Mostly, she’d learned she never wanted to go to war again, and to avoid those who
did
want to.
And to keep her mouth shut about all of it.
“You’re a very private person, aren’t you, Bryn?” her boss asked, and she got the laser examination from those weirdly cold gray eyes again. “Not that I mind that. I like to keep things professional at the office, of course. But one more question: working with the dead and the bereaved doesn’t bother you? Because I find that a number of recent entrants to the funeral home profession aren’t emotionally suited to the requirements.”
It seemed a weird time to be asking the question; after all, he’d already hired her. But she remembered that Fairview was known—notorious, in fact—for going through funeral directors quickly. She had the feeling that every conversation, every seemingly innocent moment, was another evaluation.
Yeah, that was relaxing. She tried to breathe and eat her salad without letting him see her discomfort.
“I don’t mind the dead,” she said, after she’d swallowed her bite of who knew what kind of weeds. “Bodies are just shells built of muscle and bone. They smell, and they’re messy—alive or dead. But there’s nothing frightening about a corpse once you get over the idea that they’re …” She couldn’t think how to put it, and then it clarified in her mind. “Once you get over the fact that you’re just like them. And will be them, in the end.”
“Ah,” he said. She’d surprised him, apparently, or at least that was how she interpreted the quick up-and-down motion of his carefully groomed eyebrows.
She looked down at her salad and continued, more quietly. “We shouldn’t ever forget that, out of respect.”
“No,” he agreed, in the same tone. “No, we shouldn’t.”
The waiter arrived and whisked away her uneaten salad, and delivered the main course. To her relief, it was some kind of chicken in sauce. Delicious. She didn’t miss her PB and J at all, and when Mr. Fairview poured her a glass of wine, she let herself drink it and enjoy the rest of the meal.
She almost regretted going back to work, in fact.
I could get used to this,
she thought.
Especially if she didn’t have to pay the crazy expensive bill.
* * *
There was a second appointment for her, two hours later, in the midafternoon. It was—oddly enough—almost exactly the way Mr. Fairview had role-played it for her—a man coming in to make arrangements for his deceased brother. Only this man was a whole lot younger than Mr. Fairview—Bryn put him at around thirty—and he had a blank, closed-in face and watchful eyes that really didn’t look too grief-stricken to her.
Mr. Fairview apparently had other things to do, because he just introduced the two of them and then left.
I’ m flying solo
, she thought, and instead of making her nervous, it made her feel steadier.
“Mr. Fideli,” she said, and shook the man’s hand. “How may I assist you today?”
“My brother,” he said. “He’s passed away. I’m looking around for a place to hold his funeral, take care of things, you know.”
There was something about Mr. Fideli, something familiar. Not him, but his type. From the close-cut hair to the straightforward way he assessed her to the way he sat alertly on the couch … Military, or recently cashiered out. He wasn’t in uniform, but you didn’t have to see the clothes to know the man. He might have seen it in her, too; she knew it showed in her straight back and the way she held herself. If he did, he didn’t comment.
“I’m so sorry for your loss, sir,” she said. She did a lightning-fast glimpse around to be sure her materials and tools were in the right places. They were, although Mr. Fideli didn’t strike her as the type to need much in the way of tissues. “Can I offer you anything to drink? Coffee? Tea?”
“No.”
Bryn cleared her throat. “May I ask how he passed …?”
“What does that matter?”
“I’m afraid it does matter when it comes to suggesting options,” she said. “If he was in some sort of accident, Mr. Fideli—”
“Joe,” he said, and smiled at her. It was a nice smile, a real one. She found that … odd. Most people were a lot less at ease. “He died in the hospital. Cancer.”
“I see.” So no restorative work.
Damn
. “Are you thinking of interment, or—”
“Probably cremation.”
Cremation wasn’t much cheaper, when it came down to it, and she immediately zeroed in on the up-selling aspect of the urns. When people found out the cremains came in a plastic bag in a cardboard box, even the most cost-conscious of them usually opted for something better.
She reached for the brochures, but Mr. Fideli did something unusual—or at least, she thought it was unusual. “Before we talk about that stuff,” he said, “can I take a tour?”
“A tour,” she repeated. “Oh, you mean of the viewing rooms?”
