The Last Day For Rob Rhino

by Kathleen O'Donnell

  She drove along the road on the outer rim of the campus. When rows of headstones and monuments appeared she knew she was getting close. A few crypts and mausoleums with names engraved over their forbidding, elaborate stone doorways. Names like Pembroke, Wallace, and Wilkes.

  Floral arrangements in brilliant colors sprang up in and around headstones of varying shades of gray, some ancient, crumbly yet immaculate. Some shiny and new. Like everything she’d seen since she’d driven onto the grounds they had a faux antique pallor. She wouldn’t be surprised to see a group of Civil War widows, straight out of central casting, march up over the rise singing hymns in honor of their fallen.

  She steered through the wrought iron gates and got a headlong view of the chapel and cemetery from all sides. She knew if she rolled down the window she’d hear birds chirping. Its pulse quick, so vibrant and alive for a place filled with the dead.

  She parked the rental in front of the gray stone chapel. Once inside it felt cool and hollow, empty but for a few wooden benches. Her feet echoed, the leather soles of her shoes moved over the uneven slate floors with a soft tap. The stained-glass window loomed large over a small altar covered in a red velvet cloth at the back, Jesus on the Cross, loin-clothed and martyred, eyes half closed. Must be a Catholic chapel. Only the Catholics keep Christ on the Cross. Clacking footsteps on the stone floors interrupted Claire’s musings.

  “Can I help you?” a tidy roly-poly woman in a polyester blue dress with short hair dyed to match said. She seemed startled. She looked at Claire’s bald head and then the floor.

  “I’d like to speak to someone about interment and memorial services at the cemetery.” Claire held out her hand to the woman, “I’m Claire. Claire Corrigan.”

  “Oh well, Mrs. Corrigan. Is it Mrs.?”

  “Yes,” Claire said.

  The woman grasped her hand with a warm tight clasp. “I’m Evelyn Wallace.” Evelyn stopped looking at the floor. Instead she looked into Claire’s eyes. Dead on. Anywhere but her head.

  “You can call me Claire.”

  “Claire, you’ll have to speak with the cemetery director, Mr. Lansing, about all of that. Are you alone? You’re making these arrangements, er, um, in advance?

  Alone? What was the old blue hair talking about? In advance? Oh dear. Evelyn thought she was dying. Claire burst out laughing. Evelyn jumped.

  “Is something funny?” Evelyn said.

  “Well, no. I mean yes. The arrangements aren’t for me. They’re for my husband. He died. I... I have this rare condition. I’m not ill.” Claire usually didn’t explain but Evelyn seemed so concerned.

  “Good heavens. That’s a relief. Oh I mean... it’s... well, you poor dear. I’m so sorry. And you’re so young.” Evelyn stroked both her chins. “Oh mercy. I don’t have good news either. I hate to be the one to tell you but our cemetery’s full. At capacity I’m afraid.”

  Claire hadn’t entertained that possibility.

  “Full? Oh no.”

  “Indeed. It was half full when it opened centuries ago.”

  Claire couldn’t believe her bad luck. She knew she’d waited too long, but centuries?

  “You see there is another cemetery in town that’s been here since the late seventeenth century, Creekside Cemetery. After the Civil War the board of trustees dedicated part of the university land for honoring the town’s glorious dead.”

  Evelyn closed her eyes in tribute to their glorious.

  She went on. “After the war many prominent interred citizens were moved here from Creekside. Took up half the real estate right away. Over the years the university bought adjacent parcels of land. In the eighties the board decided only trustees, their families, or major donors could be buried here since space was at a premium. Despite their cautionary measures it’s full.”

  Evelyn fingered the sapphire and diamond brooch on the rolled collar of her dress. Claire, who carried a jeweler’s loupe in her purse (just in case), could tell the stones were of good quality.

  Claire sat and took off her jacket. How had Liam’s father made the cut? He died about five years earlier. Claire realized she knew nothing about him.

  “Oh goodness, I didn’t even offer you a seat. Let me call Mr. Lansing, see if he has a moment. I’ll be right back.” Evelyn scuttled off toward the back of the chapel and disappeared.

