Mourning After

by Stephanie Damore

I left the two ladies to talk about funeral arrangements and luncheons to take a moment to look over the menu. I was bound and determined to find out what Daniel was eating. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one. Greta had now joined his table. I hadn’t seen her come in, which meant she had probably been in the ladies’ room. Like me, she was eyeing up her son’s food while her placemat still sat empty. If I didn’t know better, I’d say she was looking a bit cross. Then again, I would too if I had to look at that delicious food while mine hadn’t been brought out yet.

  I looked down at my placemat once more, which also served as the menu. Next to an amazing assortment of pancakes (seriously, I had no idea how I was going to choose) was a series of local advertisements. Plumbers for hire, the local church service times, a coupon to the corner pharmacy, and a few job postings. One in particular caught my eye. It was a casting call for “compassionate actresses,” whatever that meant. The job promised weekly assignments and top pay. That part sounded pretty good. I read the ad once more. The company’s name was Exit Stage Left. I squinted to read the tagline: Giving families the funerals their loved ones deserve. Wait, they hire actresses for funerals? That was a thing?

  “You ready to order?” Gran asked, snapping my attention back to her.

  “Sure, I’ll have whatever Daniel ordered. It looks amazing.”

  “Custard cream cakes. You got it. Bacon or sausage?” Miss Sue asked.

  “Bacon. Absolutely.” Was that ever a question?

  We finished ordering, and Miss Sue left us to put it in with the kitchen.

  “What did you find there, darlin’?” Gran asked me.

  “This job.” I went to point to it on Gran’s menu until I saw that she had different advertisements on hers. I pointed to mine instead. “It’s a casting call for actresses. I think they hire them for funerals.”

  “Well, I’ll be. Isn’t that something?” Gran said, reading the ad. “I wonder if they’d hire an old lady? I bet it would be fun. Plus you’d get a free lunch. Now you can’t beat that.”

  “I don’t think that would work,” I said thoughtfully in between sips of my coffee.

  “Now why’s that?” Gran asked. She was fixing to get worked up, even if she wasn’t sure why.

  “Part of the job is pretending to be someone you’re not. How would you pull that off when you know everyone?” Gran’s social schedule was fuller than mine. Just looking at the calendar on the fridge, I saw she was slated to go to three baby showers, two weddings, and a bar mitzvah … in one month alone. One wedding was for the Klachen family, and Gran didn’t even like them.

  “Humph. Well, I still think it would be fun. You going to call them?”

  “Maybe.”

  “I can tell you one thing, there’s not a lot of acting jobs in Bakers.”

  “Yeah, I know, but do I really want a gig right now?” I seriously wasn’t sure.

  “It is what you’re good at,” Gran offered hopefully.

  I nodded and drank some more coffee.

  “You know what? This gives me an idea.” Gran ripped the job posting right out of my placemat. “Hazel should give them a call. I know she’ll want a nice showing for Roseanne.” Gran leaned in closer to me and added, “And given her reputation, that’s not likely.”

  Now that I could see.

  Of course, Gran put the casting call front and center on the refrigerator for me to see. I started to doubt she had any intention of telling Hazel about their services after all. Every time I walked into the kitchen, which was more frequently than it should be, the job description stared at me.

  Was I really going to do this? Act as a professional mourner? An Internet search did in fact confirm that this was a real thing. It was growing in popularity, too. Did I still consider myself a trendsetter?

  The courtesy call from Synchrony Bank on my cell phone asking about my late payment was the final straw. I needed money, fast. Who knew when Bradley would mail my final paycheck, if ever? It was time I stood on my own.

  I hung up with the credit card employee, mustered up my courage, and immediately called Exit Stage Left.

  “Exit Stage Left. Sorry for your loss, how may I help you?”

  The quick and dry way the woman expressed her condolences left me doubtful of her sincerity, but I continued on anyway.

  “Hi, are you guys still hiring actresses?” I inquired.

  “Can you cry on cue?” the lady replied.

