When the Day of Evil Comes

by Melanie Wells

  My family would inevitably beat it out of there as soon as possible, hoping that great aunt so-and-so was too busy playing poker in heaven with Elvis to notice.

  So when I stepped into the parlor of Sutter Funeral Home, I knew what to expect. Somber lighting. Musty carpet—in this case, a dirty nursing-home shade of green—and doors leading to viewing parlors named after pastoral scenes from Scripture. Thankfully, the faint spitting sound of window unit air conditioners accompanied the cheesy organ hymnal music playing softly over hidden speakers. At least it would not be wretchedly hot.

  The smell of dust and mold took me back to the March afternoon my father and I had breathed this same air while planning the details of Mother’s funeral. I felt a chill snake between my shoulder blades.

  “Can I help you?”

  I turned to see a handsome man of maybe twenty-eight, turned out in a nicely tailored black suit. Definitely not Lurch.

  “I’m looking for …” Rats. I couldn’t come up with anything other than Lurch. What was the man’s real name? Not Sutter. It was something else. Tchaikovsky? Dostoevsky? All I could come up with were Slavic remnants of my liberal arts education.

  “Mr. Shykovsky?” the young man asked pleasantly.

  “That’s it,” I said, pointing at him. “Shykovsky. Mr. Shykovsky. Is he in? I have an appointment.”

  “I’m Mr. Shykovsky,” he said.

  “No you’re not,” I blurted.

  “I could show you my driver’s license,” he offered, amused.

  “No, no. I don’t mean that. I mean, you’re not the man I’m supposed to meet. He’s older. Sort of … shorter. Black hair, sort of gray … sort of …” I cut myself off as I gestured with my arms. I didn’t want to say fat. “Hefty?”

  “Pear-shaped?”

  “Yes! That’s the guy. Is he here?”

  “No, he’s down the road a bit.”

  Down the road a bit. What was this, a Hee-Haw skit?

  “When will he be back?”

  “I’m afraid he’s not coming back.”

  “Did he retire?”

  “He died. We buried him three months ago.”

  “Oh.” People kept dying on me. I thought I’d talked to the man yesterday. Was this another bizarre dead-people-talking-on-the-phone incident?

  “Are you Dylan?” the man asked.

  “Yes.” Suddenly my brain cleared. “Are you the one I talked to?”

  “The same.” He shook my hand. “David Shykovsky. I’m sorry about the confusion. I didn’t know you were asking for my father.”

  “I didn’t know he’d died. I’m sorry.”

  He shrugged. “He lived to eighty and died of a heart attack in his sleep. Ate bacon and eggs every day of his life. Couldn’t ask for a better ending.”

  “He was eighty? He looked so much younger.”

  “Yeah.” He smiled, showing me a beautiful set of white teeth. “We liked to say he was well-preserved.”

  Hey. This was a likable guy. And he was cute. And looked like he had a muscle or two under that nicely cut suit.

  “Why don’t you come on back?” he was saying. “I pulled the file for you already.”

  I followed him down a long carpeted hallway, past viewing parlors named “Green Pastures,” “Still Waters,” and “Restoration.” Apparently no one had died in Hillsboro in the last day or two, because the rooms were empty.

  We turned left at the end of the hall (avoiding the casket room, thankfully) and entered his office. He offered me a seat opposite his desk and leaned back into his leather chair. The man was a hunter. Stuffed trophy heads covered each wall, and a bobcat, teeth bared, poised in mid-leap behind his chair. It was unsettling. I kept wanting to tell him to duck.

  “They’re not mine,” he said.

  “What?”

  “The dead animals. They belonged to my father.”

  “They’re spooky,” I said. “Why don’t you get rid of them?”

  He grinned. “It’s hard to spook a mortician.” He slid a manila file across the desk to me. My mother’s name and death date were on the tab. March 15. The Ides of March.

  I raised my eyes, questioning silently. He gestured that I should go ahead and open it.

