Mourning Wood

by Heather M. Orgeron

  “Lucy and Ricky,” Mrs. Boudreaux says. “Harold was so fond of his puppies.” She pauses to dab at her face. “He took them everywhere.”

  “That’s lovely.”

  “I couldn’t leave them behind.”

  “Of course not,” I say. “They are more than welcome.”

  That comment earns me my first wobbly smile from the woman.

  It’s not uncommon for the bereaved to latch onto something that makes them feel closer to a lost loved one. They’ll wear their clothes or drive their cars. Serve all of their favorite foods during the reception. We once had a father insist to having his son’s dirt bike beside the casket. This is the first time we’ve had a client bring along a pet, or two rather, to schedule funeral arrangements, but we are in the habit of making whatever allowances possible to make this painful process a little more bearable.

  “Well, they are precious,” I say, smiling huge while sending up a silent prayer that they don’t relieve themselves in my office.

  “Yes.” She twirls the tail of the smaller one between her fingers. “They are.”

  “So,” I say, determined to move things along as quickly and efficiently as possible, “it is my understanding we’re to have a traditional viewing and burial?”

  Maria nods while Vicky fawns over her companions, not seeming to be paying one iota of attention.

  “Well, then. Why don’t we head over to the casket room so you can make a selection? Afterward, we can come back here to go over the financials and finalize plans.”

  In no time at all, the women settle on a mid-priced pine casket. It’s sturdy and masculine and what they both feel he’d choose for himself.

  We are back in my office in record time, and I’m counting my blessings that so far, our tiny guests have left no souvenirs.

  “I have a request,” Vicky says, just as we’re beginning to wrap things up.

  The command in her tone catches me off guard, but I’m honestly relieved that she’s finally coming out of the fog she’s been in and partaking in this meeting. “Name it.” I give her my most sincere smile. “We will do whatever possible to make it happen.”

  “Harold—he wanted to be buried with his babies.” She runs a hand lovingly over Lucy’s head, then adjusts the bows on her ears.

  “The dogs,” Maria quickly clarifies. “She doesn’t mean actual babies.”

  Like that somehow makes this request any more acceptable.

  My eyes volley between the two of them and then focus on the little purse puppies cuddled together in Vicky’s lap. I can taste the bile rising in the back of my throat—climbing higher and higher with every second that ticks by. I’m not even sure what I’m waiting for…the hook, maybe? There’s no way they are serious.

  They can’t be.

  Once the silence becomes unbearably uncomfortable, I have little choice but to accept that this is in fact not a joke and that these women are completely deranged.

  I don’t care that my father is in the back embalming this man as we speak. If they decide to take their business elsewhere, so be it. Daddy will just have to work it out. I refuse to entertain this for even a moment longer.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, choking on disgust. “There’s no way I can go along with this.”

  “But you just sai—” Harold’s widow starts.

  The tips of my ears are as hot as Hades. “I know what I said, but I cannot allow you to murder those poor puppies.”

  Maria snorts before losing herself to a fit of hysterical laughter. She’s folded over, hooting like a complete loon.

  I feel like I’ve just transported to an alternate universe. What the hell is wrong with these people? I understand grief—probably better than most. But this…never in my wildest dreams did I imagine such a request.

  “I don’t see how you could possibly find any of this funny.” I’m literally seconds away from calling the authorities on Lucy and Ricky’s behalf. Horrified doesn’t come close to defining what I feel.

  “Not these puppies,” Maria finally squeaks out. “They’re already dead.”

  “Oh, thank God.” My body literally deflates as I collapse into my seat with relief. I reach for a stack of paper from my desk and start fanning myself with it.

  “We’re not monsters,” Vicky snaps, clearly offended. The eyes she has aimed at me reflect the derision I felt just moments ago.

  “I’m very sorry, Mrs. Boudreaux. I misunderstood.”

  The woman sneers before stuffing her pets back into their bag. “I’ll be right back.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Don’t mind her,” Maria tells me, sensing my discomfort. “It was an honest mistake, and quite hilarious. God, I needed that laugh, today of all days. Thank you.”

