Oh, jeez. Now I was going to get Ms. J in trouble. “No, it’s not that. It’s just … please tell her. You have my permission to invade my privacy.”
Ms. Ormond laughed and called Ms. Jensen. At first she merely said I was sick and going home.
I mimicked a puking motion and mouthed, tell her.
Ms. Ormond lowered her voice. “Ms. Jensen, I normally would not divulge this detail, but Melanie insists I inform you that she vomited.”
Ms. Ormond handed me the phone. “She’d like to speak with you.”
Uh oh. Did she suspect my pukage was self-induced?
“Ms. Jensen?”
“Hi, Melanie. Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m sure it’s nothing. Ms. Ormond thinks I should go home, though.”
“Poor thing.” She sounded genuinely concerned. “You’ve had a lot going on these past couple of weeks. You should get some rest, but I did want to ask you a quick question. Have you received a call from Mr. Reynaldo about All State?”
I’d almost forgotten. “Yes. He called last night. I wasn’t home and haven’t had a chance to call him back, but I will tonight.”
“Thank you, Melanie. It could mean a lot to some of your chorus mates.”
I hung up with Ms. Jensen and took my excuse note from Ms. Ormond to the front office.
By the time I got to the front door of the school, Patrick was waiting. I hopped in the back seat of the hearse. “Thanks for picking me up.” I wanted to ask whether my parents knew anything yet but wasn’t sure how to do it without raising suspicion.
As we pulled out onto the street, Patrick’s cell rang.
“Yes, Dawn? Sure. Off of Franconia? No problem. I’ll do it on the way back.” He looked in his rearview mirror. “We’ve got a removal.”
A removal? He had to be kidding. “Can’t you take me home first? I really don’t feel well.”
“This’ll take ten minutes, tops. It’s on our way.”
Great. I looked at my watch. 1:05. I had forty minutes to catch that bus.
Patrick pulled into a neighborhood of old town homes and parked in front of one with frilly white curtains and a huge gray cat sitting on the windowsill. He opened the back of the hearse and pulled out the gurney. “I’ll be right back.”
I sent Lana a text: “On a body run. Wish u were here.” I’d love to see her face when she read it. Once a couple of years ago, my mom picked us up at the mall with a casket in the back of the car. Lana refused to get in until Mom opened it and proved it was empty. Wimp.
Patrick’s knock on the door startled me. I cracked my window. “What’s up?”
“I need your help for a minute. Inside.”
“Sorry. Not happening.” I rolled the window back up.
He knocked again, and I ignored him.
Click. The lock on my door popped and Patrick opened it. “Melanie, this is important. It won’t take long.”
“Forget it.”
“Come on. I need you to put some clothes on the deceased for me.”
“What! Why?”
“It’s an older woman. She died in her sleep without any clothes on, and her husband won’t let me in the room. Says he doesn’t want me to see her like that.”
“Wow. Old school.” It was kind of sweet, I had to admit, but it was not my problem. “Why doesn’t he dress her?”
Patrick glared. “Oh, I don’t know, maybe because … he’s grieving? Look, all you have to do is throw a robe around her.”
“Sorry, but I can’t. Besides, I’m sick, remember?”
“Whatever you have, she’s not going to catch it, I can assure you of that.” Patrick sighed and crouched down, his voice softer. “Just pretend she’s a mannequin. Trust me, she’s not going to hurt you.”
I knew that. I wasn’t worried about her. It was her husband I couldn’t face. I looked at my watch. 1:09. I also couldn’t afford to waste any more time. Zed would be pissed if I showed up late for our studio session. He’d already texted me twice today to make sure I was coming. “Fine, I’ll do it on one condition.”
Patrick took my hand and helped me out of the hearse. “Name it.”
“Keep this entire afternoon on the down low. Don’t tell Mom and Dad about me coming home early.”
He nodded. “You got it.” He seemed relieved.
Halfway to the door, I stopped and grinned. “Wait a minute. You don’t want them to find out about this either, do you?”
Patrick shrugged. “Probably wouldn’t help my year-end bonus, asking the boss’s daughter to dress a corpse.”
