Rachel Caine: Working Stiff

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.