Mr. Z has left this area just as it was when he bought it—except for some repairs. The business part of the mortuary is all behind a newer door that leads off the left of the foyer.
Before I go through the new door, I push open the doors to the chapel and stand a minute. The arches inside the main part of the chapel all reach up to a series of crown-shaped stones. The curved ceiling inside the sweep of the arches is painted a dark, muted blue. It could almost be the sky.
For a second, I think to myself that it really is a pity that Elaine’s wedding couldn’t be held here. I shake myself so I don’t go soft. I should know better. Quite apart from the lamb, the chapel is too unique for Elaine. She’d rather have the guests talking about her dress than the church and, with this church, that wouldn’t be likely to happen.
The budding wedding planner in me thinks it’s a shame, though. Elaine’s dress would certainly do the church justice. Aunt Ruth ordered some designer dress from a shop in Palm Springs and it is being shipped in from Paris. That’s Paris, France. It has probably already arrived. I haven’t seen the drawings of it, but Aunt Inga says it will be spectacular.
Miss Billings is on the phone when I go into the main part of the mortuary so I walk over to the room where I check the board Mr. Z keeps up. Sure enough, he has scheduled me in the right column with the employees working today and not with the deceased who are having their viewing today. Actually, there is no one in the viewing column today. I think I’m a little superstitious about his columns, but I feel relieved every day when I find out I’m listed in the correct one.
If someone had told me a month ago that I would be worrying about what day I’d be scheduled for my final viewing, I would have laughed at them. I didn’t even know what a final viewing was. Now, look at me.
I take a moment to see what is in the bins to be filed so I will know how many new folders to get from the supply room. I’m still in charge of filing forms even though I am a customer service rep, as well. I actually like both of these jobs so I’m not in any hurry to be promoted out of the filing part of my job.
I check my hair in the mirror that’s on the wall by the microwave. I’m even getting used to the black suit. I generally wear some silver jewelry with it, but I’ve come to like the plainness of working in a black suit. I’ve changed my mind from the pink suit and I’m already pretty sure I’ll wear a dark suit like the one I work in at the Big M when it’s time for my final viewing. Death is one time when a person wants to be dignified and there is something reassuring about a solid black suit. I think it comforts those who are left behind.
Besides, too many people use clothes to define themselves. When I worked at the bank in Blythe, I would spend the first fifteen minutes of every day checking out what everyone else was wearing just as they were looking at what I was wearing. At this job, no one notices. We’re all wearing the same kind of thing. There’s a strange way in which that lets us truly be ourselves. We know each other by our personalities, not our wardrobes.
I wish I had known more about clothes when I was growing up in Elaine’s hand-me-downs. I let those clothes define me and they were really just pieces of fabric on my back. I have wondered in the past day or two if Elaine had as hard a time with the hand-me-downs as I did. Maybe she felt as though her identity was being ripped off her back and handed to me with each blouse her mother gave Aunt Inga.
I’ve never really thought about things from Elaine’s point of view much before. Maybe we both should have worn the equivalent of black suits and been done with it. I smile just thinking of Elaine in a plain black suit, but the smile doesn’t have the sting it would have a week ago. It’s funny how much a person can learn about living when they hang around dead people. If I keep working here, the day may even come when Elaine doesn’t bug me so much. Maybe she even had some reason for seeing me as her half cousin instead of her cousin.
Miss Billings is off the phone when I come back into the reception area. There is a huge potted orchid on the coffee table in front of the sofa where visitors sit. Sometimes there are flowers leftover from funerals and they are placed in the reception area so the whole building often smells of flowers.
“Hey, good morning,” I say. I’ve come to like Miss Billings. I’m not quite ready to take her up on her offer to show me how to apply makeup to the deceased, but I do really like her. I might even ask her to give me some makeup tips for me to use while I’m alive.
Miss Billings looks at me as if she’s got a secret she can’t wait to tell me.