I nodded. Little did he know, Dad would be thrilled. He was always trying to get me interested in funeral directing. It would never happen, since the embalming part totally grossed me out—all those needles and fluids and body cavities—not to mention my rule about avoiding the family. But I’d helped Dad a few times with last-minute touch ups to the deceased’s make-up or clothes, and Dad loved it.
Of course, Patrick didn’t need to know that. “You’re right,” I said. “He’d probably kill you. You may want to get Dawn to keep her mouth shut about all of this, too.”
Patrick nodded. “I’ll talk to her.”
As we walked through the front door, the cat jumped off the windowsill and wrapped itself around my legs. I reached down and scratched behind its ears as it purred. Poor, sweet thing. Did it know it had just lost one of his owners?
Seated on a couch across the room was a large, elderly man. His eyes were closed and his breathing heavy. Had he fallen asleep? For a moment, I thought I might be able to slip in and out without having to talk to him, but Patrick cleared his throat and nearly shouted. “Mr. Waldron? This is Melanie Martin.”
The man’s eyes opened slowly, like a vault in one of those old horror movies, and it seemed to take him a few seconds to focus.
I walked over and shook his hand. “Pleased to meet you. I’m very sorry about … this.” I waved toward the hallway, which I assumed led toward the bedroom.
Mr. Waldron sighed. “It’s not your fault. Eleanor always hated wearing pajamas. Said they made her feel too restricted.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean that.” I felt myself blushing. “I meant I was sorry about your loss.”
Mr. Waldron pursed his lips and began making a strange humming sound. The sound of denial.
“Okay, well. I’ll just … ” I turned and scurried down the hall. The first door I opened was a bathroom; the second was the bedroom. It smelled like a mixture of mothballs and lilac. Eleanor lay on the bed beneath the covers, her gray hair peeking out. Her cloudy blue eyes were opened, so I closed them. I rummaged through her closet and picked out a robe that snapped up the front, one that wouldn’t fall open when Patrick lifted her onto the gurney.
Getting the robe on was a challenge. She was a small woman, but her limbs had already begun to stiffen, and moving her body around on the bed was awkward. Eventually, though, I wrapped the robe around her, pushed her arms through the sleeves and snapped it up.
I went back into the living room to get Patrick, but he was gone. Mr. Waldron was sitting forward on the couch flipping through a photo album. “Want to see what she looked like on our wedding day?” he asked.
“Sure.” I didn’t move. “Where’s Patrick?”
“He went out for a smoke.” He stopped at a page and pointed. “This one’s my favorite. Cake all over her chin.”
“I should go get him.”
“Oh, let him enjoy his cigarette.” Mr. Waldron motioned for me to sit next to him. “Come look.”
My feet remained frozen to the floor.
Mr. Waldron frowned. “Are you okay? You look pale. Let me get you a glass of water.” He groaned as he stood.
“No, no, I’m fine. Please, sit.” I took a deep breath, walked over and sat down.
The wedding photos were black-and-white and a little grainy, but you could tell Mrs. Waldron had been a knockout. Her dark hair was swept up in an elegant updo, and she wore a floor-length white gown with
lace sleeves. “She’s gorgeous.”
Mr. Waldron smiled and nodded.
“You smeared cake on her?”
He laughed. “No one could believe it. She looked like a china doll, so perfect. I couldn’t resist.”
“Did she get mad?”
“Oh, no. She laughed. Eleanor was always a kid at heart. Of course, she was only eighteen on our wedding day, so she really was a kid then. We both were.” He sighed. “Fifty-eight years of marriage.”
“Wow. That’s amazing.” I tried to imagine what Zed and I might look like fifty-eight years from now.
Mr. Waldron flipped to the back of the album. “Here we are celebrating our fiftieth.”
The two of them looked so happy. And despite her age, Mrs. Waldron was still beautiful. Seated on her lap, arms wrapped around her neck, was a young girl, about eight or nine years old, with tight blond curls. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but for some reason, she looked familiar. “Who’s this?”
“That’s our granddaughter.” Mr. Waldron’s voice cracked, and he quickly flipped to the next page. “Let me show you the cake we had. Three tiers, and the best icing you’ve ever tasted.”