  Liam always said his family was jealous of his money because they didn’t have any. So Emmet and Grace weren’t major donors. If Emmet hadn’t been a major donor could he have been on the university board? Not likely. Claire had no idea what Emmet had done for a living. Liam’d never said and Claire’d never asked. That seemed odd in hindsight. She had better things to do than figure out who did what in Liam’s estranged family.

  Evelyn clattered back. “Mr. Lansing’s—”

  “My father-in-law’s buried here,” Claire said. “Emmet Corrigan. Would you know if he’d been a trustee? He died about five years ago.”

  “Well, I can tell you every trustee name going back two hundred years.” Evelyn’s already ample chest puffed up. “He wasn’t a trustee. I can tell you that. Perhaps a donor? Mr. Lansing will—” Evelyn no more than said his name when the chapel doors opened and Pinocchio come to life, but going bald, came bustling in.

  “That was fast,” Evelyn smiled.

  Mr. Lansing’s marionette legs made quick work of the space between the back of the chapel and where Claire sat.

  “Claire, this is Joseph Lansing. I’ll leave you two to get acquainted.” And she did.

  Joseph Lansing stuck his bony hand out. “Luckily I was on my way over here when Evelyn called me. I’m Joe. She told me you’d hoped to buy a plot here? Have a memorial service? Is it Kay?” Joe stared at her face like his life depended on it. Evelyn must’ve given him the heads-up. The bald heads-up.

  “It’s Claire. And yes, I’d hoped to inter my husband’s ashes here. I don’t think it’s a plot I’d need. Perhaps a crypt. My father-in-law is buried here. I’d hoped they could be together. Guess it doesn’t matter now,” Claire said.

  “Please do accept my condolences. I’m so sorry. Such a terrible time. Evelyn mentioned we’re out of space?” Joe looked mournful, like a good funeral director should.

  “Yes, she did. It never dawned on me that could happen. I should’ve called first.”

  Claire sighed. She crossed one leg over the other and dangled her cream and black ballet flat with the intertwined Cs at the end of her foot. She was just about to pick up her Burberry trench and bid her farewells when Joe intervened.

  “It’s such a gorgeous day Claire. Could I interest you in a bit of a tour? It is a beautiful cemetery.”

  ****

  Joe knew his way around a cemetery and talked a blue streak.

  They walked along the stone pathways, stopped here and again so Claire could admire an unusual headstone or floral arrangement. She peered into the small windows of one of the mausoleums and could see sumptuous flowers inside. Some plots had gardens planted on top. Not a gardener in sight. Maybe God mowed the grass. Joe spouted historical trivia while Claire grew bitter about her missed opportunity. They’d walked to what looked to Claire like the end of the line. No more graves. Only a few scattered trees. Some small stone buildings.

  Joe stopped.

  “This is where the existing cemetery ends,” he said.

  Claire twirled her engagement ring around her finger. The sweat trickled.

  “We’ve tried for years to buy this piece of property.” Joe waved his hand out toward the land and trees. “But given the economy donors aren’t as generous as they once were. We’ve raised some of the money. The owner is impatient, wants to put the land back on the market. We need to go big or go home.”

  Claire felt hope spring eternal.

  “But even if we had the property, as Evelyn explained, you must be a trustee, a trustee’s family member, or a major donor to buy a plot or crypt.” Joe’s expression turned ominous in a way only Vincent Price could match. “I don’t
believe you are, or your husband was, a trustee family member, or major donor?” Hard emphasis on major.

  “As far as I know we aren’t. Let’s say it’s a pretty safe bet.”

  “Your father-in-law is buried here though?”

  “Yes. Curious, no?”

  “Indeed. That is curious to say the least. If he didn’t meet the guidelines.”

  Both of Joe’s eyes rolled skyward appealing to the heavens for an answer to that somewhat distasteful riddle. When none came he settled for a mere mortal one.

  “Fortunately for all concerned, you could become a donor. Should you do so, well immediately, that would kill two birds with one—” Joe turned as red as the satin Rest in Peace banner on the crypt behind them. “Oh goodness, forgive my poor choice of—”

  “I might not have a hair on my head but I do have a brain in it. Let’s get down to it, Joe. If I pay, I play. Right?” She wiped her wet brow with the backs of her hands. “A donation could close the deal? If I make one my husband could be buried here?”

