by Jolene Perry
“Well, don’t worry yourself.” I frown. “I’ve walked home in worse.” I think.
“Really?” he asks, peering through the window at the sky.
“Maybe. I mean…probably.” I’m squinting again, which makes my nose ache.
“I don’t mind.” Hartman glances at me.
I have no idea what to make of this guy. We stand and stare at each other for a beat. Another beat. Another…Is it my turn to talk or his? I don’t remember.
“Okay then.” He shoves out the door, and the second he’s not under the awning, he dashes for his car. Rainy halo.
Dang it.
I sprint out behind him yelling. “Wait! I changed my mind!”
It’s pouring, but he pauses at the passenger’s side door and holds it open for me.
“Get in!” I yell. He doesn’t. Just stands there and waits until my feet are in before closing the door and running to the other side.
“Whew!” he says as he jumps into the car and tries to swipe water from his curling hair. “I was told it didn’t rain in California.”
“You were told wrong.” I laugh. “We’re too far north for perfect weather.”
He shakes his head, making me duck away on my side of the car to avoid the water droplets flying off his hair.
“Well, I was going to make a remark about you being polite and holding my door, but I take it back,” I say as I make a show of swiping my arm and face.
“Did I get you?” His eyes widen. “I mean wet. I didn’t get you wet, did I?”
I want to feed him a line like I’d do to Matthew about wet dogs shaking at the worst times or something, but instead just say, “Thanks for the ride.”
“So…” He waits, maybe wondering if I’m going to say something else, and then sits back and starts his car. “You and Bryce are friends?”
I snort. “Not me.”
“But your friend? She seems into him.”
I don’t even mean to sigh, but it comes out long and exasperated. “So it would appear.”
Hartman backs out of the parking space.
“Your stuff…” He points under his eyes. “Running a little.”
My what? Oh. Crap. All that eyeliner and makeup I used to try to cover up my black eye…I flip the visor down to see a face fit for Halloween—drooping, running mascara and liner in rivulets down my pale cheeks, and a bruise that’s making a more dramatic appearance as my makeup smears. I press under my eyes and try to smoosh the black mess away with my fingertips—so much for “waterproof.”
“Crap!” I yell when I hit my sensitive eye too hard.
Hartman pauses at the parking lot exit. “Let’s see.”
I turn to face him, and he studiously looks at my face for a moment. “That’s quite a bruise you have.”
I close my eyes. “I’m not the most…graceful person ever.”
“Well, only one person is the most graceful, so you’re one of several billion people.”
I’m laughing again. “I guess so.”
The rain beats against the roof of his car. I keep softly swiping underneath my eyes, hoping that I’m actually doing something with my light touches.
“So…” I start, only no more words come to mind. “The government project…”
“It’s more interesting than I thought it would be.”
I lean forward and stare at him. “Really?”
“Yeah. I had no idea there were so many steps and blocks and committees for new laws, and…It really is a mess, isn’t it?”
“I guess.” I hadn’t looked at a single thing in class. I’d counted seconds and tried to ignore Bryce and Bree.
More silence as Hartman fumbles with his phone and the plug into the radio, and when his phone drops between the seat and the center console, he hits the radio. Music blasts into my eardrums. I jump. He jumps, swerves, and hits the radio button, silencing the music.
“Sorry.”
I press my hands over my frantic heart. “My odds of making it home alive might have been better if I’d walked.”
“In this rain?” He does this weird half-laugh choking thing.
I have no idea what this guy’s deal is. He’s so…strange. He drives straight to my house. Must have a good memory.
We pull to a stop under the awning, and Hartman leans one way a little and then the other, ducking forward like he’s trying to see through the glass doors.
Why will it feel weird if I just get out of the car? That part should be easy.
“So, thanks again. I’m impressed you remembered where to go.”
He clears his throat. “I’ve…I’ve been up this direction a few times since moving here.”
I glance outside and then back toward him, unsure of what good protocol is in this situation. “Oh.”
