“Second one this year. Weird.”
“Yeah.” It wasn’t the most intelligent response, but she really didn’t seem to be talking with me as much as at me.
She continued to stare at the crowd. “Your salads will be out in a minute.” Then she walked away, leaving me to my thoughts.
My appetite evaporated, which was a miracle in itself. I leaned back in the chair and crossed my arms. The notion that life went on even after one departed this Earth made me contemplative. William was dead but in a few minutes I’d be served the salad I’d ordered before he’d hitched a ride on the express train to Heaven. It made life’s problems seem a little less urgent.
I glanced back at the table and noticed the two guardian angels. They both stared at me, no longer smiling, but not really angry. Unsure what to do I lifted my glass. “Better luck next time guys.”
They tipped their heads toward me and turned to leave. I’m not sure what I expected. Maybe for them to wink out in a sparkle of white light. I took a sip of soda. This death gig was nothing like I’d imagined it would be.
Nate returned and slid into the chair across from me. He picked up his water and drank. I watched him. There was an edge to him even though he looked composed.
“You all right?” I had to ask. It was in my nature.
His gaze followed the EMTs wheeling a gurney toward William’s body. “I’m always all right.”
I highly doubted that. Nobody is always all right. At the best of times I’m sixty-five percent all right. “Okay, just asking.”
The salads arrived and we each picked at the field of greens. It seemed wrong to eat while the crew worked on William—even though we knew he was in a better place. The fork stopped halfway to my mouth. “He went to Heaven, right?”
Nate nodded, pushing a small slice of orange that had snuck in on his salad to the side of his plate.
More questions popped into my head. “What kind of souls do you reap?”
He slowly chewed, his gaze leveled on me. After he swallowed, he said, “Violent deaths.”
Yikes, no wonder he was so distant. Facing that much ugliness all the time would darken anybody’s day. “Did Jeff reap violent deaths?”
“No.” He took another large bite of salad, waiting to answer until he swallowed again. “His were more…random—deaths that didn’t fall so neatly into a category.”
I wasn’t sure I understood completely. “Do choking victims have their own reapers?” I slid a generous pile of salad into my mouth.
He glanced down at his plate. “That reap would have been yours, but since you haven’t been trained, I took it.”
A black bean lodged in my throat and I choked. Coughs seized me. I hacked and wheezed—very unladylike. Finally I was able to suck in a big gulp of air. “You knew William was going to die?”
“Yeah, I got word when you were having your medical exam.” He shoveled a chunk of chicken and lettuce into his mouth.
Water, I needed water. The reaper business had just gotten real. It was one thing to be guided through the process and quite another to know I’d be responsible for getting a soul to its appropriate destination. I grabbed Nate’s glass and took a big gulp. He continued to chew and stare at me. “So just what kind of deaths do I reap? Accidental deaths?”
Looking at his plate again, he jabbed at his salad. “Not exactly.”
When he didn’t expound on his explanation, I rapped my knuckles on the table. “What’s my assignment, Nate?” From the way he avoided my eyes I knew I wasn’t going to like it. At that moment my agreement to be a reaper for the sake of a paycheck seemed a tad impulsive. “I’m not responsible for plague or something gross, am I?”
“No.” He set down his fork. “You’ll be reaping people who died in a less than intelligent manner.”
I processed what he was saying. “You mean, I’ll be reaping stupid people?”
“The people aren’t stupid, just the way they die.”
Still not sure I completely understood—hoping that what I thought wasn’t what he meant—I pressed on. “You mean like frat boys who jump into a shallow pool or a drunk who lights his farts and burns to death?”
“Yeah, kind of like that.”
The urge to laugh rivaled with my inability to speak. It just frickin’ figured my assignment would be peppered with the idiotic. I sat back in my chair and stared at the dispersing crowd. The EMTs wheeled William out and things were calming. “Why William?”
Nate wrinkled his forehead. “Why William what?”
“Why would I have reaped William? He choked, that’s accidental, not really stupid.”