Had I said something wrong? As Mr. Waldron searched for the photo of the anniversary cake, the cat jumped onto the couch and nudged at my hand. Its fur was warm and soft, and its claws tickled my legs through my jeans as it kneaded its paws gently up and down.
“Ah, Dumbledore likes you.” Mr. Waldron gave me a weak smile. “Eleanor was a big Harry Potter fan.”
I stroked his ears. “He’s sweet. I’ll bet he’s going to miss her.”
Mr. Waldron shut the album, leaned back and began making his humming noise again, this time louder.
Oh, no. Why did I have to say that? And where in the world was Patrick? If he didn’t hurry up and get back in here, he might be joining Mrs. Waldron in the back of the hearse for the ride home.
“Can I see her?” Mr. Waldron grabbed my arm, and I jumped.
“Of course.” I motioned toward the bedroom. “You should do that.”
He rose and shuffled to the hallway entrance, then turned and stared at me expectantly.
He wanted me to come with him? Why? I waved for him to keep going. “Um. I’m good. Anyway, you should have a few minutes alone with her.”
I scooped up Dumbledore and went to the front window to look for Patrick, who was leaning against the hearse puffing calmly on his cigarette and talking on a cell phone. What was he thinking, leaving me in here like this? This man had just lost the love of his life, someone he’d been married to for three times as long as I’d been alive. All that humming was creeping me out, and every time I opened my mouth I brought it on even worse.
A long, loud sob came from the bedroom. I pressed my face up against the window to feel the cool of the glass. I needed to get out of here. I set Dumbledore down on the windowsill and stumbled out the front door.
Patrick straightened when he saw me and said goodbye to whoever was on the phone.
I marched up to him. “What are you doing? Why would you leave me in there like that? Did you need a smoke that badly?”
Patrick smiled and started to take another puff, but I grabbed the cigarette out of his mouth and threw it to the ground. “Mrs. Waldron’s ready. Please go get her so we can leave.”
“He’s not,” he answered.
“What?”
“Mr. Waldron. He’s not ready. He needs some time. Did he go in to see her?”
I sighed. “Yes, and he’s practically keening right now. I could hear him all the way across the freaking house.” I opened the limo door. “You said ten minutes. It’s been twenty-five.” I climbed in and slammed the door. Patrick was right, of course, but I didn’t have to like it and I certainly wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of admitting it.
No way would I make my 1:45 bus. The best-case scenario put me on the 2:15, which would get me to Ty’s about twenty minutes later than the rest of the band. I sent Zed a text to let him know.
I closed my eyes and tried to stay calm. I went over the newest Grime song I was learning, sounding out different background compositions, until finally I heard the hatch on the rear of the hearse creak open. As Patrick loaded the gurney in behind me, I peeked out the window and saw Dumbledore staring at us, his ears back and tail twitching. He looked pissed.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
I ran the half mile from the bus stop to Ty’s, so by the time I got there I was sweating and breathing as hard as a pallbearer at a sumo wrestler’s funeral. The gates flew open as I approached. Great. I squelched the urge to wave at the camera.
I’d spent the past twenty minutes rehearsing my explanation for being late, but something about the set of Zed’s chin when he met me at the door stopped me from even trying. “Sorry,” I managed to mumble as I raced past him into the foyer and toward the basement. “Long story.”
The usually spacious studio seemed almost cramped with Tex in it. He wore a Stetson hat and a brown leather vest that showed off his biceps. He pointed me toward a mic. “Let’s roll.”
This was only my third time singing with the entire band, but it felt like we’d been together forever. Tex sat in a corner, eyes closed, his right hand pulsing to the beat. We went through a few of the older songs and then debuted “White Out.”
“Hold it.” Tex stopped us halfway through the second chorus, as I sang my line, “deeper than you’d dare to go.”
“That has a nice sound, but you’re going to want to build it. Let’s hear it without that line the first time. Wait to add that until the second time around.”
We tried it again, and Tex nodded. “Better.” He hummed the chorus a few times. “Let’s try this. The first time without the last line, the second time with it, and then the third time, Mel repeats the entire chorus by herself, a cappella.”