“Um…Can I…” He swallows, and I notice it because his Adam’s apple really sticks out of his thin neck. “Can I come in for a sec?”
“Are you serious?”
The only people who want to come in want to see bodies out of morbid curiosity, or ask a bunch of stupid questions about ghosts. I don’t know what happens to a person after they die, but they don’t become ghosts. I don’t care what Angel says.
“You’re not, like…I don’t know…just fishing for information about dead people or something, are you?”
His eyes flash to mine and then dart away. “I don’t know anyone in California my age but Bryce, and you can imagine how interesting those conversations are. I sort of know you. That’s all. I’m just…I don’t know. Is it weird if I come in? Do you never have people over?”
No. I only have Bree over. But that’s not something I’m ready to admit. “Sure. Whatever. We always have loads of snacks because sad people eat a lot.”
“Okay. Cool.” He nods and taps on the steering wheel again. “Why don’t you get out under the awning, and I’ll park in the lot so I don’t crowd up the drop-off place?”
How long does he plan on staying? I don’t realize I’m staring until his eyebrows dance up in that universal gesture that says something like I’m ready for my answer any time now…
“Okay.” I stumble out of the car and tuck my fingers into my hair, trying to fluff up my little bit of curl after the rain.
The second I step in the door, Angel grins like we’re in on some secret. I’ve never been more relieved that he’s on the phone. I walk back toward the chapel. I can’t remember if today is the child’s services or tomorrow. Maybe I shouldn’t even be here.
Mom steps out of the chapel, closing the door behind her. “How was school?”
I lean away. She’s also smiling too widely. “Um…good?”
“Who dropped you off?” she asks just as Hartman’s lanky frame comes through the door. What kind of crazy “mom sense” does she have if she knew a guy dropped me off?
I spin to face Angel. “Did you seriously call my mom from across the room?”
Angel shrugs in innocence and points to the phone he’s still holding to his ear, but I’m pretty sure it’s a fake call.
Hartman’s hands fan over his curly hair, brushing off water. With the way his gangly arms are jerking about, he looks sort of orangutan-like.
“This is…um…Hartman.”
How weird is it that I’ve never introduced my parents to a guy before? Not that he’s a guy guy, in the sense that we’re dating or whatever, but the last thing I need is the twenty questions from my parents over someone who is maybe friend material.
His eyes dart around the open room, which looks much more modern than our place from the outside, and I’m so thankful it’s empty now. Well…aside from Dad who I can hear in the salesroom, or the How much do you love your loved one? room, because the nicer the coffin or urn, the higher the price.
“I’m Jenny Osborn.” Mom stretches out her hand and Hartman takes it.
“Great to meet you,” he says.
“What are you two up to?” Mom asks.
“That’s a good question.” I guess I’m a crap
py host to people who I’m not being paid to serve.
“Where’s Bree?” Mom looks around me as if she somehow missed her.
“Out.” I even manage not to frown.
“I’m just…I asked if I could kill some time here.” Hartman winces like his words actually slapped him on the back or something. “Or…not kill, but…”
Mom laughs. “We’ve heard every bad pun and watched people flubber over much worse things than the word kill, so relax. I’m going to try to finish up the paperwork for Mr. Nichols before he leaves today.”
“He’s back?” I ask, my heart squeezing a little. No, no, no, no, no…cannot feel the vice-grip feeling.
When will they bury her? I know this is selfish and horrible, but that sweet, old broken man is going to break me.
“Burial is tomorrow morning, just before the services I asked you to miss,” Mom answers. “He asked for another hour in the viewing room with his wife today. You know your dad would never say no to that.”
She walks back toward the office, and I forget Hartman is with me. I have to see Mr. Nichols. I walk quietly across the lobby and pause in the doorway of the viewing room.
Mr. Nichols sits on a chair, his eyes closed, but I’m sure he’s not sleeping. Just sitting.