“We’ve got one in Room B,” she finally says to me in a hushed voice when I’ve walked over to her desk.
I look over my shoulder and down the hall to the various rooms we have. “A viewing?”
As I said earlier, I didn’t see any morning viewings on the scheduling board. That is the first thing I check because we’re all supposed to know how to direct any visitors to the correct viewing room. Maybe there’s some separate list Mr. Z keeps, though, that I haven’t learned about yet.
Miss Billings shakes her head. “No, it’s a movie star—that new young doctor on the emergency room show. What’s its name? It comes on late on Thursday nights. Anyway, he’s in Room B.”
“Isn’t Room B where Mrs. Malote is going to be?” When I went through the files a few minutes ago I noticed the file on Mrs. Malote particularly because she was only thirty-seven. That’s too young to die and I read a little about her in the notes. “She’s not ready for her final viewing.”
“The man’s not here for the viewing. He came to bring the clothes for Mrs. Malote to wear when she has her formal viewing,” Miss Billings says as she picks up a shiny dress box that is sitting on the top of her desk. The gold letters on the box spell out the name of a very upscale department store. “He said her husband sent him with this. I let him into the room to see where Mrs. Malote will have her viewing. He just wanted to sit for a while. The casket is there waiting, but of course she’s not in it yet.”
“I suppose her husband is too upset to come.”
Miss Billings shakes her head. “The man—I remember his name now, it’s Aaron Peters—said the husband is in Canada filming something. He’s some big movie producer and he’s overbudget.”
I can tell Miss Billings is torn. She loves the movie business and the box from the department store, but she doesn’t approve of something here. We’re trained at the Big M to never show our disapproval of any client’s family, because grief does come out in strange ways sometimes and we are trained to offer comfort rather than criticism. But Miss Billings has a way of pursing her lips that lets me know when she doesn’t approve of something. Last week it was the new purple staples the supply store sent instead of the silver ones she ordered.
“I’m sure Mr. Malote will be back for the actual funeral.” I guess that’s what’s troubling her. I know it’s kind of troubling me.
Miss Billings shakes her head. “It wasn’t a love match, that’s for sure. Him up in Canada and her down here having to wait for a proper dress for her viewing.”
“But he sent a dress, just now.”
Miss Billings shakes her head. “It’s something her husband should have done—going through her closet, picking out a slip to go with the dress and maybe some earrings—that is the kind of thing that should be done by someone who loved the deceased. You don’t just ask someone to do that for you—I don’t care how important you are.”
“Maybe this Aaron guy is her brother,” I say. “Maybe he loved her, too.”
“I bet he forgot to send a slip,” Miss Billings says as she starts to lift the lid off the dress box. “A slip always makes the dress lie—”
“Oh.” Miss Billings stops talking and we both stare at the dress. It is fire-engine red and there isn’t much of it.
“I don’t think you wear a slip with that dress.” I finally find my voice. The material looks like silk and the neckline on that dress must plunge to the midriff. It’s a dress for dancing, not dying.
Mi
ss Billings looks down the hall at Room B. “I can tell you one thing. That man’s not her brother. I’ll have to ask Mr. Z about this.”
“Do you think Mr. Z will be upset?” I figure there’s no reason to try and make sure Mr. Z is in a good mood when I ask him about using the place over Thanksgiving weekend. I know the answer will be no. But I don’t want him to think I don’t properly respect the Big M.
“Mr. Z has seen it all,” Miss Billings says calmly. “He and I have over twenty years in the business. I’ll just let him know so he can have something substituted for Mrs. Malote’s dress. He has a line in the contract that the family signs about suitable clothing. No one reads it, of course, but it’s there when we need it. We both feel a responsibility to the deceased to see they are treated with dignity.”
“I suppose they thought a picture of her in that dress in the casket would get them some publicity for the movie her husband is making,” I say.
