was — contrary to popular opinion — beautiful.
The next minute I’d high-stepped into a puddle of brown slime lurking in the cabbage rose pattern of the 1972 vinyl flooring. Before James could bellow any further words of tender admiration, my feet were scrambling beneath me like Scooby Doo’s paws in a cartoon blur. My right leg went forward, my left leg went backward, and my crotch began a hopeless plummet toward the sticky vinyl. I let out a pitiful yelp and grabbed for the closest handle.
Such as it was.
“Willie!” a voice shrieked from the doorway.
To someone unacquainted with me, it might seem my apprentice was commenting on my chosen handhold. Actually, she was shouting my name. Born Wilma Clarice Rising, I’ve been known as “Willie” since childhood — for reasons devoid of any connection to the object in my grasp.
“Ohmygod!” I panted in reply as I felt the inseam split on my brand new Banana Republic khakis — $9.99 at the Value Village thrift store, thank you very much — as my unmentionables touched down on the floor. Fortunately, I had the foresight to pull my left leg forward, narrowly avoiding an impromptu performance of a scene from Olympic Sports Bloopers.
Unfortunately for the owner of the penis in question, I did not have the foresight to let go. Down came Gerald Bortsman, all 172 pounds of him, squashing me against the vinyl like a weevil beneath a sack of moist flour. I heard the sticky smack of footsteps as my apprentice hustled to my side in her flowy black skirt.
“Willie, what are you doing?” Paulette cried, crouching down next to me in a pose that revealed the answer to an unasked question concerning her preference in undergarments (green thong, in case you’re wondering).
“Would you please get this body off me?” I grunted as I strained to shove Mr. Bortsman’s bulk off my shoulders. His right hand slid over my face, tickling my nose with fingertips that felt like shriveled sausages. I released my hold on his penis to swat the clammy hand aside.
Paulette’s skin went pale behind the smear of pink arterial conditioner across her left cheek. Her dark hair was pulled so snugly in a prim chignon that I could see every bone in her face.
“Willie! One of the first things you taught me is that we never refer to the deceased as, ‘the body,’” Paulette whispered in a tone a parent might use with a child caught screaming fuck in the library. “It’s disrespectful.”
I took a deep breath and tried to remember why I’d allowed Paulette to do her apprenticeship under me. I knew the reason had something to do with a lack of opportunity for women in the field, but the details were hazy to me at the moment.
“Right now, I’m pretty sure Mr. Bortsman isn’t offended by my lack of respect.” I wriggled myself free from an arm that reeked of formaldehyde. “Now help me get him back on the table.”
For once, Paulette was at a loss for words as we struggled to heft Mr. Bortsman’s considerable bulk back onto the stainless steel slab. We accomplished the task with minimal cursing, and I was feeling downright proud of myself as I rearranged an eye cap that had come loose. It wouldn’t do to have Mr. Bortsman winking at his widow from the blue satin nest of his casket.
“What did you want, Paulette?” I asked when we finally had Mr. Bortsman settled.
Paulette looked at me blankly for a moment. She drew her hand up to her mouth in the same gesture she’d used once when she belched during an embalming. Wordless, Paulette looked over her shoulder at the door.
That’s when I saw the reporter standing there. Make that the hot reporter. Make that the hot reporter who was scrolling through photos on his digital camera, looking quite pleased with the selections glowing on the viewfinder before him. His smile couldn’t have been broader if his CompactFlash card held celebrity porn. I stifled another curse and peeled off my gloves.
“Brad Johnson, I presume?” I said, adopting a haughty tone as I straightened to my full height of 5’3” and strode confidently toward him. Remembering the split in my inseam, I took the striding down a notch and offered my hand.
Brad eyed my outstretched palm with a look of mild alarm. If we’d been on the playground, I imagine he would have accused me of having cooties. He probably wouldn’t have been too far off. Dropping my hand, I made do with dusting cosmetic powder off my sleeve.
“What brings you here, Mr. Johnson?” I asked, still not ready to abandon all hope of having the upper hand in this exchange. “I thought we weren’t scheduled to meet until 2:00.”