The warmth of Hartman hits my back just before the grapy smell hits my nose. Huh. I wonder what that is?
Mr. Nichols’s eyes open and they’re on me.
I suck in a breath and grab my chest. “I’m so sorry,” I blurt out. His mouth twitches. “I know she’s not here.” He gestures to his wife in the casket. “But…she’ll be buried tomorrow, and…and it’s hard to imagine days when I won’t see her face anymore.”
I step into the room. My heart is trying to bang its way through my ribs. Normally I take off when this happens. I should get out of here. I really, really should. Closing my eyes briefly, I try to slow my heart and my breaths—such a generic reaction to everything. “I’m really sorry.”
“I bet those words are pretty automatic for you.” A corner of his mouth pulls up.
“Um…” I glance back at Hartman, but he’s staring at the woman in the casket. “A little, yeah.”
“I bet you think I’m crazy.”
I shake my head.
“I bet that’s automatic too.” His smile is a little wider now.
“Yeah, but…” I touch my hand to my heart again. “Some people I notice more than others.”
He tips his head in acknowledgment. “One day you’ll fall madly in love, and when you do, you’ll know why I’m here. Right now you probably see a crazy, old guy in a worn suit.”
“I don’t think you’re crazy,” I tell him.
“Me either,” Hartman say from behind me, making me startle again.
“This your fella?” Mr. Nichols asks.
“What?” I jump away from Hartman, my frantic heart now fueling my suddenly spinning thoughts. “No. I barely know him. I mean…no.”
Hartman is weirdly stoic.
“Tell your father thank you for his indulgences.” The man stands up, walks to the coffin, and pats his wife’s hand. “Always, love,” he whispers.
“Maybe I’ll see you again, Gabriella,” he says to me before his gaze flits way up to Hartman’s face. “And maybe you as well.”
“Um, hmm…” Hartman’s partial words are mumbled.
The man leaves, his hat still clutched in his hand.
Hartman takes a step forward. And then another one. His eyes are on the woman.
“You okay?” I ask. I barely notice the cadavers anymore, but it’s different for everyone.
“I’ve never seen a dead person before. My mom was against an open casket. I saw my dad before school that morning, and…and now he’s buried and I-I wish I’d have been able to say good-bye.”
I fold my arms, having no idea what to say aside from the generic phrases I have stored up. And those tend to just pop out. “It’ll get easier over time.”
He takes another step forward and touches the woman’s hand the way her husband just did. “She’s cold.”
“Yeah.” Of course she’s cold. She’s just a thing now, not a person. I step back so I’m once again in the doorway.
Hartman stands over the woman, his head cocked to the side, and his hands now in his pockets.
“You get used to them after a while,” I say. “I’ve…I mean, I guess I don’t remember a time when having cadavers around wasn’t normal. Bree and I did her makeup.”
He turns to face me. “And what does that do to a person? Growing up like this?”
“It makes them weird.” I hold my arms out to the sides and give him a little curtsy. “Like me.”
A corner of his mouth kicks up.
“Oh good.” Dad sighs. “I was with another wretchedly indecisive customer in the coffin room.” He emphasizes those words, knowing that’s what I call the showroom. “We need to get Mrs. Nichols back downstairs before the next viewing. Today turned extra busy, and you don’t need to give me the same lecture as your mother did. I know my days would be less crazy if I started saying no.”
“Diabetes guy?” I ask.
Dad presses his fingers to his forehead. “I wish you and Matthew wouldn’t do that.”
Time to change the subject then. “I can help,” I say and then glance toward Hartman, hoping he catches the hint and takes off. “Thanks again for the ride.”
“I can help too,” he blurts out. “I’m Hartman.” He holds his hand out for Dad, and Dad gives him this sideways look like Hartman is an alien or something.
“He’s just a friend from school,” I say quickly.