“Choking falls under you because it’s kind of a miscellaneous death. It’s not really violent and it’s not suicide.”
“Miscellaneous, that seems a little vague to me.” If what Nate said was true, I was going to be a busy reaper. “What other…” I made air quotes on either side of my head. “Miscellaneous deaths fall under my watch?”
He rattled off an impressive and oppressive list. “Slipping and falling. This includes public places, homes, and mountain tops.” Before I squeaked out a colorful curse about how the hell I was supposed to reap somebody lying on a ledge eight thousand feet up, he cut me off. “Most electrocutions, alcohol poisoning, sex acts gone wrong.” He paused. “If they were mutual and not a homicide. Otherwise those fall under me.”
My mouth hung open and for a few seconds I couldn’t form an intelligent response. “So, basically any asinine way somebody could die—I get.”
Cocking his head, he crossed his arms over his chest. “That’s not going to be a problem is it?”
I snapped my mouth shut. “Problem? Why would reaping the recipients of the Darwin Award be a problem?” My voice raised an octave. “Who wouldn’t love reaping the butt of life’s jokes?”
“Jeff never had a problem with it.”
I narrowed my gaze. “Let’s get one thing straight. I am not Jeff.”
A purely insulting laugh huffed from Nate. “Oh, I’m well aware of that.”
Damn, I’d walked right into that one. Ever since I’d fallen into this reaper gig, Nate had made it quite clear he didn’t think I was up to the task. Determination coursed through me. That happened sometimes—I’d get angry and dig in my heels. Usually I got far more than I bargained for.
That happened with Bronte’s fifth grade science project. What started out with good intentions, ended with a lot of tears and a thirty-pound, pudding-spewing volcano. Not only did I have to transport the monstrosity, I had to clean up its stunning eruption at the show, which covered the table, floor, and several surrounding science projects.
Before I repeated the mistake by making promises I might not be able to keep, I slid from the chair. “I’ve lost my appetite.” I scooped up my purse and slung it over my shoulder. “I assume you got the check?”
When he didn’t reply, I walked out of the restaurant. I’d like to say I felt some satisfaction about snubbing him, but the only thing I felt was humiliated. I reaped stupid people. Great. Like I didn’t get enough of them in my personal life.
Chapter 8
The kids tumbled through the front door an hour after I got home from lunch with Nate. Pasting on an everything’s wonderful face, I met them at the entrance to the kitchen. “How was your day?”
Bronte slinked past me, earbuds in place. “Lame, like always.”
Breck dropped his backpack at the door and made a beeline for the refrigerator. “Hi, Mom.”
Bryce, always more composed, hung his coat on the hook, and then followed his brother to find refreshments. “It was good. A guy came to our class and dissected a cow eye.”
“Yeah.” Breck shoved a cheese stick in his mouth. “I poked my finger in the victorious layer.”
“Vitreous layer,” Bryce corrected.
“Whatever, it was so cool when it squished out.”
I grabbed the back of Breck’s collar. “Take off your jacket and stay a while.”
&nb
sp; He shrugged out of it, switching the cheese to his other hand and extracting his arm. “Come on, Bryce, Tiffany Powers and the Techno Werewolves is on.”
“No TV.” I pointed to their backpacks. “Homework.”
A unanimous groan circled the kitchen. Bronte shoved Bryce out of her way and pulled a bottle of flavored water out of the fridge. “I’m all done.”
I lifted an eyebrow. Over the last year I’d let the kids skate when it came to homework and extra chores. The teachers had done the same thing because of Jeff’s death. I’d convinced myself it was for their own good, at least until they could adjust. But lunch with Nate had changed things. He didn’t think I’d make a good reaper. Whether I would or not I’d be damn if I’d curl up in a ball and prove him right.
With a sense of empowerment, and no small dose of I’ll show you, I made the decision it was time for the entire Carron family to get their crap together. “Good. Let me see it.”