“Probably,” Miss Billings says as she stands up and puts the lid back on the dress box. “But then, this is Hollywood. And tabloids love a death almost as much as they love a wedding.”
“I don’t suppose anyone has ever used this place for a wedding,” I say. Maybe I don’t need to bother Mr. Z. “There’s probably a policy against using the facility for anything but funerals, isn’t there? You know, because of the dignity and everything.”
Miss Billings starts to walk toward the door marked Private that is across from her desk area. She stops and looks back at me. “There’s no policy like that that I know of. Why? Are you thinking of getting married? I could do your makeup.”
“No, not me. It’s my cousin. I promised I would ask if she could use the Big M for her wedding. She’s run into some problems in finding a place and my aunt suggested maybe we could use the Big M. I said I’d ask even though I know it’s not possible.”
“Well, I’m sure Mr. Z would do whatever he could to help you. He’s been real pleased with the way you don’t complain about doing the filing.”
“I don’t mind filing.”
“You’re the only one of the customer service reps who will do any of it. He and I both appreciate that. It keeps things running smooth.”
“I like reading the forms to see who’s coming up for their viewing.”
Miss Billings nods as she turns back to face the door again. “I’ll see what I can do about your cousin’s wedding.”
I start to feel a little alarmed. “No, that’s fine, really. I know there’s always a funeral going on.”
“It doesn’t hurt to ask,” Miss Billings says. “That’s always been my motto.”
Okay, so I’m having a little trouble breathing. I look up at the ceiling just in case my dad is looking down at this one.
Miss Billings comes back out of the office. “Mr. Z has a minute to talk to you. Why don’t you go in?”
I take a deep breath and tell myself I can do this. Mr. Z has always seemed like a nice person. I certainly don’t need to be afraid to ask him my question.
I take a few steps and I am inside Mr. Z’s office for the first time. Mr. Z doesn’t spend a lot of time in his office so I usually see him out and around pointing out the features of a casket or something. He is partial to the caskets that are lined with that new ultrasoft satin.
“Miss Billings tells me you’d like to use the facilities here,” Mr. Z says as he looks up from his desk. He has a catalog lying open on top of a folder or two.
“Oh, I know it won’t work,” I say in a rush. “I just promised my aunt that I would ask you. You see my cousin’s wedding plans got messed up and now she doesn’t have anyplace to hold her wedding and it’s for Thanksgiving weekend and that’s so soon everything else is booked and none of the hotels will take her and, well, I promised my aunt I would ask if we could use this place. You don’t have to worry about it. I know it won’t work. I just wanted to be able to say I had asked.”
I take a deep breath when I have finished.
Mr. Z nods. “Is this the aunt you told me about? The one who raised you?”
I nod. “Aunt Inga is great.”
“She’s out in—what is it—Blythe?”
“That’s east of Palm Springs. It’s not too far from here.”
Mr. Z is looking thoughtful and a little sad. “It’s important to stay close to your family,” he says. “If I had one thing I could do over in my life it would be to stay closer to my family.”
I never thought about Mr. Z’s family. “Where is your family?”
“Most of them are buried in the village in Italy where I grew up. Only my brother is still living and he’s in Florida. I haven’t talked to him in over twenty years.”
Mr. Z has a long face and he sort of looks mournful most of the time anyway, but when his eyes look sad, too, I don’t like it.
“I’m sorry.” I think back to the Cameron brothers, you know the ones who were not talking because they had a fight over who was supposed to be the executor of their mother’s estate.
“I’ve thought a lot about my brother this week,” Mr. Z says, so I know I wasn’t the only one touched by the brothers’ story. Mr. Z might have even talked to Robert Cameron more than I did. Mr. Z continues, “I can’t even remember why we got mad and stopped calling each other on the telephone. We used to talk every week.”
“Maybe if you talked to him now,” I say, and then stop myself because twenty years is a long time and maybe his brother is…well, you know, departed from this world. As I’ve said before, more people die than you would think—or, at least, more than I ever thought did. I mean, I had my dad die, but that was a long time ago.
