My Mom's A Mortician

by Patricia Wiles

  “Sounds to me like he wants to marry you,” I said. I tried to sneak a peek at her cards. She’d relaxed her hand just enough for me to see the numbers at the top.

  Marcy jerked her cards to her chest. “Stop peeking at my cards, you little cheat! Tryin’ to catch me off guard?” She cocked her left eyebrow and studied me, her black eyes squinting to the size of slivered almonds. “And how would you know enough about Marshall Cartwright to give me any kind of opinion?”

  “I’ve got ears. He said he loved you. And when someone says he wants to spend the rest of his life with you, you don’t have to have an IQ of 150 to figure out what he means.”

  Marcy’s frown stretched into a playful grin. “So when it comes to love, you’re the answer man. And what makes you think you’re qualified to give advice? You got a girlfriend?”

  Immediately Dani’s face popped in my mind and my cheeks began to burn. I said no, but it was overdone and sputtery, like when you’re saying something you don’t really mean.

  Marcy reached over and pinched my cheek. “Don’t worry, Kevin. I won’t tell. But I’ll bet she’s cute.”

  “Dani’s not my girlfriend,” I said, hoping I sounded forceful. But Marcy’s laugh meant she didn’t believe me. “She’s just my friend. The only real friend I have in school right now.”

  “Well, everyone needs a friend.” Her eyes lingered on the doors. She was quiet for a moment. When she spoke again the words strung out long and soft like spider’s silk. “It’s scary to admit to someone that he’s all you think about all the time. What if my feelings are wrong? What if he’s not the one?”

  Then she fanned out the cards in her hand, and released a question as if it were a weight too heavy for her to lift: “But what if he is . . . and I lose him?”

  Chapter Fourteen

  By the end of January, we all knew Marshall Cartwright. He was at the Paramount almost every day, doing anything he could to be close to Marcy. When Dad remodeled the women’s rest room, Marshall was there every afternoon after work. He helped Dad replace the old tile, install the new toilets, and hook up the new double sink. When Mom cleaned the carpets, Marshall was there to move the furniture. He even picked me up from school a couple of times when Mom was tied up. And like Marcy, he began calling Mom and Dad “Mr. and Mrs. K.”

  I got the feeling that Marcy didn’t have much of a family. I never heard her talk about her mother, and after the day she taught me how to do chin-ups she never mentioned her father again. But it didn’t take long for us to become her substitute family. If she and Marshall were going out, she checked with my parents first to make sure it didn’t conflict with their schedule. Mom and Dad worried if she stayed out late, so Marcy always called to let them know when she came in. And Marcy loved to tease me. I didn’t mind. In fact, I liked to think that if Kelsey had lived, she would have been a lot like Marcy.

  It seemed odd that Marcy ended up at the Paramount right after Mom told me the truth about Kelsey. So I began to wonder: Could God have led Marcy to our family? I’d never given much thought to who God was or what He was up to. Mom had never mentioned anything about God—or going to church—until that night in the guest kitchen. Dad had never talked about Him before, so why should I?

  But I couldn’t deny that something about our family changed when Marcy came along, and the only explanation I could think of was that it was all God’s doing. President Carter had said during Cletus McCulley’s funeral service that when God gives us blessings, those blessings often come through other people. It didn’t make sense to me then, but it did now. Maybe God thought my parents needed Marcy, and that Marcy needed them. It made me feel good inside to think God was actually concerned about my family—even though Dad was mad at Him.

  The week before Valentine’s, I went to the Bowlin’ Hole with Marcy and Marshall. We bowled three games and ate chili dogs with cheese, and hot fudge sundaes. When Marshall got up to refill his soda at the self-serve fountain, I caught Marcy watching him. Her eyes were soft and round, her lips turned up slightly at the corners—the same way I’d seen Mom do when Dad used to come home from work in the afternoons. But the second Marshall turned around the look vanished.

  I thought about that look during lunch later that week as I sat with Dani. She wasn’t my girlfriend, but I sure did like her a lot. And she was pretty. Not like a model, just pretty in a way all her own. Pretty because of the kind of person she was inside.

