“Well, okay. And don’t you worry about tomorrow. One thing about this business—it’s steady. Every day, you get different sad people with the same sad stories. Sooner or later, you get used to it.” Lucy reached over and patted her hand, a quick, impersonal little gesture. “You take care, Bryn. I like you. Hope you stick around.”
The office felt really empty with Lucy gone. Bryn walked the hushed paneled hallways back to her office and found that Mr. Fairview had left the Granberry folder neatly in the center of her desk. She signed all the paperwork, filled out the cost sheets, and made a list of to-do items before setting it aside.
Fairview had also left a sticky note on the folder that read, Don’t forget to brief Freddy downstairs about the arrangements for Mr. Granberry; he needs to know as soon as possible.
It was the last thing she had to do. Easy enough to pick up the phone—it had a clearly marked extension labeled PREPARATION ROOM—but she felt that she ought to get the lay of the land down there. She was already having the worst day of her life…. She might as well get the slimy Mr. Watson out of the way, if the introduction was going to come.
That way, tomorrow there would be nothing she had left to dread.
There were two realities in all funeral homes—the public space, which was all beautifully appointed and quiet and comforting, and the prep areas, which were medical and sterile and cold. The stairs going down were sort of a transition between the two—still carpeted, but with an industrial metal railing and an institutional fluorescent light fixture overhead. The bottom floor was all Formica, easily cleaned. There was a freight elevator in the back, and down the hall seemed to be storage and rolled-down loading-dock doors. Bryn stopped outside the frosted-glass door of the prep room. She breathed shallowly; the smell of embalming fluids always made her a little queasy at first, until she adjusted to it. The ever-present smell of decay was just the cherry on top. She knocked on the door, a hesitant rap of knuckles. She could see shadows moving inside.
“Come in,” someone said, and she entered. There were four spotlessly clean stainless-steel preparation tables in the room, each with all the pumps and tubing necessary to the embalming process. Only one was occupied at the moment—Mr. Granberry, fat as a frog. He really wasn’t that fat, Bryn thought. And he had a nice face. She was mildly religious, and she hoped that wherever Mr. Granberry was, he could comfort his daughter now. Poor Melissa.
Standing over Mr. Granberry’s corpse, massaging fluids through his tissues, was a handsome guy only a little older than Bryn…. Golden hair, creamy skin, big blue eyes, and a devastating smile. Except for what he was doing at the moment, he was completely smoking hot.
The smile put her on guard. It was just a little too predatory.
“Hey,” he said, jerking his chin up in welcome. “Bryn, right? Just a sec. Got to finish this; I’m almost done. He’s pinking up okay, don’t you think?”
She nodded, not sure she knew what to say, except, “You’re Mr. Watson?”
“Fast Freddy, they call me,” he said, and winked. “Don‘t let it bother you. Everybody in this industry’s got a nickname, right?”
“Do they? I don’t think I do,” she said. She felt faintly ill, and she wasn’t sure coming down here was a good idea, given the day she’d had. Her head was spinning a little from the drinks.
“I think you got one today,” he said. “Double Trouble Davis.”
“Oh. You heard?”
“About the girl? Of course I heard. It only looks like a cave down here. I don’t actually live in one.” He shook his head, and she expected the normal platitudes—what a shame, or she must have been so distraught. “What a dumb-ass bitch.”
Bryn blinked. “Excuse me?”
“Look, well-adjusted people don’t go offing themselves messily in funeral home restrooms. If she wants to take the easy way out, fine. I’m not standing in her way, but if she was going to do it, the least she could have done was do it at her own home, not our place of business. Now we’re the ones stuck cleaning it up. Trust me. She was a selfish little bitch.”
It wasn’t so much what he said as how he said it that made her muscles go tense and quiet; Freddy looked ripe, but there was something rotten in the relish he took in dissing the dead girl. It was like biting into a juicy red apple and getting a mouthful of worms. “Her name was Melissa. And she was only eighteen.”
“Old enough to vote, fuck, and know better,” Freddy said, and shrugged. “Like I said, she was a selfish bitch. End of story. So, you got any orders on Mr. Granberry, here?”
Freddy’s callousness reminded her of some of the soldiers she’d served with, the ones who’d lost all feelings of humanity, especially for the Iraqis, whom they saw as walking meat ready for body bags.
She’d tried to avoid those people. Hadn’t always been successful. And here was another one, thrown right in her path. “Yes,” she said, grateful for the opportunity to deliver the paperwork and escape. She handed over the folder, which he took in his latex-gloved left hand as he continued his gentle massage of the former Mr. Granberry with his right, working the embalming fluid through his chest. “Thanks. See you tomorrow.”
“Oh, man, you’re going to dump and run? Not cool, Double Trouble. The least you can do is help me out, here. I’ve been stuck all alone in the dead room for days; I’m starved for the company of a pretty woman.” He flashed that brilliant smile at her again. “You’ve had enough of all this shit, I’ll bet. Tell you what. Instead of me giving you the grand tour of the freezers, how about going out for a drink, or preferably lots of drinks? Could be your lucky night.” With one last squeeze of Mr. Granberry’s puffy biceps, Freddy stepped back and peeled off his blue gloves, which he three-pointed into a biohazard bin. His plastic apron followed, leaving him in a lab coat with neatly pressed jeans showing beneath, and some shoes that Bryn was almost sure were Kenneth Cole, or at least that expensive. “Unless you want to spend the evening with Mr. Gran, here. I mean, he’s not much of a talker, but he’s working a nice after-death stiffy right now. You want to see?”
“No.” Bryn tried to keep her voice even, her gaze straight. She had the eerie impression that Freddy was one of those men who would go for the slightest sign of weakness. “I’ll be going now.”
“So you didn’t get into the business for the cold ones? Some do, you know. Lucky you, then. I’m nice and warm.” He winked at her, and Bryn wanted to throw up. “Right, it’s drinks, then. We’ll see about what comes after.”
Bryn took a step back as Freddy rounded the end of the embalming table, suddenly aware of everything—the chilly temperature of the room, the deserted mortuary, the fact that the alcohol had led her into what could be a very bad decision. “No. Thanks. Really, I was just … on my way out.”
“Going home to what? A single-serving frozen dinner and a twin bed? You don’t look like a woman with a boyfriend—at least, not a boyfriend who’s keeping you satisfied, and I can always tell. So how about that drink? You can tell me all about how lonely you are.”
Bryn was shaken, not that she’d let him see it. “Take no for an answer, Freddy. You ought to know the word by now. I’m sure you hear it enough.”
“Ouch.” He seemed more amused than hurt. “Look, I don’t really want to be seen in public with you either; you’re not exactly up to my usual standards. So how about a quickie down here? Nobody here but Mr. Granberry; I don’t think he’d mind. I could break out the wine coolers.”
“If you come near me with a wine cooler, I hope you go both ways, because I will shove it up your ass.” Bryn walked for the door, half expecting him to grab her and throw her to the floor, but when she looked back Freddy was still standing there, smiling at her.