  I nod and try to force a smile while still staring after the angry woman. “I feel awful.”

  “Don’t,” Maria says. “She’s been completely out of sorts.”

  “That’s understandable.”

  Maria and I make small talk while awaiting her mother’s return. I assume she’s gone out for a breather or even a cigarette. Maybe to let the puppies have a potty break. I am not at all prepared for what happens when she comes back into the room, though I thought I’d seen just about everything by now.

  “This is Wilma and Fred.”

  I turn toward the door to find Vicky lugging two taxidermied Malteses—one tucked beneath each arm.

  “I see,” I say, trying like hell to conceal the tremor in my voice.

  “We’d like to place them next to the casket at the viewing and then bury them with my husband.”

  “Well…” I clear my throat. “I certainly have no problem with that.”

  “Perfect!” The woman sets them on the floor. “We’ll just leave them here rather than toting them back and forth.”

  “Great,” I croak. “Anything else?”

  “That’ll be all,” Vicky says, leaving without so much as a farewell.

  “Thanks for everything,” Maria says, reaching out to shake my hand. “And sorry about all of this.” Her eyes dart to the stuffed dogs eyeballing me from a few feet away. “My parents are a bit eccentric.”

  “Yep. Don’t even worry about it. Get some rest. You have a long couple of days ahead of you.”

  “Ready to roll?—Oh, hold up.” Wyatt pinches his chin with the thumb and forefinger of one hand while pointing to my new roommates with the other. “Those weren’t here this morning.”

  “No,” I agree. “They most certainly were not.”

  “Something you ordered for Prissy?” he asks, bending down to touch them. He pulls a face. “Why are they so hard?”

  “They’re not for Prissy.”

  “Okay…” He picks one up, examining it more closely. “They look so real.”

  “Mmmhmm,” I agree, literally suffocating on the laughter I’m suppressing. “Would you mind turning them to face the wall while you’re down there?”

  Their lifeless eyes have my skin crawling. I realize that my aversion to them is absurd, considering I spend so much of my time with the deceased. Irrational as it may be, having these poor puppies sharing my space is weirding me out.

  I have questions. So many questions.

  How long have they been dead? Were they displayed on a bookshelf? Collecting dust in an attic? Do they dress them up like baby dolls for the holidays?

  Wyatt does as I ask then rises to his feet. “This is some strange décor for someone who doesn’t really have a fondness for animals.”

  “They are not décor.” I shut my books and grab my purse before walking around to lace my arm through his. I can’t get out of here fast enough. “They are Wilma and Fred, and their funeral is tomorrow.”

  After rolling up to my usual spot in front of the funeral home, I shift the truck into park and let it idle, flipping my visor down to check my hair. I rotate my head this way and that, taking the time to make sure each strand is perfectly placed. There’s a slight chance that I may be stalling.
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br />   With my hand finally positioned on the door handle, I do a quick count backward from ten, fully intent upon flinging it open, but I chicken out and tug the visor back down, this time under the guise of checking the status of my black bow tie. I give that a little adjustment, as well as the collar to my matching oxford.

  It’s not even fifty degrees out and I’m wiping sweat off my palms onto my dress pants.

  Why am I so nervous?

  Just yesterday, I spent well over an hour at the flower shop trying to decide on what color roses to get for her bouquet. Who knew that was such an involved process? Certainly not me. My first instinct was black, since it’s her current obsession. Pretty obvious, right? Then I read the back of the card, learned they represent death, and couldn’t do it. There’s no way I was bringing that child death flowers. Prissy’s not one for bright and colorful. So, where some shade of pink would be the clear choice for most little girls, they wouldn’t work for my date. In the end, I settled on ivory. Hazel, the florist, said they would be the perfect color to show someone you care without romantic intentions.

  Have I put too much thought into this? Absolutely.

