Going to the Chapel

by Janet Tronstad

  Of course, no one in the family says too much about the different sides. Aunt Ruth is always polite to me. I’m not even sure that she knows that she treats me differently than the other cousins. She doesn’t scold me like them, but she doesn’t brag about me, either. I’m not quite her niece in the way that the boys are her nephews.

  Finally, Gary finishes his speech and sits down. I think everyone is relieved, even Elaine. Maybe she finds it hard to believe in that much happiness, too. Either that or she’s gotten a good look at her new in-laws and knows the road won’t be as smooth as Gary says.

  I look at Aunt Inga. She’s the big pray-er in the family and I wonder if she’s praying for Elaine these days. I’m not saying I want her to be praying for Elaine. I’m just wondering, that’s all.

  Chapter Three

  The very next morning I announce to Cassie that I’m going to look for that job. We’re back in Hollywood by then and we’re sitting at the table in Cassie’s small one-bedroom apartment eating yogurt and whole wheat toast for breakfast. I like the smell of toast in the air and the sunshine is coming in the large window next to the table. It might not be eternal happiness, but the day is full of possibilities.

  The apartment Cassie rents is in one of those old Hollywood brick buildings that have rows of identical windows—you know like the ones Hitchcock filmed in those classic movies of his. I love the big windows in Cassie’s place. We’re on the third floor so we’re high enough up that we look out into air—which is kind of cool if you’ve spent your whole life looking out windows that face the desert around Blythe.

  Not that all you see is air outside of Cassie’s windows. If you lean to the right and look down from the window in her living room, you can see the big pots of various plants she has on the fire escape landing outside that window.

  You’d think Cassie would be anti-mother because of her real mother putting her up for adoption, but she’s not. She’s the most motherly person I know. That’s probably why she likes to grow things. And why she approaches life with so much hope. Like now, she finishes up her yogurt and then tells me she knows I’ll find what I’m looking for. Some people would say that kind of thing and sound phony. But Cassie really believes in me. So, what can I do? We walk out of the building together and, when Cassie walks in one direction to catch a bus to her job in the floral shop, I start to walk in the other direction.

  I walk for a couple of blocks and then I see the sign for the Coffee Spot. I know they have the Hollywood Reader on a table just inside their door. Since it’s a free paper, I won’t even have to go up to the counter.

  Not that it’s bad to go up to the counter. It’s just that this part of Hollywood isn’t the fun part that people think of when they think of Hollywood so there’s no real reason to sit down and have a cup of coffee. No new movie stars are going to be discovered here, that’s for sure.

  The first clue that you’re not in the glamour part of Hollywood is the smell. It smells like fish. And, instead of movie studios, you see Thai fish markets and fortune-tellers who have neon signs blinking away in their shaded windows. The street looks grimy and there are too many cars inching their way down it to make it pleasant.

  Anyway, before you know it, I am back at the apartment and I am sitting down at the table once again. I have the want ads in one hand and my pen in the other hand. I’m ready to circle the job I hope will be there. Before I open the paper, I close my eyes.

  Now, this is a little weird, but I want you to know me so here it is—as you know, I’ve gone to church for years with Aunt Inga even though I don’t pray anymore. I know most people who go to church take church seriously, but I attend for Aunt Inga because she takes it seriously. Anyway, I figure God gets me and understands why, when I bow my head in church, I do not talk to Him. I make lists of books I want to read and movies I want to see, but I carefully do not talk to God. That’s our agreement.

  Still, even though I don’t pray, I sort of got into the habit early on of closing my eyes at times like now because—when I figured out that my mother wasn’t going to take me to live with her, I started to pester Aunt Inga for information about my father.

  My father had been sick for a long time before he died. Maybe that’s why Aunt Inga couldn’t think of much to say about him. Mostly, she just said that he was a man who prayed and she was sure he was watching out for me and asking God to do the same. I think she meant to comfort me, but it kind of creeped me out at first. I mean, I wanted a father, but I didn’t want one who spied on me, especially if he brought God along when he did it. I mean, how intimidating is that? It’s even worse than a living father bringing in the police every time he wants to see you.