“To start with, sure.”
She’d been planning to do that, but normally one settled on the basics up front. The order of events didn’t really matter, though, and she led him out of her office, down the lush carpeted hallway, out to the viewing rooms. Two were occupied, and they looked in from the doorways on the floral displays, the coffins like centerpieces, the grieving—or the bored, or the curious—who filled the seats. She took her time demonstrating the empty room, showing him all the features available, describing the services. Mr. Fideli was a silent observer, patient and unhurried. He didn’t check his watch once.
When she’d run out of things to say about the viewing room, she showed him the caskets, explaining that he’d need to choose one for the viewing even if he were opting for cremation. She was angling toward the urn display when he said, unexpectedly, “Could I see downstairs?”
She blinked and checked herself. “I’m sorry?”
“You know, downstairs. I guess you do your own embalming on the premises?” He said it without a flicker of emotion. Bryn was thrown for a second, then decided he just wanted to be sure they wouldn’t truck his brother’s body all over the city.
“Absolutely,” she said. “We have a very fine embalming facility downstairs. State of the art.” Not that she’d actually seen it herself, yet.
“So I understand.” Fideli’s eyes fixed on hers, and stayed there. “May I see it, please?”
You never said no to a client, so she was searching for a way to turn it around when she spotted Mr. Fairview coming out of his office. He must have seen that she needed help, because he came toward them with a confident stride and smile, extending his hand to Fideli. They shook hands, looking oh so cordial. Bryn kept her own smile with an effort as she said, “Mr. Fideli would like to view the preparation area, sir.”
Mr. Fairview sent her a quick glance, then guided Mr. Fideli back into Bryn’s office with one hand casually placed on their guest’s shoulder. “Oh, I’m very sorry, but I’m afraid that’s not possible,” he said, sounding like he’d
love
to take a recently bereaved on a downstairs tour of the one place they should never go. “It’s strictly off-limits to anyone but licensed personnel. Health concerns, you understand. And, of course, we wish to treat those entrusted to us with the highest order of care. That means respecting their privacy at all times.”
Something strange flickered over Mr. Fideli’s expression; Bryn couldn’t quite catch it, but she thought it might have almost been … amusement? “Of course,” he said. “Sorry. I was just curious. I wanted to be sure my brother would be treated right.”
“Perfectly understandable,” Bryn assured him, although it wasn’t. “Now, let’s talk about the urn you’ll want….”
She didn’t feel that she handled it all that well, but Mr. Fairview didn’t step in for the rest of the meeting, and Mr. Fideli didn’t seem unhappy with it, either. She shook hands with him at the end—he was taller than she was, with a very firm handshake—and Mr. Fideli walked off with a handful of information, but no contract or commitment.
“Don’t worry, my dear,” Mr. Fairview said, when she closed the door and looked at him in mute guilt. “Sometimes you simply can’t close the deal. Mr. Fideli is what we like to call a comparison shopper. He’ll come back eventually. Usually, the first place he stops will also be his last. He just wants to satisfy himself that he isn’t getting ripped off. I’d be willing to bet that his brother hasn’t even passed on yet.”
“Oh,” she said. “Wow. That was … strange. They’re usually more upset than that, aren’t they?”
“Mr. Fideli did seem unusually self-contained. But from the way he carried himself, I would assume he is ex-military, like you. That would probably explain it.” Mr. Fairview looked at his watch. “I have a four thirty set up with a Mrs. Granberry. I’d like you to take the lead on that one as well, if you don’t mind.”
“Yes, of course.” It was four fifteen. Bryn rushed to the bathroom, fussed with her hair, and applied just a touch of lipstick. She did some deep-breathing exercises, and smiled professionally at the mirror.
There was a little too much brightness in her cheeks. She really needed to work on looking less
happy
.
Bryn was standing right beside Mr. Fairview when the front bell tinkled its mournful note, and Mrs. Granberry—a neat, dry-eyed woman with an iron distance in her eyes—came in trailing a sad-looking teenage daughter who refused to raise her head.
Mr. Fairview immediately bent his head close to Bryn‘s. “Here we go,” he said. “Just remember: stay focused on what we’re here to do. Don’t let yourself get carried away on the tide of emotion.”