  I didn’t realize I was staring at her until she caught me. My cheeks burned and as I tried to focus on tearing my string cheese, I hoped I hadn’t been staring at her for too long. The silence was awkward, so I started a conversation.

  “I think you were right about Stiller,” I said. “I’m not so new anymore, so I guess he got tired of me.”

  Dani took a sip from her juice box. “We all know how he is. We’ve gone to school together for years. I’ve heard there’s a new guy in 702 that he’s picking on. But have you also noticed Chuck’s been absent one or two days every week since he broke his arm?”

  “So?”

  Dani exhaled. It was a cute, exasperated little huff. “Maybe he has a problem.”

  “Who cares,” I said, gnawing on my beef jerky, “as long as he leaves me alone.”

  “I guess I just feel sorry for him.”

  “Sorry? Why feel sorry for him? If you want to feel sorry for anybody, feel sorry for the ones he threatens and beats up on.” Where were her loyalties, anyway? “Why feel sorry for someone who’d just as soon knock out your teeth as look at you? The way I see it, if he has a problem, he deserves whatever he gets and more.”

  Dani’s brown eyes narrowed behind her glasses. “Kevin Kirk,” she said, pronouncing the Ks slowly and deliberately, “I am disappointed in you. I thought you were more compassionate than that.”

  For just a second, my pride was hurt. Then I thought, Who does she think she is, telling me she’s disappointed in me? I gritted my teeth. “And why am I supposed to feel compassion for this snot-wad who wants to kick my butt? Maybe I should go up to him and say, ‘I know you’re having problems, Stiller, so abuse me all you want to?’ How about if I offer to let him beat me up when he’s having a bad day? Would that make you happy?”

  Dani got up, dumped her tray, and didn’t speak to me the rest of the day. I tried calling her on the phone that night, but her mother said she had homework and couldn’t talk.

  The next morning I was at my locker and got the feeling that someone was standing behind me. It was Stiller. His right jaw was swollen and blue.

  “I haven’t forgotten about you, Kannibal. I’m always watching you, your every move.”

  I finished organizing my books and closed my locker. But Stiller didn’t like to be ignored. He grabbed my chin and yanked my face around. I was so close I could see the dirty pores on his nose. I reached up and knocked his hand away.

  Then I heard Mrs. Goldwyn’s soft, familiar voice—except this time it was deepened by authority. “Good morning, boys.”

  Stiller suddenly turned polite. “We were just talking about Kevin’s project for science class.”

  “I’m glad to see you two are getting along so well. Say hello to your parents for me, Kevin.”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  As soon as Mrs. Goldwyn turned the corner, I told Stiller to stay away from me. He laughed and took off down the hall. I felt something wet on the front of my shirt. I rubbed my hand on my chest and realized he’d squirted ink all over me.

  Regardless of what Dani thought, I couldn’t let him push me around anymore. I was ready to put him out of business. So when school let out, I went looking for Stiller. I told him to meet me behind the stadium—alone.

  It was cold, and as I waited for Stiller to show up my mind felt as heavy as the fat, gray clouds overhead. I didn’t want to admit it, but part of me hoped he would chicken out. Something in my chest hurt, like when you feel sorry for something you’ve done. But I hadn’t done anything yet.

  All it took
was seeing Stiller round the corner to remind me why I was there: the ink on my shirt, the threats in class, the embarrassment in front of Dani and everyone else. The hurt in my chest turned to anger. And that anger made me want to hurt Stiller, so he’d know how badly he’d hurt me.

  But just as Stiller stopped a few feet in front of me, Marshall’s red Honda turned into the gravel lot behind the stadium.

  Marshall rolled down his window. “Kevin, I’m supposed to give you a ride home.”

  Stiller stared at me so hard his eyes didn’t even blink.

  “Am I interrupting something?” Marshall nodded his head toward Stiller.

  “You’d better go home, Kevie-Wevie,” Stiller hissed, his lips barely moving. “Mommy’s expecting you.”

  I got in the Honda and slammed the door. How could the day get any worse? First the disagreement with Dani, then Stiller ruins my shirt, and now dopey Marshall has to show up. And when I thought about how Marshall had blown my opportunity to teach Stiller a lesson, it made me even madder.