  But then I thought, well, maybe it’s okay if my father is watching over me even if he has to bring help with him. You know, in case I am about to be run over by a car or something. So, now, just in case my father is watching, I bow my head. I guess you could say I pretend to pray. You see, I wouldn’t want my father to see me not praying and be disappointed, especially if he’s putting in extra time to protect me from accidents. With that toppling thing I have going for me, I could use someone looking out for me and it feels good to think it’s my father. So I bow my head and keep my mind blank. I know it is complicated, and a little weird, but that’s me.

  Anyway, when I open my eyes, I flip the paper open and there it is.

  Wanted: An assistant to coordinate music, flowers and filing. Help our clients arrange the ceremonies they want and deserve for one of life’s most important days. In the heart of Hollywood. Church setting. Please be understanding and organized. No need to call first—just stop by for an interview.

  Whoee! I do a mental high five. This closing-the-eyes business must work. I’ve seen enough ads to know that the bit about just stopping by means they’re desperate for someone to take the job. I can already hear someone saying “my dearly beloved, we are gathered together…” Oh, I love a good wedding.

  I’m feeling pretty good by now so I put on this pale pink summer suit I have that’s just perfect for afternoon weddings. Then I give Aunt Inga a call. Just in case my dad is on a coffee break about now, I know Aunt Inga will pray that I get the job. I should explain that just because I personally don’t pray that doesn’t mean I don’t think that prayer works. I think it works just fine for people like my dad and Aunt Inga. It just doesn’t work for me.

  Anyway, after I call Aunt Inga, I put on some lipstick to match the pink suit and fluff up my hair a little extra so I look as though I am ready for a wedding.

  I take a bus over to the address on Hollywood Boulevard, feeling more hopeful all the time. First, I see the address on the curb and then I see the church. It is an old stone church with ivy growing up the sides of it. It’s the kind of place where movie stars would want to get married. I would want to get married there. There’s a tall thin steeple and a series of little carved entryways to what looks like a courtyard. There are even rosebushes around the church.

  I take a peek into the courtyard. Wow—what a place for a wedding reception. There are trees with all these deep green leaves and lots of bricked area where you could set up a dozen or more of those large round tables. I can just see the place at night with candles on the tables and some of those tiny white lights strung from the trees. The air is fragrant from the roses and, if the wedding is at night, you could look up and maybe see a star or two. How romantic is that?

  I look up at the sky so that my father can see I’m excited and hopeful. I’ve also noticed that there aren’t many cars in the parking lot so there aren’t hordes of other people here applying for the job. This could be my day.

  I suppose if I hadn’t been drooling over the church, I would have paid more attention to the signs and would have been better prepared for the job interview.

  Not that you need to worry—I didn’t blow the interview. I know you’re in suspense so I’m going to tell you flat out. I got the job.

  Now, before you sing the “Hallelujah Chorus,�
� there’s something else I need to tell you. It’s not the kind of job I was expecting. You see, this place isn’t a wedding chapel at all. It’s a mortuary. That’s right. Dead people all over the room. Well, maybe not in this room, but definitely nearby.

  I’m not so sure any of my aunts would approve of me working in a mortuary. I’m not so sure I approve. My dad might think it is okay, but then he’s dead so he’s got a different perspective.

  Anyway, I did a double take when I got inside the mortuary. I still can’t believe I didn’t notice it was a mortuary from the outside. Actually, there is a very discreet sign on the building—I went out and checked later and, sure enough, there was one of those weathered brass plates with the raised lettering that said Hollywood & Vine Mortuary.

  As I said, I didn’t know it was a mortuary until Mr. Z, that’s the owner, came over in the lobby and asked if he can help me. He’s about seventy years old and he was dressed in a black suit. His face was so sorrowful I wondered what kind of weddings they had here.