“I called directory assistance this morning and got his telephone number,” Mr. Z says as he shuffles the folders on his desk and pulls out a small piece of paper with a number scribbled on it. “Do you know I didn’t even have my brother’s telephone number anymore? How could I not have my brother’s telephone number? How did we ever get that far apart?”
I don’t think an answer is required, but I’m glad he got the number. I’m sure dead people don’t keep their phone bills paid so they wouldn’t be listed in any directory.
Mr. Z is still looking at that piece of paper in his hand, so we are both a little startled by the ring of my cell phone. Of course, it’s not a ring like a telephone makes. It’s more like a happy tune from a kid’s song.
“Sorry.” I reach down to detach my phone from its place on my belt. “I’ll just turn the ringer down. It’ll only take a message.”
“But it might be important,” Mr. Z protests. “Maybe it’s your brother calling.”
“I don’t have a brother.”
“Well, maybe it’s your aunt,” he says with a wave of his hand. “We wouldn’t want to keep her waiting if she wants to talk to you. Family is important. You can take the call here while I finish looking at this catalog.”
I reach for my cell phone and check the number. Sure enough, it is my aunt Inga.
“Hi,” I answer the phone, but I try to keep my voice quiet out of respect for where I am.
“Julie, is that you?”
Aunt Inga always says that when I answer the phone. I don’t think she quite trusts the telephone company to get her to the right person. I suppose it is a miracle that they do when you think about how many people have phones. “Yes, it’s me, Aunt Inga. How’s everything?”
“We’ve got trouble.”
“I know about the wedding plans. I’ve been thinking there are lots of places in Los Angeles to have a wedding.”
“Have you asked your Mr. Z yet?”
“I’m in his office now, but I’m sure he’s already booked. Thanksgiving weekend is less than two weeks away.”
I hear Mr. Z rustle his catalog pages and I look up to see him looking at me.
“When?” I hear Mr. Z whisper.
“I’m sorry, Aunt Inga,” I say into the cell phone. “Mr. Z has a question. I’ll be right back.”
I put my hand over the mouthpiece on the
phone and look at Mr. Z. “What?”
“This wedding, when is it?” he says.
“The day after Thanksgiving,” I say. “But I completely understand that you’ll be booked.”
“Thanksgiving is such a nice holiday,” Mr. Z says and he gets a distant look in his eyes before zeroing in on me again. “All the families they get together in this country?”
“Well, yes, they do. Most of them anyway.”
“I’ll take a holiday,” Mr. Z says with a slap to his desk that makes the room shake a little. “If a man can’t take a holiday to be with his family, what is the good of living? Yes, I’ll close the Big M.”
“You’re going to close the—” Had I heard him right? “Can you do that?”
“Of course, I can do that,” Mr. Z says and then he stands up. “Nothing is already booked for that weekend and you shall have your wedding day.”
“It’s really my cousin that’s getting married.” I stammer a little.
“Then your cousin shall have her wedding day here,” Mr. Z says with a flourish. “And I’ll take the time off and go to Florida.”
“To visit your brother?”
“If he will have me,” Mr. Z says as he strides over to the door and walks out of the room.
I am stunned. And sit there for a minute before I remember I have my cell phone in my hand.
“Aunt Inga?” I say when I put the cell phone to my ear.
“Julie?” my aunt answers. “I heard everything.”
“I’m not sure…” I begin to say and then my words dwindle. What can I say?
“I’m so glad we have the chapel arranged for the wedding,” Aunt Inga says in a calm voice just as if a miracle hasn’t occurred here. “That will take some worry off everyone’s mind now that Jerry’s gone.”
“Jerry? Where’d he go?” I am starting to breathe again. “You know, Aunt Inga, there are many other places Elaine could get married. The Pacific Ocean is right by here and it would make beautiful pictures.”
Going to the Chapel Page 8