A lazy shock of blond hair fell over his right eye, and I watched him shove it back with his free hand. “Right, but you said I could come by earlier and scope things out for photos. That’s what I’m doing.”
“I said you could do that if you called first.”
“I did call,” he insisted as he tilted his wrist just far enough so I could see the photo in the viewfinder. My eyes settled on a glowing image of me floundering beneath a naked man whose backside was coated in so much white hair it looked like two piles of fishing net. Fantastic.
“I don’t remember any phone call.” I bit back the urge to snatch the camera from his grasp.
“I spoke to someone who answered the phone. A Jody something?”
I sighed and tried to refrain from gritting my teeth. “Joni. Joni Pierce. That would be our receptionist.” And that would explain the lost message, I amended silently. This day was getting better by the moment.
Undaunted, I tried another tack.
“May I see the photos?” I asked sweetly.
Brad eyed me with the same look my neighbor’s dog gives her when she tries to slip a thyroid pill in a spoonful of peanut butter, but he held the camera toward me. Keeping a protective grip on the device, Brad flicked the button to scroll through the images.
“You know, you already gave permission for me to shoot here, and health privacy laws don’t apply to funeral homes in the same way they apply to, um, living patients,” he answered as he nudged the button to scroll through a selection of photos even worse than the first as his fingers gripped the camera like a vice. “The readers of Feminine Edge magazine enjoy real-life glimpses into other women’s jobs. These images are a candid look at a side of the business most people never have the opportunity to see.”
“That they are,” I said, drawing my hand up as if to steady the camera. Sliding my thumb around the side, I felt for the little lever beside the battery hatch. With a quick flick of my thumbnail, I popped the media card out of the slot, snatched it from the camera, and stuck it down the front of my blouse.
Classy, Willie, real classy. But hey, I had the card. Brad stared at me with a look of disbelief.
“You can’t do that!”
“Oh yes I can. And unless you want to learn firsthand how a hydro-aspirator works, I suggest you move along, Mr. Johnson.”
“But my article —”
“I’m still happy to help you with an article on women in mortuary science,” I said, my voice steadier by the minute. “But these photos will appear in print over my dead body.”
Brad paled a bit at that, and I saw him cast a wary glance at Mr. Bortsman. I folded my arms over my chest. It wasn’t so much an effort to look tough. I was trying to keep the media card from sliding down the front of my pants.
“Are we done here for now?” I asked him.
Brad looked away from the embalming table and gave me a lazy smile, augmented by a shrug. He met my eyes again with a look halfway between annoyance and amusement. “For now.”
Damn, I thought. It shouldn’t be legal for men to have eyelashes that long.
I cleared my throat and made another effort to regain my professional composure. “Good. Come back at 2:00 and I’ll have time to talk to you. Until then, I’ve got business to take care of.”
With that, I turned my back on him, praying like hell he’d just walk out of the room. The sound of footsteps echoing down the hall gave me hope that the day wasn’t a total waste of clean underwear. Yanking off my apron and tossing it on the counter, I fished the memory card out of my blouse and opened a drawer beside me. I tucked it between the mortician’s wax and an assortment of cosmetics designed to make the dead look — well, less dead.
“Do you want me to finish up in here?” Paulette offered, her voice carrying an unspoken note of apology.
I nodded. “The suit Mrs. Bortsman brought is in the cupboard. She wanted the lobster bib over the tie, but behind the lapels of his jacket. Don’t ask,” I added, then hurried out of the room before Paulette could question me further about the culinary preferences of our deceased client.
As I walked down the hall toward reception, I practiced the deep breathing exercises I’d learned the week before. In-two-three-four, out-two-three-four . . . . Then I remembered who’d taught me the exercises. Suddenly, my pulse was racing like a hamster on a wheel.
“Joni!” I barked as I rounded the corner into the reception area where I ran headfirst into a cloud of incense as thick as mucous. Coughing, I waved the fumes from my nostrils and squinted in the general direction of Joni’s desk.