  Marshall went on and on about how he had volunteered to pick up some stuff at the store for Mom because she was so busy. And since he would be coming this way, he reasoned, it made perfect sense for him to pick me up from school. Now wasn’t I glad he was so considerate of my mother?

  Blah, blah, blah. Marshall tried his best to make conversation, but for me, the drive across town was as unbearable as getting a cavity filled. I didn’t feel like being his little buddy. I didn’t feel like helping him track down the best price on laundry detergent, either, so I waited in the car while he went in the Piggly-Wiggly. When he came back out, he had three bags of groceries and a bucket of Mom’s regular detergent—plus two bottles of root beer.

  On the way home, Marshall drove with one hand and held his root beer bottle in the other. He spoke between sips. “Marcy says you’re working out almost every day.”

  I took a drink and tried to think of ways to get him to shut up. “I’m up to ten chin-ups and we’re working on push-ups.”

  “You keep working out and you could really do damage to someone’s face. I have a feeling that’s what was going to happen back there.”

  “I can take care of him.”

  “That’s not a good solution to your problem,” Marshall said. “I’ve been there, and fighting only makes things worse.”

  I rolled my eyes and slouched in my seat. It couldn’t get any worse than this.

  I was wrong. I put my hand in my right pocket, and a shock zapped up my arm as if I’d jammed it into a light socket. The bait wasn’t there!

  For the first time since Cletus McCulley’s funeral, I’d left home without the purple fishing worm in my pocket.

  I helped Marshall carry the groceries upstairs and then ran straight to my room to look for the worm. I tore through the drawers, the bedcovers, and the trash can. I searched the bathroom, from behind the toilet to the medicine cabinet. Still no worm. I sat down and tried to remember the last time I had it. Then a sick feeling came over me. Mom was washing clothes when I left for school. What if I’d left it in the pocket of yesterday’s jeans?

  I dove into the basket of dirty laundry. The jeans weren’t there. I looked through the basket of clean laundry and the clean clothes hanging on the rod beside the dryer. The jeans weren’t there, either. Then I opened the dryer and found a load of clothes inside that had been dried but not folded. I dumped them onto the floor and dug through the pile until I found the jeans. When I stuck my hand in the right pocket I found the worm. It hadn’t melted. It wasn’t as slick and shiny as it used to be, but it was still in one piece.

  Marshall put the new bucket of detergent on the shelf. “Looking for something?”

  “I found it.”

  He pointed at the clean clothes I’d scattered on the floor. “You may want to pick those up before Mrs. K gets back. She and Mr. K went after a body, and she may not appreciate all this extra work you’ve made for her.” Proud to be my mother’s little helper, he grabbed a handful of hangers and handed me half. “We’ll finish this up real quick, and then I’ll go downstairs and help you get the chapel and front hall cleaned up.”

  Marcy had gone back to school for a few days to take some exams, and wouldn’t be home until the weekend. I had no idea why Marshall was hanging around. Maybe he thought impressing us was a good way to get to Marcy. Or maybe he just liked hanging around funeral homes.

  He sure wasn’t doing it for the money. My parents had tried to pay him several times, but he always refused, saying he considered us friends and that we’d do the same for him. Besides, he said, he made good money at his job with an accounting firm in Gleason. If I had a good job like that, I sure wouldn’t be spending my free time at the Paramount. Then again, maybe I would—if it meant I’d get to see Dani. I made a mental note to call her later and try to patch things up.

  I grabbed some shirts and started putting them on the hangers. Something about the laundry smelled different. Or was it something in the room? Mom must have bought some new kind of dryer sheets, although I’d never heard of dryer sheets that smelled like aftershave. I sniffed a shirt, but the smell wasn’t there. Maybe Marshall had gone a little heavy on the Old Spice. But that wasn’t right, either. Only old men wore Old Spice. And Marshall didn’t wear aftershave. Besides, why would he want to smell good when Marcy wasn’t around?

