Judy Clemens: Embrace the Grim Reaper

“What plant?”

He stood up. “You’re not from around here?”

She shook her head.

“I should’ve figured that. Sorry.”

“What plant?” she said again.

“The one on the edge of town. HomeMaker. It’s closing. Moving to Mexico, actually. About a quarter of the employees were laid off last Christmas—nice time for that, huh?—and it’s shutting down completely within three months. This town, it’s just going to— Anyway, we’ve got lots more people coming for supper than we had even six months ago. But not any more supplies. People can’t afford to feed their families, let alone have anything left over to give away.”

“What happened? With the plant?”

He held out a trash bag and she dumped her handful of garbage into it. “The usual. You know. The union wants more money, better wages for the workers. The owners say, ‘screw you,’ and move to Mexico to get the tax breaks and cheap labor. Nothing new.” He tied the top of the trash bag and heaved it over his shoulder. “Come on, I’ll put you to work with the food.”

Casey followed him through a narrow door into a steaming hot kitchen. A skinny elderly woman stood at a stove in an apron, her hair scraped back into a hairnet as she stirred something in a big pot. Her coffee-colored skin shone in the moist heat, and she wiped at her forehead with her sleeve.

“Loretta, this is Casey. She’s going to help out with serving tonight.”

Loretta glanced up. “Well, thank you Jesus, that’s good of her, um-humm. You just make yourself at home, baby, okay? Praise God!”

Casey met Eric’s eye, and he turned, smiling, to the other person in the room. “Johnny, this is Casey.”

Johnny grabbed Casey’s hand and shook it enthusiastically, his smile almost as wide as his face. His eyes had the slant of Down’s Syndrome, and he stood several inches taller than Eric. He was stockier, too. “Eric always finds nice ladies to help,” Johnny said. “I wrap all the silverware in the napkins. Everyday.” He waited expectantly.

Casey cleared her throat. “I’m sure you do a great job with that, Johnny.”

“Oh, yes, ma’am, I do. I’m the best at it, want to see?”

“Well. Sure.”

He bounded back to his station and returned, clasping a smooth bundle of silverware encased in a white paper napkin. “You see? You put the knife at the back, then the fork, then the spoon so they fit together right, and then you put them in the middle of the napkin and wrap the napkin around them. I’m the best at it.”

“I can see you’re very experienced.”

“I’m the best.”

“Okay.” Eric clapped Johnny on the shoulder. “Better get back to work, buddy. The folks will be here before too long and we want to be ready for them.”

“Oh, yes, Eric, yes, we do. I’ll get to work. I’ll do them all. I’m—”

“—the best at it. Yes, you are.”

Johnny smiled angelically, gave Eric a bone-crushing hug, and lumbered back to his spot.

Eric grinned. “I love my crew.”

“I can see why.”

“Now.” Eric clapped his hands together. “You and I can set out the bread.” He opened a cupboard and pulled out a dozen baskets. “Line these with those linen napkins over there. You can use that counter.”

Casey washed her hands at the large metal sink, then took the baskets and set them in a row, flapping open the white squares of fabric. Eric followed, removing sliced bread from plastic bags and filling the baskets.

“Homemade bread?” Casey asked.

“Day old, from the bakery down the street. Or two days old. Still good. Better than store-bought. Plus, it’s free. You want to cover the bread with the extra napkins?”

She did, and they carried them out to place them on the tables, along with economy-sized tubs of margarine.

Movement at the front caught her eye, and Casey saw faces at the glass of the door. “Guests?”

Eric turned. “Yup. It’s almost five. Why don’t you let them in?”

She went to open the door and stood back as a family of five eased past her, the three young children studying her with an uncomfortable intensity. Casey took another step back. The parents glided by without a glance, their eyes on the floor. Casey peeked out the door, but seeing no one else, shut it and went back to the kitchen, passing the family, who’d seated themselves at the far end of the first table.

Eric stood beside the open refrigerator door in the kitchen. “Here.” He took out a tub of peaches and set them next to some spotted bananas on the counter. “Cut these up and arrange them on these trays.”

“How—”

“Doesn’t matter. Just in slices. You can divide the bananas into quarters, maybe. Leave them in the peels.”

“Where are you going?”

“To greet the folks. They’re used to seeing me. I like to at least say hello.”

“They didn’t say anything to me.”

“No.” He smiled sadly. “They wouldn’t. It’s been…” He stopped.

“What?”

“Oh. Difficult.”

“With them losing their jobs?”

“Sure. Yes. That’s been really hard.”

There was more, Casey could read it in the tightness of his jaw. But Eric wasn’t saying anything else.

Casey watched him go, the stiffness of his shoulders the only other clue of his discomfort. Of some kind of pain.

This town is not unfamiliar to me. Death’s face hovered before Casey’s .

“Eric!”

He stopped in the doorway, his face turned back toward her, eyes wary. “Yeah?”

“Oh. It’s nothing. Never mind.” Yes, Eric, Death told me a few minutes ago that…

He continued on.

The dining room soon filled, and Casey stayed busy helping Loretta serve the beef and vegetable soup (low on both beef and vegetables), mopping up a glass of spilled milk, and refilling the bread baskets, until the bread was gone. There was even dessert—day old cookies and brownies from the bakery, along with the remainder of a birthday cake. Casey wondered if the bakers got some kind of a tax break with all of their donations, or if they gave out of the goodness of their hearts. Perhaps both.

The guests ranged in age from an infant, still at his mother’s breast, to a man so old he needed help guiding his spoon to his mouth. There must have been sixty-five people around the tables, but from the noise level Casey would have guessed fewer. The lack of volume disturbed her, as if these people had no energy left to do anything but fill their stomachs. Had this room sounded like this a year ago? Or before last Christmas? A sudden cry rent the air, and Casey swallowed the lump in her throat as the young mother paused in her own eating to hold her baby over her shoulder and pat his back.

Eric came to stand beside Casey, an empty bread basket under his arm.

“It’s nice of his daughter to help him eat,” Casey said, indicating the old man, and the woman beside him.

“Oh, she’s not his daughter. He doesn’t have any family around. She’s his neighbor. Brings him along with her every day. Or the days he feels good enough, anyway.”

“Where’s his family?”

His face tightened. “Left at Christmas, when Karl kicked them out.”

“Karl? Who’s Karl?”

“What?” Eric blinked. “Oh, Karl Willems. He’s the CEO of HomeMaker. Made the final decision to move HomeMaker out of the country.”

Families were beginning to clear out now, bobbing their heads and mumbling thanks to Eric as they left. Casey watched him do his best to make eye contact with them, even hunkering down to talk with the kids, one of whom hit him on the head with one of Johnny’s carefully wrapped silverware bundles. The mother, horrified, snatched her child from the floor and hustled out the door. Eric saw the last of the guests out and locked the door before heading back toward the kitchen, rubbing his head.