  I hadn’t anticipated feeling so much emotion. But as I turned the cover, I swear I felt my mother’s presence in that room. My eyes got wet.

  David handed me a tissue from the box on his desk—a tool of the trade for us both, apparently—and left the room.

  The information was clinical and dry There was a copy of her birth certificate, a copy of her death certificate, a copy of her burial certificate. Lots of certificates were required to die, apparently.

  There was a receipt for the casket, a detail of her funeral expenses, an order form for the headstone, on which had been written “delivered and installed.” A sheet of detailed funeral instructions were written in my handwriting. We had specified daisies instead of roses. My mom had always been more of a daisy chick.

  I wiped my eyes and turned the pages until I found the description of her clothing and was surprised to see a Polaroid of her in her casket, paper-clipped to the description.

  She was so pretty. My mother’s hair was red. True red. And her skin, freckled and translucent in life, was lovely in this photograph. With her green eyes closed, she could have been asleep if she’d been in her jammies. Instead, she wore the blue suit my father remembered. A blue suit she never liked, by the way. Powder blue with a white blouse. The suit was the giveaway. It made the whole image seem artificial and waxy. I made a note to specify somewhere that I be buried in a really great set of flannel pajamas.

  My eyes moved to her hands. I’d almost forgotten why I came. They were folded at her waist. There it was. 1.2-carat diamond and platinum band. It was so much part of her hand that it belonged there.

  David returned with a glass of ice and popped the top on a Dr. Pepper. I listened to the pleasant sound of fizzy liquid trickling over ice as he poured it for me.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  I took a sip. “I guess everyone gets emotional in your office, huh?”

  “Most everyone. Did you find what you need?”

  “Sort of. Do you have some time for me to ask you a few questions?”

  “Sure.” He leaned back in his chair, the bobcat springing at him over his shoulder. He looked so … unsuspecting sitting there.

  “My mother was buried in her wedding ring.” I slid the picture across the desk and pointed at it. I read the description of her burial attire from the file, ending with “one ring, platinum with diamond (wedding) on left ring finger.”

  He nodded.

  I reached in my purse and took out the little velvet pouch, emptying it into my hand. I handed the ring to him.

  He looked at it and compared it to the picture, then looked up at me. “I don’t understand.”

  “Neither do I. It was returned to me recently.”

  “Are you sure it’s the same ring?”

  “I spoke with the jeweler that made it. It’s the same one.”

  “Was someone trying to sell it back to you?” he asked.

  “No. It was, boxed and wrapped. Someone clearly wanted me to have it back.”

  I waited for the news to settle.

  “We had one incident,” he said, rising from his chair and leaving the room. He came back with a file a few minutes later, saying “It must have been twenty years ago. A woman had been buried with a piece of jewelry, I think it was a pin or something, and someone later tried to sell it back to the family.” He thumbed through the file until he found what he wanted and returned to the desk reading a newspaper clipping.

  “Shirley Jean Lucas. It was a ruby and diamond brooch. Very valuable. It had been on the Titanic with her or something. Some big deal. There was a newspaper article about her and the pin before she died.” He scanned the article. “They caught the guy Juan Ramon Rodriguez. An illegal immigrant that had gotten a job digging graves at the cemetery. They
determined he’d pried open the casket before closing the grave.”

  “So it is possible,” I said. “Someone might have stolen it out of the casket at some point.”

  “It’s possible. It’s very rare, but it does happen.”

  “Who would have opportunity other than the grave digger?”

  “The mortician,” he said, “who in this case was my father. I think we can safely rule him out. Possibly the driver of the hearse. Usually there are two or three people from the funeral home staff on duty at a funeral, including the mortician. Probably in March of that year it would have been Everett Reed and Buddy Harriman.” He reached for my mother’s file and scanned the pages.

  “Yep. They were both there.” He looked up at me. “They were with my father for years. They both retired when he died.”

