Ink Stains, Volume I
Page 4
A Grave Tale
Eddie Cantrell
1.
Abel did not make a habit of disobeying his employer, but sometimes he just wanted to see a fresh corpse.
Mortimer Carroll, Sparrows Labyrinth’s only mortician, had pulled him aside a week ago and said, “For the love of God, Buddha, Mary Jane Poppins, or whoever the bloody hell floats your boat, I want you to stay the hell out of here. You dig the graves. That’s all. You have no business being in the embalming room or the mortuary. You make the mourners uncomfortable. You make me uncomfortable. I wouldn’t be surprised if you even make the corpses uncomfortable. Just stay out!”
But for Abel, today wasn’t just about the new corpse.
“Can’t dig the stinking grave if I don’t have the shovel,” he mumbled to himself. “And I can’t get the stinking shovel if I don’t have the stinking keys to the shed, now can I?”
The keys had disappeared three days ago, and Mr. Carroll, or “Prickly Morty” as Abel called him behind his back, was taking his time with the duplicates.
So there Abel stood, slouched in the corner, dried snot smeared across his cheek, and his right eye, oddly bigger than the left, seemed to have a life of its own. With his filthy overalls, unwashed face, and ramshackle hair, Abel looked like he belonged in the clinically clean embalming room about as much as an amputated foot belonged on a dinner plate. Ignoring the occasional glare from Prickly Morty, Abel kept his attention on the woman. Viewings were not done in the embalming room for obvious reasons, but when the young woman arrived half an hour ago asking if she could have a moment with the body before the service tomorrow, Mr. Carroll made a rare exception. Abel’s employer made rare exceptions for pretty women. Maybe he preferred them vulnerable. And breathing.
Abel watched her from behind the filthy strands of his hair as she looked down at the corpse on the preparation table. His eyes scanned the swell of her small breasts and the delicate curve of her neck. Lingered over her quivering chin and the building wetness in her eyes. Saw the paleness under her blush and the dark sickle moons under her eyes.
Soft rasping broke the silence as Abel scratched his bushy beard. He shifted his gaze down to the smartly dressed, rosy-cheeked body lying on the table.
“Are you pleased with the preparation, Ms. O’Hara?” Mr. Carroll asked, poised a discreet distance behind her.
Ms. O’Hara blinked as if a bubble popped in front of her eyes.
“Yes. My father looks at peace. You’ve done a great job, Mr. Carroll.”
“Is there anything else I can do for you?”
Ms. O’Hara took a deep breath.
“There is. It’s the reason I wanted to see my father before the ceremony tomorrow. And thank you for making an exception for me. I know this against normal procedures.”
She dug around inside her purse for a moment and brought out a small, black silk cloth. She held it like it was a bird with an injured wing.
“My father received it forty years ago,” she said, unfolding the cloth. Using her index finger and thumb, she lifted up a small pocket watch and let it gently swing on the end of a delicate chain. A rich gold gleamed from its smooth and flawless surface.
Abel raised his shaggy head. The reflection of the gold pocket watch swung in that deformed eye.
Her lips started trembling again. “He became preoccupied with it. Obsessed. Never went a day without keeping it in his pocket. And the peculiar thing is it never ticked a single second.” Her voice cracked as she said, “It was broken.”
“When he was in the hospital, I took the watch to a specialist down in New Haven.” Her pretty eyes welled up. “I thought if I gave it to him, and it worked, maybe, somehow, it would help him get better.” She dropped her head, her face broke into strained creases and the tears fell, running down her cheeks in murky streaks. Mr. Carroll pulled a handkerchief, white as snow, from his blazer.
“Even in hospital, sick as he was, he mustered the strength to argue with me for taking it. Said it worked perfectly well. Said he could hear it ticking.” Ms. O’Hara dabbed her eyes. “Anyway, the watch specialist in New Haven convinced me that it couldn’t be fixed. Said it would never tick another second.” Her eyes drifted over to her father’s face and stared at it for a moment. “Too old, insides too damaged, too late.
“Would it be all right, Mr. Carroll, if I left it with him? I think they’d want to be together.”
“But of course, Ms. O’Hara,” Mr. Carroll said with a single nod.
She tucked the gold pocket watch inside her father’s blazer.
“I assure you, Ms. O’Hara, that your father is in good hands. This afternoon, Mr. Allen will prepare your requested lot at the top of the hill. It is truly beautiful up there. Most lovely view of the town.” Mr. Carroll’s eyes glared over the rims of his glasses. “Isn’t that so, Mr. Allen?”
A crooked grin uncurled across Abel’s face. “Of course, Mr. Carroll, sir,” he said, staring at the spot on the blazer under which the pocket watch lay.
2.