  I couldn’t tell if she was joking. “Um, yes. Actually, I can.” It was how I landed my agent. Well, my former agent. As in former boyfriend as well.

  A chair squeaked with movement as if the woman suddenly sat up straight. “Would you be willing to come down for an interview this afternoon?” she replied.

  “This afternoon?” I looked around the kitchen as if it held the answer to her question. Could I? I honestly didn’t see any reason why I couldn’t, except for the fact that I was wholly unprepared, a feeling I hated.

  I bit back my reservations. “I can do that. What time?”

  I found out the woman’s name was Ruthie, and as she rattled off the address and the time of our meeting, I found myself wondering what on earth I had just signed up for.

  An hour later, I was still staring at my recently unpacked wardrobe, debating what I should wear to the interview. Normally, for auditions, I would just wear jeans and a T-shirt unless I knew more about the part; then I would try to fit the character profile. For example, my latest role, and one that had gotten me noticed, was playing a Manhattan socialite with a series of three other women. For that audition, I maxed out my credit card and went designer all the way down to the two-thousand-dollar sunglasses I wore and the hundred-dollar lipstick I slid across my lips. Gosh, I was such an idiot. That statement could just blanket my whole entire life. I sighed and stared at my closet once more. There was no need for designer labels in small-town America.

  “You know what? I’ve got it,” I said out loud. If I was going to be a professional mourner, then funeral attire it was. I went with black pants and a black floral blouse with oversized red poppy print. I kept the jewelry to a minimum with a small gold chain and matching bracelet. Bring on the dead body, and we would be good to go.

  As I drove into the city, it was somewhat comforting to feel the butterflies return to my tummy at the prospect of an audition. It was good to always be nervous. Mr. Stevens, my acting coach, had once told me that being nervous meant you were going after something you wanted. If that feeling ever left you, it was time to find a new calling. Maybe I was still an actress after all.

  I pulled into the large shopping complex and sought out the business I was after. There, nestled between a boutique and a florist, was Exit Stage Left.

  “Showtime,” I said under my breath as I plastered on what I hoped was a pleasant smile and opened the door.

  The woman behind the desk was wearing a faded jean dress. The kind that had belt loops, but the belt had been long lost and not bothered to be replaced.

  “Hi, I’m Maven Mackenzie. I have a three o’clock with Ruthie.”

  “That would be me.”

  “Oh.” I blinked a few times. For some reason, I had expected Ruthie to be sitting in one of the offices I could make out behind the reception desk. I resisted the urge to crane my neck to see if anyone else was in the building. Instead, I handed my resume over.

  Ruthie summarized it while she read. “Stage actress, New York City, represented by The Myer Group.” At that, Ruthie looked up through the top of her glasses, causing them to slide down her nose a bit.

  So I might have left my former agency on my resume. I hoped Ruthie wouldn’t call to confirm, but if she did, I was crossing my fingers that Cynthia would still vouch for me. At one point, I had considered the agency’s receptionist a close friend. Perhaps a flicker of loyalty remained inside her somewhere?

  Ruthie got right to it. “So what are you doing here?”

  Her frankness caught me off guard. I swallowed my pride and answered hone
stly. Something told me Ruthie wouldn’t buy anything else.

  “Bad breakup. My ex was a producer, and let’s just say he’s a pig and the industry is siding with him.” Between him slandering my name and posting indecent photos of me online, I needed to run away. Never again would I allow such a man in my bedroom or my heart.

  Ruthie tapped her pencil on the desk while she thought. I had a feeling she was wondering how much trouble I’d give her.

  “You can cry on demand?” she asked as if daring me to demonstrate.

  I was counting on her asking me. It was one thing to tell someone you could cry on cue and another to demonstrate it. Luckily, it was a natural gift. Now, that didn’t mean I didn’t have to work at my craft. Trust me, I’ve seen many bad actors who could cry on cue and several talented ones who couldn’t. However, in this case, I felt it gave me the upper hand. In less than ten seconds, I had the waterworks flowing. Goodbye mascara. Hello job offer.

