Rachel Caine: Working Stiff

She indicated the sofa and chairs grouped in the corner of the office. Mr. Fairview took a place on the sofa, looked around, and leaned forward as she settled into a polite, alert pose on the chair—within reach, but giving him space. “I’m sure that this is a very hard day for you,” she said in her most soothing voice. This, at least, was something she felt confident doing, even on her first morning of the job. “How can I help?”

Mr. Fairview didn’t even give her a nod of approval. He stared over her shoulder instead. “It’s my brother,” he said. “He passed away yesterday.”

“I’m so sorry.” Bryn knew how to steer the conversation; she’d been through the training, and she knew better than to ask the emotional questions immediately. “May I get you a coffee, or tea, or—”

Fairview’s gaze shifted to her face. “He was hit by a truck.”

She had an instant, vivid flashback of the armored personnel carrier, of a screaming face outside the dust-smeared window, of the crushing thump of the wheels. Of the body in the dirt, blood leaking dark onto the packed road, head crushed into a shape that was no longer human.

Bryn took a deep breath and forced the images away. Focus , she thought. He’s talking about reconstruction work . That was pricey, a definite plus for the business. “That must have been a terrible shock.”

“It certainly was for him.”

Oh, God, was he trying to make her laugh ? Bryn didn’t feel any inclination to it; the memory of that body in the road had drained all the laughter out of her. Her voice, when it came, was just a shade too cool. “I meant for you, sir.”

“I never liked him anyway. Now I’m stuck paying for him. Dumb son of a bitch never knew how to drive anyway. I want the lowest price you can give me, understand? I’m not spending a cent more on his drunken corpse than I have to.”

Bryn opened her mouth, but nothing came out. She’d had a course section on dealing with aggressive customers, but those brain cells had shut down and were refusing to cooperate. Mr. Fairview was selling the angry brother for all he was worth, and her instinct was to fight back—which she couldn’t do, in this position.

She took a deep breath. “I’m sure we can work with you to find something within your budget, sir,” she said. Oh, God, that was weak . “Let’s talk about some options….” She reached out for the brochures and books, and realized that she’d left them across the room, sitting on her desk. Of course. She felt her face grow a bit warm at the oversight, but covered it by calmly standing and walking to retrieve them, talking as she walked. “I’m sure you’ll find the Paradise plan the one that fits your needs, sir; it’s a good combination of quality and price. We can also work with you on floral choices, which can save you a great deal of money.” She held out the brochure to him as she returned to her seat.

He didn’t take it.

Fairview let her dangle and suffer for a moment, then suddenly sat back and relaxed, arms spread out across the top of the sofa. “Good,” he said, and nodded with a warm smile. “Very good. You made me feel welcome, established trust, competence, and a human connection; you seated me where you wanted me, and offered me refreshment. You didn’t let me throw you off when I showed you sarcasm and anger. That’s always the worst part, I think.”

“Did I forget anything?”

“Tissues,” he said. “Always keep the tissues here, next to the sofa, where they’re easy to reach. Make sure the trash can is visible, but discreet, so they know where to dispose of them. And, of course, you’ve already realized how important it is to keep sales materials at hand, but don’t make it obvious; this isn’t a furniture store. If you can’t do the math in your head, keep a calculator close so you can quickly update your figures; they’ll always want to make changes to standard packages, and that will require repricing.”

She nodded. “Anything else?”

“Up-sell, my dear. Always up-sell. Higher-priced options may not be within their budget, but they’re certainly factored into mine.” Mr. Fairview rose and offered her his hand. “I’ll introduce you to Lucy when she comes in, and of course you will have to meet Freddy downstairs, but later. For now, I think you’re ready for your first intake session. I’ll be sitting in, so don’t worry; if you go off script, I’ll bring you back.”

She wasn’t fooled by that. He wasn’t there to help—he was there to give her a job evaluation. Fairview had a reputation of being strict, a stickler for regulations, and for making the best profits in the industry. He also had a reputation for going through funeral directors like bags of dinner mints.

She took a deep breath, smiled, and stood as Mr. Fairview went to get her first real customers.

Up-sell. You can do this!

Right.

The first one wasn’t too bad; it was a middle-aged woman making arrangements for her father, and she seemed crisp and businesslike about it, or so Bryn thought, until she realized that there was a glaze of shock and misery over the woman’s apparently clear eyes. Still, she didn’t cry, didn’t argue, bargained reasonably, and walked away with a relatively modest coffin, middle-of-the-road funeral package, and a slightly better than average floral package, as well as the higher-priced memorial notice in the newspaper and online Mr. Fairview sat off to the side, saying nothing of any real substance, looking solid and helpful. After it was over, he saw the woman to the door and walked her out; Bryn watched from the window as he escorted her to her car, head bent down as if he were listening. Halfway there, in the lovely little garden grotto with its beautiful angel statue, the woman just … collapsed, as if she’d been hit in the solar plexus. Mr. Fairview didn’t seem surprised. He eased her down to a bench and sat beside her. Bryn watched, fascinated by the silent drama of it. His body language told the whole story—warm, kind, understanding. After a few moments, the woman managed to stand up and walk to her car, and Mr. Fairview came back inside.

“Wow.” Bryn sighed; she was half-admiring, half-resentful. She hadn’t read the woman as being ready to drop, but obviously Mr. Fairview had much more experience at this than she did. She had a lot to learn.

And to think she’d come in hoping to impress him.

By the time he arrived back in her office, she’d already gotten a good start on the paperwork and opened up the new folder with the deceased’s name on it. Everything was paper here, still; she thought maybe she could teach them a thing or two about going electronic with the process. Maybe if they all had tablet PCs they could do this at the initial meeting…. So much simpler to avoid all this laborious writing after the fact…. Show the pictures of the caskets and floral packages right there; zoom to show the detail….

Mr. Fairview came back inside and took the chair across from her. Bryn looked up, brows raised. She wanted to ask, but she was humiliatingly afraid of what he was going to say.

“Relax,” he said, and although she would have sworn she really wasn’t that nervous, she felt some hidden tension deep in her stomach slowly release. Wow . That felt good. “You did well enough, Bryn. Not a perfect job, of course, but solid. If you continue to sell that well, you’ll have a bright future in the business. Do you know what you missed?”

“Well, obviously, she was ready to collapse,” Bryn said, and bit her lip. “I didn’t see it. You did.”

“I’ve had considerably more experience at reading the recently bereaved. Don’t blame yourself.” He smiled at her, and the striking gray of his eyes reminded her suddenly less of silver than of dead ashes. It was just a flicker, and then it was gone. Probably her imagination running away with her. Again. Her imagination had always been a problem for her, which was partly why she’d stubbornly decided on a job in the death business…. Because imaginative people didn’t usually choose working with corpses and grief. Bodies didn’t scare her—no, indeed—but she couldn’t help but imagine the pain that had brought them to this last, painless end. Unlike most funeral directors, she’d not only seen death; she’d seen dying in many forms—quick, slow, painful, painless. It was the wrenching emotional process of that that she wanted to avoid.