  Well, that started our interview. Me with my surprise showing and him just talking away as if it’s every day someone walks in wearing a pink suit and asking to work with the dead—well, at first, we got real tangled and he thought I only wanted to work with the married dead people. He must have thought I was some kind of strange guru or something. I told him that wasn’t the case, but I was still at a loss to explain why I was hesitating.

  “It’s not that I have anything against any of the dead people.” I finally just blurted it out in the middle of him telling me about the hours the staff work. I mean I pride myself on being open-minded. I like all kinds of people. Besides, I know what it’s like to have someone think they’re better than you because of something you can’t help and I wouldn’t wish that on anyone. So I don’t worry about skin color or marital status or religious preference. I’m supportive of handicapped people. I must admit, though, that the dead thing gives me pause.

  That’s where we are now in the interview. Me stuck with nothing to say and Mr. Z looking at me.

  “Don’t worry about the dead people,” Mr. Z finally says with a wave of the hand. I notice he’s wearing a big diamond ring. I’m glad to see he’s not all black suit, but I’m a little taken aback. I look around, hoping he’s not going to say something loud and offensive about dead people. Men with flashy jewelry sometimes do things like that. He doesn’t. Which makes me realize I don’t even personally know any men who wear flashy jewelry so I must have a prejudice against men who wear flashy jewelry—which is not good. Something tells me this job isn’t the place to have prejudices of any kind.

  Mr. Z just keeps going on. “Dead people are easy to work with—it’s the families that will give you problems.” I almost laugh, but then I realize he’s not joking so I sort of choke instead. He’s looking at me now as if I’m a juvenile delinquent. “You have any family?”

  I think about my mother, but we don’t really live together so I figure there’s no need to list her. “I have an aunt—Aunt Inga. But I don’t need to worry about my family. You see, I—”

  Mr. Z isn’t listening. “I remember when it seemed like everyone had big families. Now, we see smaller and smaller funerals every day. The relatives just don’t come. And, young girls like you—they live thousands of miles away from their families.”

  He looks at me as though I’d just run away from home in addition to being a delinquent.

  “I’m twenty-three.”

  He doesn’t look impressed. “And where is this Aunt Inga of yours?”

  “She lives in Blythe.”

  He looks at me as if I’m trying to be clever and that there’s really no such town except in my mind.

  “You know, Blythe—it’s on the 10 freeway just this side of the Arizona border—a couple of hundred miles from here.”

  He still looks skeptical, but nods his head and calls for the receptionist to come over.

  “This is Miss Billings.” He introduces her to me. “She’ll measure you for your suit.”

  This is it? Doesn’t he even ask if I’ll take the job? “Oh, I don’t need a suit.” One of us needs to speak up. “You see if I decide to take the job, it’ll only be temporary until…”

  Until what? Until I can figure out what do with my life?

  I get ready to say something, but Mr. Z doesn’t give me enough time. He just grunts and turns to Miss Billings. “Measure her anyway. You never know when she’ll get a part that calls for a black suit.”

  Miss Billings giggles. She has steel-gray hair pulled back into a crooked bun that she keeps clipped down with a black plastic barrette.

  “We know all you young girls really want to be in the mov-i-es,” Miss Billings whispers to me as she pulls a tape measure out of her pocket. She doesn’t say movies like an ordinary person. She draws the word out and she has a proud smile on her face when she says it. “That’s why I told Mr. Z he needed to rewrite that Help Wanted ad to make it sound more exciting. Not everyone realizes the potential of working here. We are the Hollywood & Vine Mortuary, you know. The Paramount studios are just down the street. The relatives of some big stars are buried here.”

  I don’t want to know what she means by here. I need a change in the conversation. “I don’t want to be a movie star.”

  “Of course, we don’t blame anyone for wanting to be in the movies. We always let any of the girls rearrange their schedule if they have an audition or something. I used to be a makeup girl for the movies myself.” Miss Billings just keeps on talking.