  “Now that’s something,” Ruthie commented. Coming from her, I knew she was impressed. Ruthie didn’t strike me as the type of woman to offer empty praise. “I have a couple of potential clients lined up. I’ll know more tomorrow, but I think we can work something out.”

  “Really? That would be wonderful.” At least I hoped it would be. I knew landing the gig was always just the beginning. After that, the real work began.

  Ruthie spent the few minutes going over the rules and handed me a pamphlet from the desk that explained the services she offered. She also explained that once I was booked, she’d send me a dossier on the deceased for the role I was being commissioned to play. You could say that I was impressed by the level of service and the detail Ruthie put into running this business. It was much more detailed than I would have ever expected.

  I stepped out of the office and surveyed the skyline. It was as if I was seeing the Smoky Mountains for the first time. I was used to buildings towering over me, but the mountains, standing majestically in the distance, didn’t crowd me. They were more like natural protectors, standing guard. For the first time in forever, I felt like I was making a smart decision. A decision I hoped I wouldn’t end up regretting.

  3

  “How’d it go?” Gran asked me while forking salad onto her plate. I had made fettuccine alfredo, homemade garlic bread, and an antipasto salad for dinner. It was a good thing one of us could cook or else I’d gain twenty pounds eating out at Miss Sue’s all the time. Those pancakes did not disappoint.

  Ruthie had in fact called just an hour ago. Hazel had booked her for Roseanne’s funeral, and Ruthie offered me the gig. I wasn’t sure how I felt, having met the deceased and not thinking too highly of her.

  “I don’t know, Gran.” A chunk of mozzarella rolled off my plate. I stabbed it with my fork along with a cherry tomato before popping it into my mouth. “It’s Roseanne,” I managed to say with my mouth full.

  “What’s the problem? Think of all the good you’d be doing Hazel. I know she’d be awfully appreciative. Didn’t you say you needed a job?”

  Gran had me there. I had more credit card debit than I’d ever publicly admit to. It was only recently the acting offers had started pulling in, and it was, sadly, short lived. In fact, I had debated selling my flashy wheels just this afternoon. I was pretty sure I could find a buyer in Asheville. The problem was that I didn’t have the title yet. Bradley was supposed to send it to me along with my final paycheck. I let out a sigh once I realized just how much that man was still tied to my life.

  “Can’t imagine it’s too hard for a seasoned pro like you,” Gran said with a wink.

  Again, she had me. The job wasn’t hard. Just pretend to know the deceased for a few hours, shed a couple of tears, tell some nice, albeit fake, stories, and collect a check. Easy peasy.

  “But what about the people who know me?” I asked.

  “What people?” Gran replied.

  “Harold, Greta, the others who were at the party the other night.” Surely someone would blow my cover.

  “Those people won’t be there. Didn’t you see the way they looked at Roseanne? They can’t stand her. And I know for a fact Harold and Greta won’t be there. They’ve already paid their respects to Hazel.”

  “If you’re sure…”

  “Positive. Hazel just wants to put on a good show for the out-of-town family. They’ve already started arriving.”

  “What if you’re wrong? What if someone shows up unexpectedly?”

  “You know what your problem is, sweet pea? You worry too much. I promise you that if anyone shows up or threatens to blow your cover, I’ll take care of it.”

  I started to share my reservations once more but stopped. Gran was right. I was worrying too much. I needed to let things go and just go with the flow.

  “Okay, you’re right. I’ll do it.”

  “Wonderful. I’ll let Hazel know. She might have some more information she’d like to give you.” I wasn’t sure I liked the sound of that but agreed anyway.

  The next day, Ruthie sent me the dossier on Roseanne and my role. I had expected a black leather folder or perhaps a sealed top-secret envelope. Instead, Ruthie had made my life easy and sent it over as an email attachment. I read over the documents. Roseanne had spent the majority of the last five years in Tampa, where I allegedly lived now. She had worked off and on at a twenty-four-hour laundromat and convenience store, in addition to a handful of other minimum wage jobs. She had been married. That was news to me. Twice. To the same man. Most currently she had worked at a house cleaner at Pleasant View, where her mom lived.