  The fact that I’m behaving like a crazy person is not lost on me, but that doesn’t prevent the need for a pep talk from yours truly just to work up enough nerve to get out of my vehicle and ring the damn doorbell.

  The self-imposed pressure I feel to impress this child is more than any date I’ve ever been on. I’ve done all I can think of to make her night magical—to give her a memory she’ll look back on fondly for years to come. Every little girl deserves to feel like a princess at least once—even tomboys with morbid curiosities and a fondness for four-letter-words.

  I take a deep gulp of the cool December air, brush off the last-minute jitters, then crush my finger to the button and wait.

  And wait.

  And wait.

  “What the hell are you doing, boy?” The door gives way to Hank’s puckered face. “Since when do you ring the bell?” He grunts like a boar. “Making me come down all them dang stairs.”

  “I was trying to make a good impression on the family.” I give him a pointed look, to which he rolls his eyes and hangs his head, slowly rotating it side to side. I can’t tell whether he’s impressed or disgusted with my shenanigans—the niggling worry stirs a little frenzy in my gut.

  “Stay right here. I’ll go get her.” The door slams in my face, then instantly swings back open. “You look real nice, by the way.”

  Well, that was unexpected. “Thanks.”

  He nods. “Almost forgive ya for stealin’ my date.”

  “You waitin’ on an apology to go along with that whine?” I ask when he continues to stand there glowering at me.

  Once more the heavy oak door slams leaving me chuckling to myself on the threshold. Yep, he’ll do just fine for a father-in-law.

  When it creaks open again—for what is likely the first time in my life—I find myself completely lost for words.

  A sudden knot forms in my throat. I didn’t expect to be so affected by the sight of this little girl all dolled up. Nor to feel the sense of pride in the way she’s beaming up at me that’s swelling my chest to near bursting.

  Prissy’s long blonde hair has been curled and styled half up with loose bits around her face. True to her word, she let her momma add a touch of pink to her cheeks and gloss on her lips. It’s just enough to enhance her natural beauty. She looks polished, but not overdone. Her dress is black—no surprise there—fitted at the top with sequins, flaring out at the waist into a poufy tulle skirt that ends mid-calf.

  “We match!” she screams, jutting a booted foot out into the space between us. Dimples dent her cheeks when she stares down at the combat boots I acquired for myself just for the occasion.

  “Got a leather jacket sitting on the seat of my truck too.” I quirk a brow. “If your momma’s okay with you wearing yours, of course.”

  Her wide eager eyes light up. “Can I?”

  I’ve never seen a bigger smile on Whitney’s face. “Go get it,” she says, while her eyes well with tears.

  “How are you even real?” Once the little one has scampered off, Whitney steps forward, reaching out to cup my cheeks in her hands. “You thought of everything.”

  Her touch is soft and warm, and sets my heart pumping a little faster. “I tried.”

  She drags a thumb over my lower lip, giving a gentle tug downward. “She’ll be talking about this for weeks.”

  I grin, fighting the urge to lean down and suck her plump lower lip into my mouth. “I hope longer than that.”

  She visibly trembles when I brush her hair back from her shoulder, gifting myself with a whiff of her sweet perfume.

  “Got it!” Prissy yells.

  Whitney drops her hands to her sides, stepping back like she’s just been burned.

  “Go get yours,” Prissy orders, heaving for breath from her mad dash down the stairs. “So Momma can take the picture.

  “Wait,” I say, crouching to her level while whipping the arm around that’s been hidden behind my back for so long now it’s gone numb. “Almost forgot. These are for you.”

  “You got me flowers?”

  “I did.”

  Without warning, she flings her arms around my neck. I swear my heart grows three sizes. “Thank you, Wyatt.”

  I rub a hand over her back, patting it gently. “You’re welcome, squirt.”

  “I’ll go put these in a vase while you get your jacket,” Whitney says, taking the bouquet from Prissy and rushing off, I’m assuming to avoid us seeing her become emotional.