“Dammit, Joni, how many times have I asked you to knock it off with the incense? You want the fire department here again?” I fumbled beneath her desk for the fire extinguisher, ready to aim if necessary. It wouldn’t be the first time.
“It’s not incense,” she replied matter-of-factly, her voice floating toward me from somewhere in the haze. “It’s sage. Mr. Bortsman was one-sixteenth Cherokee, you know. I’m trying to contact his spirit.”
I sighed. I’d long ago given up trying to dissuade Joni from her fervent desire to commune with the lifeless souls taking up temporary residence in our facility. Her sensitivity with customers was unmatched, and she’d been with Barstow Funeral Home long before I’d taken over the business.
Besides, she made the best chocolate marshmallow cookies on the planet. I couldn’t let her go.
Instead, I’d learned to tolerate her desktop Zen garden, her lunchtime yoga breaks, and her need to cleanse my aura whenever I emerged from the back room.
And I’d disarmed the sprinkler system, just in case.
“While you’re waiting for Mr. Bortsman’s spirit to get in touch, would you mind telling me if I’ve had any phone calls from the living today?” I asked, hoping Joni remembered her job duties extended beyond her role as Barstow Funeral Home’s self-appointed Necromancer — a term she’d had printed on her business cards, hoping to add credence to her claim to communicate with the dead. Clients weren’t convinced, nor was I, so I helpfully suggested she replace the word with “receptionist,” and keep her necromancy skills under wraps.
I heard papers rustling in the sage-scented haze, and a delicate “achoo” from Joni.
“Yes of course, you had three calls this morning.” She parted the haze with a narrow hand adorned with rings the size of walnuts. Her frizzy red hair looked ready to explode from beneath the colorful scarf she wore as a headband. “That realtor called again. He said he’s really serious about having an eager buyer for the property.”
“Next,” I said, waving a dismissive hand.
“Brad Johnson called. Said he wanted to come by today and get a few shots for the article.”
“That would have been nice to know before he showed up here today,” I muttered as I crossed the room to open a window. No clients were due to drop by for at least two hours, but I didn’t want a walk-in visitor to mistake us for a hash bar.
“You’ve been busy in the embalming room all morning,” Joni argued. “I didn’t want to interrupt.”
“Joni, you know you can interrupt me anytime I’ve got an important call.”
“I felt it was important not to disturb Mr. Bortsman’s karmic balance. His animal guide seemed unclean when he came in.”
“Unclean?”
“Very.”
“Well rest assured it’s very tidy now,” I said, leaning back against the windowsill. The cool September air felt nice on the bare six inches of thigh exposed by the split along my inseam. I considered doing the same to all my slacks. I closed my eyes and thought about Joni’s cookies.
“What was the third message?” I prodded, sensing Joni was on the verge of slipping back into a trance.
“Kurt Williams. Calling to say he can’t make it tonight.”
“Did he say why?”
“Something about a sick grandmother.”
A sick grandmother. That had a nice ring to it. A tug at the heartstrings, a touch of valor, enough ambiguity to keep him from committing to any social engagements for an indefinite period of time. The perfect excuse.
And the third time in a month I’d heard it from a man looking to avoid a second date with me. I wasn’t surprised.
“What’s in your hair?” Joni asked, startling me out of my funk.
I touched a hand to the uncombed frizz that had escaped confinement in my sloppy ponytail. Drawing a hand back, I inspected the human tooth pinched between my thumb and forefinger. With a sigh, I placed it in Joni’s outstretched palm.
“Could you buzz Paulette? Tell her Mr. Bortsman is going to have some difficulty with his lobster in the great beyond if she doesn’t give this back to him.”
I ignored the frantic blessing Joni performed above the yellowed canine. Shaking my head, I pushed my way out the front door and out into the crispy, damp air of downtown Portland.
Over the last decade, I’d watched the Pearl District go from ghetto to chic like an aging stripper with a good plastic surgeon. Day spas had replaced mini-marts. A cigar shop had gone in where my favorite thrift store had been. Close your eyes for a second in downtown Portland and you’ll run smack dab into a chi-chi new bistro where a phone booth stood minutes before.