  My role was set to be Megan, Roseanne’s former coworker in Tampa. Somehow those late nights working at the Quick Dry brought us close together. It wasn’t much to work with, but then again, it gave me creative freedom.

  "No, this won't do,” Hazel said while stirring a spoonful of sugar into her coffee. We were sitting at Gran's breakfast table going over Roseanne's file while eating cookies and drinking coffee. Gran had supplied the cookies—lemon sugar cookies with large crystallized sugar sprinkles on top—and thank heavens they were store bought.

  “What do you mean?" I thought Ruthie had done a fine job of creating my backstory in a flash.

  "Roseanne was not about to become friends with anyone if she could help it. I'm sorry to say it, but my daughter wasn’t very personable.”

  That was an understatement.

  Hazel misread my silence. “You don’t think so? Let me put it this way: The last time she had a best friend was in first grade, and that was because I paid the girl’s mother to drop her off for playdates.”

  “That’s horrible,” I replied honestly.

  “Actually, it worked out well until Roseanne gave the poor girl a bloody nose. That put an end to that.”

  “I bet,” I said while rethinking my cover story. Perhaps I could create a fake incident that brought us together? I offered up as much to Hazel.

  “I have a better idea. I say we tell everyone that you were her most recent state-appointed counselor."

  “Excuse me?" I paused with a cookie halfway to my mouth. "Why did Roseanne need a state-appointed counselor?"

  "It was part of the terms of her most recent probation sentence,” Hazel said as a matter of fact. I looked to Gran for confirmation. She raised her shoulders as if saying she had no idea.

  "We can tell everyone that you took a liking to Roseanne and took her under your wing. You saw some potential there that everyone else overlooked and slowly Roseanne began to trust you.”

  "I don't know. This is my first assignment. I don't want to make Ruthie mad." I wasn't about to go improvising my character story without letting my boss know. I was sure that was an instant way to get fired, and with another round of collection calls coming in, I needed this job to be more than a one-time deal.

  "Don't you go worrying about Ruthie. I'm the client and I know my daughter and family." Hazel tapped the light oak table in front of us with her frosted pink fingernail. “In fact, I'm going to call Ruth
ie right now and see what other backstories she's come up with. She's going to have to do better than this if my family is going to believe it.” Hazel motioned to the papers in front of her.

  Once again, I was back to being worried how quickly I was to being fired for showing Hazel the dossier.

  Turns out, I wasn't fired after all. In fact, I didn't hear from Ruthie at all until the morning of the service when she sent a text reminding me of the funeral service times and location. It was one of those types of messages where you typed yes to confirm or no to cancel. I quickly replied yes and sat in the kitchen watching the minute hand on the clock above the stove tick down closer until it was time to leave. Gran left a half hour before me for obvious reasons. One, she was going to help Hazel with any last-minute tasks before the funeral and two, it would absolutely blow my cover if Gran and I arrived together in the same car. I was nervous as it was about getting busted.

  Bakers had one main funeral home in town that served a couple of the local area communities. Clark & Sons was a white brick and black-shuttered building laid out in ranch format. Low-lying green boxwoods landscaped the front with lava rock and red geraniums filling in the gaps. From the parking lot, I could see a man dressed in a navy-blue suit standing at the door welcoming guests. Oh yeah, the butterflies were back and in full force.

  “Showtime,” I said under my breath as I got out of the car and straightened my black two-piece business dress. It was made out of the same material as most business suits, only this outfit had little gold buttons on the shoulders to give it some flair. I had twisted my ash blonde hair up into a bun and hoped that the whole look gave off the counselor vibe or at least business professional.

  It turned out the funeral home was a busy place but it had nothing to do with Roseanne’s memorial service. One of the United Daughters of the Confederacy had come to pass and that meant the main room was reserved for her. The receiving line snaked all the way down the hall and around into another corridor. Dozens of people were mingling around in their Sunday best and passing the time chatting with one another while waiting to pay their respects.