We ran through it again. When I got to my solo, I sang it straight, no fancy stuff, but I held onto the word “go” for a couple of extra beats. As I ended, Ty threw in a soft bass drum fade that sounded eerily like a heartbeat. My whole body tingled. Brilliant. Now I understood why Tex was so in demand. And why Zed was so anxious to work with him.
I held my breath, and I got the sense the guys were holding theirs, too. What was Tex thinking? Did he like it? Did he like us?
He stared at us, idly fingering his goatee. After what seemed like an eternity, he cleared his throat and spoke. “Well then, if you’ll excuse me, I have a train to catch.”
That was it? I have a train to catch? My stomach tightened and I felt like I might puke for real. “Maybe we could try it again. I could add a vibrato to—”
“No, no, I’ve heard enough, thank you.” Tex shook each of our hands, and then Zed walked him out, leaving the rest of us staring nervously at each other.
J.B. was the first to speak. “So, do you think he’ll sign us?”
Bruno scowled. “What universe do you live in? ‘I’ve heard enough’? He’s blowing us off. He may as well have said, ‘Good luck with that.’”
I twisted a strand of hair around my finger. “That build was incredible. I thought we rocked it.”
Jon set his guitar on its stand. “We did. Screw him. If he can’t appreciate what just happened here, he ain’t worth our time.” He pointed at me and smiled. “Nicely done, by the way. You nailed it.”
Bruno nodded and looked down at the floor. “Sounded good,” he mumbled.
“Thank you.” I knew it took a lot for him to say that.
When Zed came back, we pounced.
“Well? What did he say?”
“Is he going to call?”
“Did he like us?”
Zed shrugged. “No idea. He didn’t say a word. Just went on and on about how cold it’s been in New York and how nice it is to see stuff blooming down here.” He turned and pointed to Ty. “He did ask me to thank you for last night’s party. And he loves your house.”
“It’s over,” Bruno said. “Talking about the freaking weathe
r? Doesn’t get much worse than that.”
“We gave it a shot.” Zed looked at me. “Though it might have helped if we could have fit in another song or two.”
My face flashed red. “I am so sorry about that. The thing is, I was in the hearse, and we had to stop, and—”
“Forget it,” Zed said. “I shouldn’t have said that. I know you tried.”
My eyes burned with tears and my throat felt parched. What if he was right? What if I’d just blown our big chance to work with one of the best managers in the business? “I need some water,” I said, trying to keep my voice even. “Anyone else want anything from the kitchen?”
Before anyone could answer, I took off and ran up the stairs. I grabbed a bottle of water out of the refrigerator and stepped out onto the back deck. I felt sick, shaky. I needed some fresh air.
It was cool outside, and the evening shadows stretched all the way across Ty’s backyard. A line of forsythia bushes bloomed alongside the edge of the deck.
I leaned against the railing and closed my eyes. A tear escaped and rolled down my cheek. Damn it. I wanted this. It wasn’t just about hanging out with The Grime or getting together with Zed. It was about creating something. It was about doing more than standing up in a balcony singing for strangers who were too consumed by their own grief to even hear, or standing in the first row of two dozen teens performing the same songs as every other high school chorus in the state and maybe even the whole country.
When I opened my eyes, I saw that a cardinal had landed on one of the bushes below, his feathers a spot of bright red against the yellow of the forsythia. I gave a low whistle. He cocked his head, eyeing me warily. I whistled again, louder. He gave two short chirps and hopped up onto a branch a little closer to the deck. He was no more than a few yards away now, his wide eyes a mixture of fear and curiosity. I mimicked his chirps, and he immediately chirped back. I stood as still as my shaking knees would allow. “Chirp. Chirp. Chirp.”
He echoed back with three chirps. Ever so slowly, I reached out my hand. He took a small hop away, but he stayed on the branch. I chirped again, and again he echoed. I leaned forward and inched my hand out further. “You’re beautiful,” I murmured, but at the sound of my voice, he gave a loud chirrup and flew off into a fir tree at the edge of Ty’s property.
The Funeral Singer Page 10