Bronte stared at me, slowly twisting the cap off the bottle. I knew this look. She was sizing me up. Probably trying to figure out if I was serious. Then she attempted a diversion tactic. “I left it at school.”
“Huh.” I gripped the edge of the refrigerator door and closed it. “Okay, then help me make dinner.”
Her eyebrows pinched together and the corner of her lip lifted in a tiny sneer. “I don’t do cooking?”
“You live here too. We all need to pitch in.” I bent and opened the door to the dishwasher. “You can start by unloading the dishes.”
With an incensed huff, she trudged the three feet to the dishwasher. “This is a complete waste of my talent, Mother.”
“Mine too.” I held out a clean plate to her. “If you don’t want to help with dinner, clean your room or…show me your homework.”
She took the plate from me. “What’s with the whole mom gig? You haven’t made us do chores for the last year.”
“It’s time we get back into a routine.” I paused, not knowing how she’d feel about me going back to work. “And…good news… I got a job. I start full-time next week.”
“What kind of job?” She turned and stared at me, her tone suggesting I wasn’t qualified for much beyond scrubbing toilets.
I pulled another plate from the lower rack. “Actually, I got a job at GRS.”
“Like Dad?”
“Same company, different job.”
Her gaze narrowed. “Doing what?”
On the way home I’d thought about what I’d tell the kids. It had to be something believable but also gave me an excuse for travel or inconvenient hours. “Human resource assistant. I’ll be helping employees with employment issues.” I set the plate on the counter. “I might even get to do a little village travel.” To my trained ear I sounded like I was trying too hard to convince her, so eased back on the enthusiasm. “GRS has employees all over the state.”
“I find that utterly fascinating.” Clearly she didn’t.
“What you should find fascinating is the money. We might even be able to have a descent Christmas.”
Her eyes lit up. “Like—a new laptop—merry?”
I shrugged. “Maybe, if you pull your grades up, plus help around the house.”
She slid the second dish onto the shelf, continuing to stare at me. I waited. My daughter was sharp and calculating. Either she was devising a counter attack to keep her freedom or she was surmising the situation. Another few seconds passed. Then, to my surprise, she nodded. “Okay.”
She turned and walked toward the door. “Where are you going?”
“To do my homework.”
With that, she left. The sound of her backpack unzipping whispered through the kitchen doorway. I couldn’t help but smile. It was a small victory, but one I would happily take. Having Bronte working with me and not against me would make my life a heck of a lot easier.
The sound of a car door thumping closed was followed by clomping footsteps and then our front door opening. “Hello, hello.”
“I’m in the kitchen, Vella.” I continued to unload the dishwasher.
Such a good friend. She entered bearing a six pack and a bag of groceries. “You haven’t started dinner yet, have you?”
She knew me so well. “Not yet.”
“Bud is out of town this week and I got a little carried away with my grocery shopping.” She set the plastic bag on the table. “So I thought why not dine with my favorite people. We could fix the kids dinner, set them in front of the TV, and have us a few icy ones.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “And you can tell me about your day.”
When Vella had that look, I knew I was in for eighty questions. “The kids should love that.”
“I figure that will keep them occupied while we chat.” She dug in the bag and pulled out a roasted chicken, a tub of mashed potatoes, gravy, and a tin of biscuits. “Pop these in the oven.” She handed me the tube. “They only take eight minutes.”
“Do some shopping today?” I asked, peeling the wrapper from the biscuit container.
“I worked a little this morning, but when my two o’clock color canceled, I decided that retail therapy was a better use of my time.” She arranged the containers on the table. “I’d planned on buying a new pair of boots, but then remembered I didn’t have any food in the house.”
Vella not having any food in the house meant she was out of wine. “No splurging on footwear then?”
“Girl, Bud’s been riding my butt about staying on budget. He’s as tight as my Aunt Edith’s girdle when it comes to money.” She dragged out the chair and sat. “But I like my comforts and he knew that before he married me.”