  “Do you think either of them would have done it?”

  He shook his head. “Absolutely not. These were reliable men, longtime associates of my father’s. There are firm ethics in this business, obviously. Believe me, even in a small town shop like ours, there’s ample opportunity to steal. There’s a fortune in jewelry planted in the ground out there south of town. You have to have people working with you that you can trust. And besides, if that were going on, something would have come out over the years.”

  “But who would know if anyone was stealing? Once they’re buried, no one would know.”

  “True, but I’ve known these men all my life. Trust me, they’re not the type. It’s possible a grave digger or someone could have done it.”

  “And how could I find out who the grave digger was?”

  “You could talk to-Stan Harland over at the cemetery, but chances are you’re on a wild goose chase. Nobody exactly chooses grave digging as a career, you know? Those folks are hourly wage workers who come and go. It takes half an hour to train them to operate the backhoe and they’re hired. Know what I mean? Could have been anyone.”

  “So there’s not an answer.”

  “No. There isn’t. I’m really sorry.”

  There was an awkward moment of silence.

  “You’re not going to sue me are you?” he said, only half joking.

  This time I was the one that laughed. “No. Definitely not. I’m not the litigious type. Besides, what would be the point? I have the ring.”

  “Would you like us to reinter?”

  “You mean bury it again?”

  He nodded. “I thought I’d offer.”

  “No. I think this ring wants to be with me. Maybe I’ll fill you in on the rest of the story sometime.”

  “I’ve got time now. Want to go get a cherry soda?”

  “You’re kidding. A cherry soda?”

  “At the drug store. They have a real pharmacy soda fountain there. Make a mean cherry soda. It’s too early for beer or I’d take you dancing.”

  “How old are you?” I asked. We’d just looked at pictures of my dead mother together. Some sort of intimacy had been established. Directness seemed appropriate.

  “Thirty You?”

  “Thirty-three.”

  “You look younger,” he said.

  “So do you.”

  “It’s the embalming fluid.”

  So I went to the Hillsboro Main Street Drug Store with David Shykovsky, owner of Sutter Funeral Home, and had myself a genuine soda fountain cherry soda with a genuine small town guy.

  At least it was a step up from John Mulvaney.

  10

  THE CHERRY SODA DATE turned out to be a pleasant surprise. I liked David Shykovsky. Though I kept picturing myself giving the “owns a funeral home in Hillsboro” answer at parties.

  Interestingly, he’d seemed unfazed by the bizarre nature of my story. I didn’t tell him everything. (I left out the teeny detail that I was being investigated for inappropriate sexual conduct with a client who had later committed suicide. That completely outdid “owns a funeral home in Hillsboro” as an automatic disqualifier for date consideration.)

  He had my phone number. I suspected he would call me again.

  David favored a spiritual explanation for this whole situation. He might have just said that to avoid liability on the part of the funeral home, but I didn’t get the impression he was that sort of guy. He actually seemed to believe that an intrusive spiritual dimension was a plausible explanation for what I’d experienced. That made him a little more attractive in my mind. At least he didn’t think I was a loony bird.

  Driving home, I felt dissatisfied with the answers I’d gotten about the ring. It was too ambiguous. My gut feeling was that it hadn’t been stolen. That it had been buried with my mother. I would have felt more at ease about this conclusion if there hadn’t been some holes—one or two unlikely but possible opportunities for theft. I’d rather have had an airtight “no way.” It seemed that certainty was not one of the things God was going to supply at this point. I was irritated about this to no end.

  The drive seemed longer on the way back. Probably because my mind was still reeling and it was late afternoon now. Hot. Hotter than the eyes of hell, in fact. And all I’d ingested that day were about two gallons of tea, a Dr. Pepper, and a cherry soda with a side car of vanilla ice cream. Not exactly a strict observance of the FDA’s food pyramid.