  “Of course, it would definitely need to be significant.”

  Joe didn’t bat a money hungry eye.

  Claire digested her only option. Liam’d had strong feelings about charitable giving.

  I didn’t get rich by giving my money away, he’d always said. Countless times during their marriage their affluent friends and Liam’s business associates hit them up for their charities and pet projects.

  Liam always said no.

  Claire heard him like he stood next to her, still alive. No one ever gave me a handout. I’m sure as hell not going to give anyone else one. The only organization I’m giving money to is the Corrigan Family Trust. He remained true to his word to his dying day and beyond.

  Liam even refused to buy Girl Scout cookies.

  Claire chewed her lip. She knew what Liam would have wanted. Given his distaste for making charitable donations the decision was simple.

  “Is five million dollars significant enough?”

  Chapter Nine

  Liam would roll over in his grave.

  As soon as he got one.

  Claire just unloaded a nice piece of her net worth to purchase a crypt with less thought than she put into buying last season’s Manolo Blahniks. On the way back to the church she watched the ground beneath her disappear with every footstep, distracted. Joe sauntered ahead of her like a different man, almost giddy. A disconcerting trait in a funeral director. He bobbed along, weightless, as if the surf brought him in.

  “How much time do you have today?” Joe said over his shoulder.

  “None really. I’m late for an appointment,” Claire said. And past pill time.

  Joe stopped mid-bob to let Claire catch up. The chapel was in their sightline. “We have much to discuss. You’re now one of our most esteemed donors. The dean will want to clear his schedule to thank you. In person.”

  Claire’s anxiety imposed. “Not necessary. He can call me or send a note.”

  The imaginary needles under her flesh pricked.

  “There’s details, a lot of, well...” Joe pulled the bottom of his chin like taffy. “... a lot of things to consider.”

  “I just spent a boatload of cash. What else is there to consider?”

  Her skin felt like she’d sat too close to the sun.

  Cool as a corpse Joe said, “Why don’t you get some rest and we’ll reconvene tomorrow about ten? We can discuss all the details and opportunities then.” He patted her arm.

  “Opportunities? Oh I guess so, okay. Ten. Whatever.” Claire would’ve given another million just to get out of there. Her fingers brushed the bottom of her purse, hit the jackpot of loose pills. “There’s my car.”

  Joe’s light friendly hold on her arm turned rigor-like clamp.

  “Just one quick detail before you run. Are you familiar with a pledge form?”

  ****

  Joe had shoved some form under her dripping nose, which she’d signed without reading to hurry along her exit. He’d yammered on about standard language and just like that officially hooked her for five million bucks.

  Claire careened back around the rim of the campus after making her escape. Was it lack of sedation or had traffic doubled? She slowed to a stop at an intersection in front of some bronzed soldier atop his enthusiastic bronzed horse pawing the air on two legs, squinted to read the plaque but couldn’t make it out. War hero probably. Must be the university library or some such. Her gaze wandered to the dark stone building behind the horse and rider. From the periphery she caught a zip of Valentino red.

  It was that car. The red Corvette Rob Rhino had gotten into at the diner. Claire glimpsed the license plate dwindling in the distance—FLESHHH.

  Chapter Ten

  The driver must’ve come up behind her.

  She’d been ogling the statue so he’d whipped past her. Claire gunned her gas pedal nearly ramming the second car that pulled out around her. She hit the brake. A few more cars went around her while she steamed. No use. The Corvette disappeared.

  Claire eased forward, drove toward the gates, muscles tight, knuckles popped. Had they followed her? They’d left the diner at least half an hour before she did. Rob Rhino had no idea she was coming to the university, to the cemetery. He did know her car. Had he recognized her just now? She thought of the porn perv squeaking over in his ugly clogs as soon as he recognized her at the greasy spoon. He’d have honked, rolled down the window, waved, if he’d seen her. Obnoxious fool.

  Get over yourself. That’s what Jordan would say. But what in the name of Deep Throat was Rob Rhino doing here?