Dad’s eyes pass back and forth between us a couple times, like he’s just now putting together that Hartman is a guy and here with me. I do not like this look. Dad’s eyes catch mine, and I try to give my best please be normal look, which is really just me setting my jaw and widening my eyes and hoping he reads me well enough to know what I mean.
“How’s the weather up there?” Dad asks Hartman with a half laugh.
I cringe because I’m used to people making stupid comments about my parents’ job. Why would Dad make an obvious stupid comment about someone’s height?
“Wet today.” Hartman ruffs up his dark curls. I wonder if his hair is thick or soft or what.
“I’ve heard,” Dad says as he gently closes the top of the casket and flips the locks down.
Mr. Nichols went all out. These caskets aren’t cheap and sometimes take a while to get here. He maybe knew she was going before she died.
I start to think about facing my parents dead in one of these, but shake off the image before it can stick. I’m super good at that. Practice.
“If you two can double-team on the head end, I’ll do the feet,” Dad says. He jerks off the curtain that covers the wheels, and we start out of the room. “I just need help getting it into the elevator. Matthew can help downstairs.”
Hartman has the strangest expression, or maybe this is just what his long, resting face looks like.
“There’s a bump here,” I tell him just as the casket lurches downward.
Hartman flinches, but I want to tell him that between the weight of one of these premium caskets and the body inside it, we have no hope of keeping it from tipping over if we really mess up. Though I think the hallway is maybe too narrow for that. Then I think about the awesome irony if someone were to be crushed by a coffin and killed.
I snort, and Dad gives me a strange look, so I shove the thought away. But seriously, the irony.
There’s another bump as we roll the casket onto the elevator—the metal space can fit two coffins if we need it to.
Dad’s phone rings, and he quickly answers. “Yes, this is Mr. Osborn…Yes…No, that’s not a problem…” He turns toward the wall, probably hoping to keep his conversation private.
Hartman steps further back in the elevator, and I jerk on the webbed handle, sliding the doors together.
Once the elevator moves, and Dad
gives me an odd wide-eyed look while still on his call, I realize that I’ve maybe crossed a line in bringing Hartman to the basement.
“You should just stay in the elevator when we get downstairs,” I say to Hartman. “The room down there is maybe weird.” It doesn’t feel weird to me, but one thing I’ve learned from Bree is that my normal isn’t normal. I’m pretty sure we’re about to see three caskets, and who knows how many bodies underneath sheets. Our town is growing.
Dad continues to talk in his work voice.
Hartman’s jaw flexes. “No, it’s fine.”
But he doesn’t look fine. He’s pale, and he’s staring at the metal wall. He’s jiggling change in his pockets. Living people are the tricky ones, so as much as logic says I should understand his reaction, I don’t understand his reaction. Being in the basement with the cadavers is simple. Those people are gone, peaceful, and quiet—infinitely easier than navigating this new Hartman situation.
Dad glances back and forth between us a few times, and I very pointedly don’t look at him. My dad is a pro at asking questions with his eyes, and I don’t want to try to answer with mine—at least not while Hartman is here.
“Yes…” Dad says into the phone. He’s seriously staring at me. Yeah…I definitely shouldn’t have brought Hartman down. “Yes, we can do that…”
As soon as the slow elevator hits the lower floor, I jerk open the doors and try to take in the room the way Hartman would see it.
Two bodies rest underneath sheets on gurneys. Two closed caskets, one smaller than the other. Too-bright fluorescent lights. White walls.
The double doors into the embalming room are wide open, and my cousin is standing with a light strapped to his head, an apron with a few smudges on it, and gloves that he’s got clasped behind his back—probably because he sees that we have a guest down here. It’s almost comical in its stereotypicalness. At least the body is covered.
“Hey, Cuz!” Matthew grins, and I cringe. “You should see what we got in today.”
His eyes flit to Hartman and then back to me.
This is not good. It’s just…While Matthew is the one I hang out with when I want to feel less weird because he’s so weird, I’m really not sure how Hartman is going to react to him.