Even so, the area had retained a certain charm. The change had certainly impacted our business at Barstow Funeral Home. We’d seen more trophy wives seeking costly caskets for their sugar-daddies. Cremation had become the preferred option for Portlanders conscious of the value of real estate occupied by cemeteries. And at least once a week, we’d field an inquiry from someone confused about the nature of our business — an inquiry usually met by Joni’s enthusiastic offer to realign their chakras.
Tucking a chunk of hair behind one ear, I trotted up the concrete steps toward the tiny apartment above the funeral parlor. It was the place I had called home since the day I graduated with a degree in Mortuary Science more than a decade ago. It was cozy and comforting, with the added bonus of downstairs neighbors unlikely to disturb me with loud parties.
I’ll be the first to admit, most guys are creeped out at the notion of sipping Pinot Grigio and playing footsie on the sofa in a room just 20 feet above where cadavers slumber slack-jawed in a walk-in cooler. Sometimes I don’t tell them. Sometimes I pretend the puff of smoke from the crematorium is just a byproduct of the wood-fired pizza joint down the street. Sometimes they believe me.
But let’s be honest, what’s the first question you ask a new date? I mean when you’re just getting to know someone. Do you ask about fond childhood memories? Probably not, though my perfect, middle-class upbringing gave me plenty of those. Do you inquire about academic honors, gourmet cooking habits, or your date’s ability to put her ankles behind her head? Not likely, though I’m certain my male suitors would be impressed to know I possess all those skills.
No, first dates want to know about your career. What does this person do all day long between 8 a.m. and 5 p.m.?
And the answer to that question for me is simple: I’m an undertaker. A mortician. A funeral home director. I’m a licensed embalmer in the state of Oregon, and during the early years of my career, I used to dig graves.
I spend my days counseling widows, retrieving the newly deceased from nursing homes, dressing naked dead guys, smearing cosmetics on faces set with rigor mortis, and draining bodies of their fluids so I can inject them with embalming solution.
Can you pass the butter, please?
Yeah. Watch me tell a new date about my career. Watch his eyes grow wide. Watch him edge back almost imperceptibly in his chair. Watch him set down the roll he’s been chewing like he’s just discovered it was baked in a crematorium. Watch him glance at my hands in silent wonderment at whose organs I handled before carving into my filet mignon.
Sure, I’ve met guys who are fascinated. Some even ask questions about what it’s like to go on retrieval at 2 a.m. in the slums of Northeast Portland. Some want to know about embalming techniques or what made me decide to enter the profession. But give it time. Inevitably, one by one, the calls stop coming. The dates grow few and far between. Finally, they stop altogether. Eventually, I’ll hear through the grapevine that the guy married an aerobics instructor or a lawyer or a writer. Anyone whose daily routine doesn’t involve handling dead people.
Don’t get me wrong. I love my job. I love being a part of the most significant moment of people’s lives — the end. I’m good at counseling a grieving family through a loved one’s death, skillfully blending conversations about fond memories with details about casket prices. I love the feeling of completing a perfect embalming, or reconstructing the face of an accident victim so attendees at the open-casket service exclaim, “but he looks so peaceful!”
And I’ll be honest, I like most dead people a lot better than living ones.
I thought about that as I stripped off my torn slacks and scrounged through my closet for another clean pair. As I stuffed myself into a pair of Ann Taylor wool trousers, I zipped up and glanced in the mirror. There was the same oval face, the same frizzy black hair, the same amber eyes that have been staring back at me for the last 31 years. Cute. Not beautiful, but interesting enough that I have my fair share of men asking for my phone number. So how do I keep the calls coming after the first couple dates?
As if conjured by the thought of telephones, mine trilled on the nightstand behind me. Tossing aside last night’s pizza box and a tattered paperback, I made a grab for the cordless.
“Hello?”
“Willie, it’s Joni. I think you’d better get down here right away.”
“Why? What’s going on?”
“I can’t tell you right now. I just need you to hurry down.”
I hung up the phone, and made a grab for my keys, wondering how this day could possibly get any weirder.
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