  When I finally arrived home, I was beat. Just absolutely worn-out on every level. So I was even more annoyed than usual to find several messages on my answering machine, the red light blinking expectantly at me, a little scarlet strobe of obligation.

  I hit the play button and fast-forwarded through two rambling and angry messages from my father. Apparently my abrupt conversation with him about mom’s funeral had gotten under his skin. Which was fine with me. Let Kellee deal with him. She’d signed up for that, as far as I was concerned.

  There was one message from Helene. She’d spoken with Erik Zocci’s father this time and wanted me to call her back as soon as I had a minute to talk. And the last message was from my student, Gavin. Odd that he would call me at home. I wondered how he’d gotten my home number. Usually I make a point to be thoroughly unlisted. With the Damoclean sword of ethical allegations dangling over my head, I didn’t need any suggestions of impropriety I decided I’d just see him in class on Monday. I didn’t return his call.

  I did fix myself a large glass of ice water and sat down to call. Helene. She picked up on the first ring. Thank goodness for caller ID.

  “Hi, Dylan,” she said. “You ready for this?”

  “Probably not. But go ahead. Is it bad news?”

  “I can’t tell yet.” I heard her cover the phone and say something to someone else.

  “Is someone there with you?” I asked.

  “My son. He’s just here to mow the lawn. He just stepped outside.”

  “Okay. What did you find out?”

  “He mentioned you in the suicide note.”

  “What? Did he blame me for the suicide? What did he say? Why didn’t his parents get in touch with me? Why haven’t we heard from them?” Questions were whipping out of my mouth before I could stop them.

  “Settle down. Do you want to hear this or not?”

  “I’m listening.”

  “You don’t sound like you’re listening. You sound like you’re arguing.”

  “I’m listening. Go ahead.”

  “I don’t have it verbatim. But the note specifically said that you were right. That he wasn’t the man he should be. Something to that effect.”

  “I never said that!”

  “Shut up,” Helene said. She’d never spoken to me so harshly before. “Just shut up and listen. I’m not going to debate this with you.”

  “Okay.” I clamped my lips together and silently vowed to keep them there.

  “According to the father, the kid had started having trouble at SMU his freshman year. Bad dreams. Insomnia. Same symptoms you saw. The father claims he went downhill while he was seeing you, and that your treatment was inadequate in some sort of catastrophically damaging way.” She paused. “He als
o said Erik had told him about your improper behavior advances.”

  Silence.

  “Well?” she said.

  “You told me not to say anything.”

  “Now it’s time to say something. What do you think?”

  “I think I missed some paranoid psychosis in this kid.”

  “That’s what I think.”

  “What else did he say?”

  “He’s contacted a lawyer, Dylan.”

  I closed my eyes. “They’re suing me.”

  “And the university. The good news is that, in my opinion, your records completely dispute their claims. They haven’t seen the files, obviously. But I can’t see how they could possibly win that claim. Your professional credibility alone would stand against that sort of accusation. The bad news is you probably missed the diagnosis.”

  “That would come out at trial,” I said, my heart sinking.

  “If there is a trial. SMU’s attorneys will defend this one aggressively. It will probably settle out of court with no admission of liability. That’s how these things go.”

  “And what will happen to me?”

  “Depends. You could lose your job.”

  “That’s not fair.”

  “No, it isn’t.”

  I listened to my kitchen wall clock tick seconds away.

  “What’s next?”

  “I’m meeting with the attorney on Monday. He’ll probably want you at the meeting. I’ll let you know when we confirm the time. It’ll probably be after your afternoon class.”

  “And until then?”

  “If I were you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Pray.”

  I took her advice and spent some time, literally, on my knees before I went to bed. Peace continued to elude me, though, and another sleepless night of deviled-egg smells had me wandering through the house at 3:00 a.m. looking for sources of the odor. I never could place it. I emptied every garbage pail in the house and garage, scrubbed out my garbage disposal, and ground up a fresh lemon in it. Still the smell remained. Every time I closed my eyes it would come again.