“That’s right. Having a trophy wife comes at a price,” I said over my shoulder.
Bud was a decade older than Vella. I don’t think he knew just how high maintenance a southern trophy wife could be. But to be fair, Vella loved Bud and treated him like gold. “It’s nice that you’re trying to stay within budget. That should make him happy.”
“I know, right? Tight old miser.” She waved a manicured hand in the air. “I never let him grocery shop anymore. The last time he bought the cheapest toilet paper in the store. I swear he actually dug around in their storeroom to find the last existing package.”
“And that was a bad thing?”
“You have no idea. I couldn’t tell if it was toilet paper or sand paper. I’m delicate down there.”
A snicker slipped out. “Ouch.”
Vella jabbed a finger at me. “I kid you not. I could have rubbed myself with tree bark and gotten the same results.”
I grimaced at the thought.
“Anyway,” she continued, “today I bought me some of that really expensive toilet paper. The kind with three layers that looks like my grandma quilted it.” She gave a little sigh. “It’s like wiping my ass with a baby angel.”
The vivid image Vella wove made me burst out laughing
“Seriously!” Her eyes widened and her expression turned serious. “I’ll give you some and you be the judge.”
I smacked the tube of biscuits on the edge of the counter. Thick white dough oozed between the cardboard. Why was it I loved everything devoid of nutrition? After laying the fat circles on a cookie sheet, I popped them into the oven. “I’ve obviously lived a deprived life.”
“You joke, but it’s true.” Vella glanced over her shoulder and then back at me, lowering her voice. “So?”
“So what?”
She gave me her frowny face. “You know what. GRS.”
I held up a finger and walked to the kitchen door. No kids in sight. I hoped they were actually doing their homework, but figured I could follow up on that later. Baby steps. “We are definitely going to need alcohol for this.” I found a bottle opener and popped the caps off two beers. “Where do I begin?”
“First of all, did you go this morning?” Vella plucked two glasses from the cabinet. “Was he there?”
By he, I assumed she meant Nate. “Oh yes, he was there.” While pouring the first glass, I t
ook a deep breath. “And so were about fifty GRS workers.” I tossed the bottle into the trash and handed her the glass. “The grim kind, if you know what I mean.”
Her mouth dropped open and her eyes rounded. “Get out of here.”
I nodded. “Yep, seems he was telling the truth and I am—” My voice dropped to a whisper. “A grim reaper.”
Vella picked up a glass and took a long drink. After which, she wiped her mouth with the sleeve of her shirt. Though it wasn’t uncommon for her white trash roots to come out, it was always funny to witness. She opened her mouth to say something, stopped, and then took another gulp. I waited. I knew how she felt. Finding out her best friend was an angel of death was a lot to take in.
She swallowed hard and set the glass on the counter. “Well, if that isn’t the shit.”
“If you mean messed up, then yeah, that’s the shit.” After snagging the full glass, I sat at the table. “But it’s a paying job and there are benefits.”
“That’s good—right?”
Obviously she was struggling for the right thing to say. Vella joined me at the table. On impulse, she reached across the table to pat my arm, but stopped. We both stared at her hovering hand.
“It’s all right,” I said, “you can touch me.”
Tension eased from her shoulders and she lowered her hand, tapping my arm once as if she thought it would explode.
I smirked. “Any bright lights you feel drawn to?”
“No.” She pulled back her hand. “But you can never be too careful. I don’t know what a reaper does and doesn’t do.” Vella ran her finger around the rim of the glass. “And you’re sure about this? He wasn’t just putting you on?”
“It would have been an elaborate jest.” I lowered my voice so the kids wouldn’t overhear, and recounted my day. Vella sat riveted in her chair. Even though the story sounded outlandish, something I would conjure after huffing airplane glue, I’d finally accepted it was true.
When I finished, Vella sat for a few seconds, staring at me. Then she smiled. The action was forced and a little tight, devoid of her genuine southern cheer. “You seem okay with all this.”
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