  If that’s what helps her sleep at night, I’ll never mention the tears I watched her swat away on her way to the kitchen.

  “Well don’t you look beautiful, Priscilla,” Principal Wyler greets as we walk through the gym doors into a winter wonderland. “Where’s Hank tonight?”

  “Embalming Joel Dugas,” Priss answers with a sly grin.

  God, I love the fire in this kid. Her snappy response has me beaming with pride like I had anything at all to do with her badassery.

  The middle-aged woman blanches before checking herself and plastering on one of the most unnatural smiles I’ve ever borne witness to. “Aren’t you going to introduce your date?”

  “Oh, yeah!” Her little hand tightens around mine. “This is Wyatt. He’s my momma’s boyfriend, and when they get married, he’s gonna be my stepdad.”

  From her lips to God’s ears.

  “Oh?” She brings a hand to her chest. “I didn’t even know your momma was dating anyone.”

  “Just friends,” I say, in a whisper carefully concealed behind the back of my hand just in case this conversation gets back to Whitney. It’s a precarious position to be in, for sure—not wanting to hurt Prissy but terrified of pissing her momma off.

  “Of course you are.” Mrs. Wyler gives a discrete wink before pointing us in the direction of the photographer. “Enjoy y’all’s evening.”

  My answering smile is forced. I’m not in the practice of putting on airs, but I can’t help but think she’s one of the ones making Whitney self-conscious about her parenting skills. Apparently I’m now holding grudges on her behalf.

  I think that pretty much makes me husband material. I’ll have to let her know.

  After waiting in line and having our picture taken, we head toward the big round tables set up in the back. At the center of each is wide array of hot chocolate toppings meant to customize the drinks that are delivered to us piping hot as soon as the mom in charge sees me pull out my date’s chair.

  “You’re not adding any of this yummy stuff?” Priss gapes at me while shoving a handful of caramel chips into hers.

  “I’m good.” I take a sip from the foam cup to prove it.

  She shrugs, adds a few blocks of Hershey’s chocolate and a handful of marshmallows, then begins mixing the chunky concoction with a peppermint stick

  This kid is gonna be lit in a few minutes.

/>   “Hey,” I say when I notice girls clustering together at the other tables, “don’t you wanna go sit with some of your friends?”

  She quits her stirring, drops the stick, and stares up at me with the most pitiful of expressions. “They think I’m weird.”

  The air whooshes from my chest. “All of them?”

  She nods, then shrugs it off. “Paw says they’re just jealous cuz I’m the smartest. I let him believe that because I think it makes him feel better about things. But I know they just don’t like me.”

  Adrenaline floods my veins. I’m angry enough to break shit—ready to go to war for this kid. “You have no friends?” I ask, trying to keep a steady tone while secretly dying inside.

  “Oh, no…I do.” Her eyes that were once twinkling with excitement are glistening for an entirely other reason now. “Jacob and Preston are my BFFs, but this is a girl thing, so…”

  “So, they couldn’t come?”

  She nods.

  While digesting this new information, I become hyperaware of what’s taking place behind us. The whispers about her “ugly” black dress. Her “boy” boots. The mystery behind her date…me.

  One of those awful little girls whisper-yells to her friends, “She thinks she’s so cool because she got someone besides her creepy grandpa to come with her.”

  I’m already seeing red when the little brat’s father laughs at her antics. It takes every ounce of restraint I possess not to punch him square in his jaw. Instead, I turn and level him with a pair of warning eyes when Prissy isn’t paying attention. He has enough sense to look ashamed.

  “Come on,” I say, reaching for her hand when that Whip Nae Nae song comes on and flurry of pink rushes by, headed for the dance floor.

  She stares at me like a deer in headlights, unmoving.

  “You know the steps; I’ve seen you do it a million times in the lobby after school.”

  Prissy brings her thumbnail to her mouth, chewing nervously. “You’ll come with me?”

  “Well, duh.” I make my voice loud enough for the mean dads to hear. “What kind of man sits on his butt and watches his date dance?”