Bryn had no idea how he could tell the difference between Mrs. Granberry and, say, Mr. Fideli from this distance, but he seemed to know what was coming.
Well, that was all right. She was prepared for anything.
Whatever Bryn had been prepared for, it wasn’t this. Not raw, real, personal emotion from someone only a few years younger than she was. The girl sitting across from her was eighteen, just out of high school. Now that she’d finally raised her head, she kept staring at Bryn as if somehow, if she hoped hard enough, Bryn could make it all just go away. As if the universe would right itself again.
It doesn’t work that way
, Bryn wanted to say, and she had to fight against an impulse to reach out and hold the girl’s hand. She’d worked as a grief counselor, but that had been phone-bank stuff; she hadn’t been there in person. She hadn’t felt the personal impact of it quite this way. Her parents were both still alive, thank God; she’d never lost anyone close to her—well, except for her sister Sharon, and that wasn’t the same thing at all.
Looking at this girl was like looking in a mirror and seeing the future grieving that was coming for everyone, eventually.
The mother was both easier in one way, and more difficult in another—fortyish, solid, mostly impassive except when she dabbed at her eyes as if more concerned with her mascara than her grief. “My husband wanted a frugal sort of funeral,” she announced as the opening shot. Although Mr. Fairview had introduced Bryn as leading the session, Mrs. Granberry dismissed Bryn and focused on him directly. “I just want a plain coffin, nothing fancy. And no viewing. No embalming.”
Bryn cleared her throat. Mrs. Granberry’s eyes moved to her, then back to Mr. Fairview. “How did your husband pass?” Bryn asked, and offered Mrs. Granberry the tissue box. The woman waved it impatiently away.
“He died in his sleep,” she said. “Bad heart. I always told him it would do him in, but he never listened.” For some reason, she then glared at her daughter, as if it were somehow the girl’s fault. The girl flinched and looked down. “I don’t know what that has to do with anything.”
“It’s very helpful to family members and friends if you hold a viewing; it gives everyone a chance to say their good-byes. Gives them a sense of closure,” Bryn said. “We would, of course, make your husband look just as you want to remember him; it’s part of our full service—”
Mrs. Granberry’s head snapped around, and her eyes narrowed in sudden fury. “I said
no embalming
!”
Bryn took a deep breath. “Mrs. Granberry, I know you’re very upset right now, but the fact is that embalming is a state requirement, unless you choose cremation.”
“It is?” The woman looked at Mr. Fairview, who nodded soberly.
“I’m afraid so,” he said. “Miss Davis is quite correct. The only exception to this would be if your religious beliefs did not allow embalming.”
“Oh.” The mother frowned at Bryn, as if the rule were her personal fault. “Well, we’re Methodist; I don’t suppose that counts for anything these days. All right, fine. I suppose if we have to go to that much expense, we should have the viewing too. How much?”
“Mom,” the girl said faintly. “Please. This is about
Dad
. You’re not buying a car.”
“I know it’s about your precious daddy, but if you want to go to that fancy school next fall and have clothes on your back, you’d better let me do this my way, Melissa!” There was real anger in that sharp, vicious tone. Bryn felt its snap even from the sidelines.
Melissa was shaking all over. Bryn had to bite her lip to stop herself from saying something that wouldn’t be funeral-director appropriate to the mother, but despite her control, her tone dropped a few degrees in warmth. “We’ll work with you to make it affordable,” she said. “Let’s take a look at some choices.”
When she opened the binder that showed the coffin selections, and asked the delicate question, “Was your husband a large man?” Melissa Granberry burst into hysterical tears and ran out of the room. For a moment, Bryn was frozen in shock; then she looked at Mrs. Granberry, who was stone-faced and dry-eyed.
“My husband was a fat, sloppy frog,” she said. “Don’t mind my daughter. She brought him a bowl of ice cream yesterday, which definitely was
not
on his diet. She thinks she killed him. And she probably did, too. She always was his pet.”
Bryn’s palm itched to make contact with the woman’s cheek. Instead, she managed a forced, artificial smile. “I’m sure you’ll talk with her about that,” she said. “Obviously, it wasn’t her fault.”