  Doesn’t anyone listen around here? “I want to be a bridal consultant.”

  Miss Billings puts the tape measure across my shoulders. “I’ve done the makeup for many a bride in my day—on and off screen.” Miss Billings measures my arm from elbow to wrist. “Now I’m in charge of the final picture of repose.”

  “Huh?” I look up for this one.

  “You know, the final resting pose.”

  Yikes. “You mean in the casket?”

  Miss Billings nods as she measures my shoulder to my elbow. “You’d be surprised how a good hairstyle and a little makeup can make a difference. There’s this certain shade of blush that, I swear, makes a dead person come to life—for the viewing that is. It’s called Pearly Pink—isn’t that lovely? I’ve always wondered if the manufacturer of that blush had dead people in mind when they made it—you know, sort of a heavenly reference with the pearly gates and all.”

  I can’t believe I’m having this conversation. Would somebody actually develop a makeup for dead people? Maybe they would. I don’t know anything about this business of working with the dead.

  “Do you have to touch them?” I finally ask.

  Miss Billings lets go of the end of her tape measure and the thing spins back into its little box. “Not everyone likes to be touched.”

  This is even getting creepier. “But how—”

  Miss Billings looks at me and just smiles. “We have a form that people and their families can fill out before they need our services. Some people prefer the natural look and don’t want to have makeup.” She walks over to the receptionist desk and writes something on a piece of paper before looking up at me again. “That’s always a mistake in my opinion. People wear makeup when they’re alive. They need it even more when they’re dead. I mean, just because you’re dead that’s no excuse to look bad. It’s your big day—you’ve got the final viewing, then the funeral. People might want pictures. No, you need to look good.”

  I nod. I could probably use some of that makeup about now myself.

  “I won’t have to?” I swallow.

  “Oh, dear me, no,” Miss Billings says. “You would need to have experience before you could do that.”

  That’s not totally reassuring, but I’m not going to press my luck.

  Mr. Z decides I can start even without the suit as long as I stay in the back and don’t interact with the customers. That is just fine with me.

  “I’m a size ten,” I tell Mi
ss Billings as I head toward the back room where Mr. Z is leading me. “I bet you get lots of size ten women coming in to look for work.”

  Miss Billings nods and I feel relieved. I mean, just in case my temporary is even more temporary than I suspect, I wouldn’t want them to have a suit made up that no one else could wear later.

  Now that I think of it, isn’t it kind of odd that Mr. Z makes suits for everyone? What kind of an employer makes suits for his employees? I know restaurants sometimes do that, but that’s if they have something peculiar like chicken costumes or those red fish-head masks.

  I’m not that wild about wearing a black suit all the time, but I’ve got to tell you I’d rather wear that than a fish head.

  I’m almost through the lobby before it occurs to me that Mr. Z might also be making suits for the dead people. Maybe that’s why he has a system all set up with a tailor and everything. I wonder if, when I leave, a dead person will wear the suit I leave behind.

  “Do people have their own clothes when they come to be buried?” I ask Mr. Z.

  “We pride ourselves on having a well-dressed clientele,” Mr. Z says as he opens the door to the back room. “We don’t let clients go on view unless they are appropriately attired.”

  I decide I should buy some clothes with my first paycheck. I haven’t thought much about preparing for death, but I can tell you this, I don’t want a Mr. Z somewhere deciding what I wear for the—you know, my big day. These black suits can’t look that good no matter how much Pearly Pink makeup someone uses on your cheekbones. Besides, if I die anytime soon, I want to look as if I was a fun person while I was living. Maybe Cassie would promise to ask Aunt Inga to bury me in this pink suit I’m wearing now.

  I never knew a mortuary could have so many forms. There are two rows of file cabinets in the back room, which is also the break room. One whole side of the room is covered with this big white board that you can mark on. It has the work schedule on the right side and the funeral schedule on the left side with little numbers here and there as though someone calculated a worker to funeral ratio.