  When Marshall bent over to pick up the rest of the clothes, the hem of his shirt came untucked, revealing the waistband of his smiley-face boxers. Mom had lectured me before about making fun of Marshall, but sometimes it was hard not to, especially at a time like this. It seemed so odd that a girl as put together as Marcy would be interested in a guy as dumpy as Marshall. When he stretched his arm to reach for a stray sock, his shirt pulled up even more, exposing a long, swollen scar on his back.

  “Ewww, Marshall,” I said, making a face. “What happened to your back? Did you have surgery?”

  Marshall jerked up and tucked in his shirt. “It’s nothing. Just a scar. Forget it.”

  “But how did you get it? Did you donate a kidney or something?”

  Marshall glared at me. “Shut up.”

  I’d never seen him get touchy before. He started to sweat as he reached back to make sure his shirt was still tucked in.

  “Hey, I was just asking. I didn’t mean to make you upset.”

  “Then leave me alone,” Marshall said. He walked back to the kitchen. I took the worm out of my pocket and stretched it until it was more than double its original length. I hadn’t really meant to upset Marshall. Even if he wasn’t my favorite person, I at least admired his determination to pursue Marcy.

  I heard the hearse pull into the garage. Then the word: Apologize. Apologize? Apologize for what?

  Apologize, Kevin.

  Suddenly, I knew the Old Spice smell in the laundry room wasn’t from the dryer sheets. It wasn’t coming from Marshall, either. The only men I knew who wore Old Spice were retired—or dead. Goose bumps popped up on my arms, and a wave of cold shot through my body so hard it made me tremble. My eyes told me I was the only person in that room, but other senses told me that I was not alone. I had the strongest feeling that Cletus McCulley was standing beside me, and it scared the crap out of me. I had to get out.

  I stepped into the kitchen, keeping my neck stiff to resist the temptation to look back. Marshall was putting away the canned vegetables. “Help me get these in the cabinet before Mrs. K comes up. Kevin, what’s wrong?”

  “What?”

  “Your face is so pale. You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Are you sick?”

  “No,” I said. “No. Listen, Marshall. I’m sorry. I didn’t know asking about your scar would upset you. I won’t do it again.”

  Marshall looked relieved. “Thanks.”

  I helped Marshall put the last of the groceries away. Mom came in, and Marshall gave her back the change from the grocery money. She gave him a hug in return. “Marshall, you’re such a fine young man. Arlice and I apprecia
te your help so much.”

  “No problem, Mrs. K.”

  “And believe it or not, it means more to Marcy than you think.”

  Marshall’s face lit up. “You really think so?”

  “I know so. She told me herself.”

  I slipped past them and started down the stairs. I would have liked to know exactly what Marcy had said to Mom about Marshall, but the afternoon was almost gone, and Dad was expecting me to vacuum the front hall and the chapel.

  I was getting the Super Vac out of the big maintenance closet at the bottom of the stairs when Marshall came up behind me and grabbed my arm. “Listen, Kevin. I’m not proud of the things I did when I was younger. I can’t go back and change any of it. Don’t make the same mistakes I did. Don’t ever do anything out of pride that you’ll wish you could take back someday. You were almost right about my kidney. I didn’t donate it. I lost it. In a fight. I was stabbed. I almost died.”

  Our goofy, blubbery Marshall fighting like a tough guy? It was hard to imagine, but the tremor in his voice and the sweat beading on his upper lip told me he wasn’t kidding. “How did you end up fighting someone with a knife? Were you in a gang or something?

  “Let’s just say I was trying to be part of a group where I didn’t belong.”

  “But Marshall—”

  “Do me a favor.” He lowered his voice and looked over both shoulders before locking eyes with me. “Don’t talk to Marcy about it. And don’t ask me about it again.”

  His grip on my arm tightened. “OK,” I said. “I won’t tell.”

  Marshall left me alone in the closet and entered the chapel just as Mom finished descending the stairs. I walked out of the closet and she gave me a hug. “How was school today?”

  “Fine,” I said. “No problems.”

  She laughed and nodded her head toward the chapel. “You know, Kev, if Marshall keeps pursuing Marcy, our funeral home may get to host a wedding!”