  ****

  Claire knew she’d need her wits to find her way to her mother-in law’s house but wanted pharmaceutical respite, needed it after the Corvette sighting. The right side of her head ached, she felt nauseous, cramped, slick with sweat and dread. Her tiny blue pal hadn’t been much help. After a quick drive through the Dairy Queen for a burger/fry combo Claire couldn’t put off her visit to Grace any longer. Joe’d given her detailed directions from the university. The town wasn’t big enough to get too turned around in. She ate her burger with one hand and drove with the other ’til she found the right street. She slowed to a near stop to squint at Joe’s precise handwriting on the back of the old bank statement she’d used as a notepad.

  The small green and white Victorian house, like the rest on the street, sat inches from the curb and the neighbors on both sides. No landscaping or adornment of any kind, the place looked stark, empty. No plants, pots, statues, or welcoming kitschy bric-a-brac. Grace’s neighbors filled their narrow steps with geraniums, ferns, garden gnomes, pink flamingos. Flags with embroidered rainbows and unicorns stuck out from their window frames. Grace’s house claimed a front door, shuttered windows, a single concrete step. Claire’d bet the farm she could eat off it.

  She parked, stashed the burger wrapper and dirty napkin into the bag, backed it under the seat with her heel. Claire examined her reflection in the rearview mirror. Like an amputee whose missing limb still itches, she put her hand to her head to smooth back her phantom hair.

  Claire made it from the car to the front door in two strides. Her balled-up fist drew back in the standard knock-knock position when it opened before her knuckles made contact. A fortyish looking, scruffy, pale-faced figure stood behind the door opened a few inches. She’d either come to the wrong place or Grace needed to rethink her stance on upper-lip hair removal and buffalo plaid. Scruffy pale face looked like Liam in a way Claire couldn’t name.

  “Yes?” He looked her up and down, eyes darting left to right. She could tell he wanted to shut the door. “Can I help you?”

  “I’m Claire.” Claire stuck out her hand. “I’m here to see Grace Corrigan—I’m her son’s widow.”

  “Oh no, my heavens.” He grasped her hand with both his and pulled her inside. “I’m sorry... I... well. I... you... don’t have any—” He stumbled for sensible words.

  Claire touched her scalp. “No. I don’t have a
ny hair and you aren’t Grace.”

  “Oh no. I’m not.” He moved aside and shut the door. “I’m Connor. Liam’s brother. Finally we meet.”

  Connor inspected her like he’d been searching for her species his whole life. He skimmed over her baldness, registered it, moved on. She scanned his face, saw no contempt, only an edgy fervor. Her eyes closed in self-defense. His eagerness an unwelcome antidote to her sedative.

  “You must need to sit down, what with your illness,” Connor said.

  “Oh no. I’m not ill. It’s not as bad as it looks.”

  Ballsy bastard. Who said anything about illness?

  “I’m bald. No big deal. My hair fell out right after Liam died. It’s never grown back.”

  He nodded. His thin lips all but disappeared. “I—”

  “Is she here?”

  Claire’s lids snapped up like vinyl shades at the sound of another female voice. Grace.

  “Yes, Mom. She’s here.” Connor touched Claire’s arm. “Please come sit down.”

  He held himself taut, like he was afraid a sudden move would spook her.

  Claire sat on the plastic-covered floral sofa. It objected when her bottom made contact with a loud squeak and a phhooot. She jumped, dropped her purse on the floor.

  “Mom and her plastic. This couch is older than I am and it still looks new. Well, it would if she’d take the plastic off.” Connor’s eyes darted to Claire’s purse, stayed put.

  Grace entered the room like a woman half her age, her perfect posture enough to make a debutante’s mother cry. When she walked her limbs moved but the air didn’t—a geriatric stealth bomber. She sat in the plastic-covered wingback chair across from Claire. No noise when she lowered herself into it. Connor maneuvered next to Claire.

  Grace settled in, looked up at Claire, back at Connor, “Lord have mercy, she’s bald.” Grace took off her glasses and pressed a Kleenex to her forehead. Claire looked at Connor.