by Elaine Viets
“I can’t stop now,” she said. “I’m going to be late for work.”
But Margery was not to be ignored—not in purple clamdiggers and red tennis shoes. She stomped right alongside Helen, keeping up with her long, loping strides. Smoking Marlboros didn’t slow her down.
“I’ll walk with you,” her landlady said. “I’m going in the same direction.”
“Then you’re going nowhere,” Helen said. “That’s where we went last night. You know why? Because I opened my big mouth. We were all alone in this romantic setting, surrounded by fog and flowers. He moved in closer. I was sure he was going to kiss me. And do you know what I said?” She glared at Margery until the glaze on her good cheer cracked.
“Do I want to know?” Margery said.
“I asked him what kind of gun he had.”
“That science fiction thing? What did he answer?” Margery was genuinely curious.
“It’s a target pistol with a red-dot sight. But that’s not the point. He went all business on me, Margery. He spent half an hour talking about that stupid gun. Excuse me, weapon. It was as romantic as a night at the Bass Pro Shop. I ruined the mood. I’ve been so long without a man, I panicked and turned into a porcupine. I’m so freaking stupid.”
“I think you were smart,” Margery said. “Women used to know how to play hard to get. He was probably expecting you to fall into his arms. Instead, you threw him off balance. A man like Phil is used to getting any woman he wants. It will do him good.”
Helen’s cheeks were bright red, and not from the brisk walk. “Do you really think so?”
“I just said so.” They were in front of the sidewalk restaurant at the elegant Riverside Hotel. Margery eyed the tanned busboy in the white jacket and tight pants.
“I hear the buns are great here.” She grinned wickedly.
“Margery!” Helen said.
Margery put on her best innocent old lady face. “I’m having a leisurely breakfast as a privilege of my age. You, young woman, should go to work. Build up that Social Security fund.”
Helen didn’t remind her landlady that she was paid in cash under the table. The only thing she contributed to was Vito’s slush fund.
As she walked the rest of the way to the boiler room, Helen decided she was a failure in the womanly wiles department. She’d have to impress Phil with her detecting skills. Maybe she could steal those papers off Vito’s desk. She knew how to do it without getting caught.
As Helen clocked in, she felt her spirits sink lower. The boiler room was dingy with ancient dirt. The night shift had left half a bag of Cheetos on her computer. Helen popped a handful in her mouth. They were stale. Her phone was coated with bright orange-yellow Cheetos’ residue, like an exotic pollen. She cleaned it off and threw away the bag.
Ramon, Marina’s little boy, overturned her trash can. He found the stale Cheetos and started eating them.
“No, no,” his mother said, taking away the bag. Ramon sat on the floor and screamed.
Helen heard more screaming on the phone. Her first call was to a Rhode Island man who snarled like a rabid dog. “You got a lot of balls calling me at eight thirty in the morning, lady.”
“I’ve got guts, not balls,” she said, but the guy hung up on her. Comeback interruptus, Helen thought, a major cause of frustration in telemarketers.
When the customers weren’t yelling, Vito was. He patrolled the aisles, shouting, “Loud and proud, people. Let’s hear you. Let’s get those sales.”
All Helen got was the green weenie in her ear. The nicest thing anyone did was hang up on her. For three hours she listened to the same old insults, and those were hard to hear with little Ramon howling for his lost Cheetos. Finally, Helen sneaked some out of the bag in the trash and fed them to the boy. Stale Cheetos wouldn’t hurt the kid, she told herself. She’d eaten them herself. Besides, he shut up.
At eleven thirty, Helen finally heard something she wanted:
“All right, people,” Vito said, “everyone in my office for a pep talk.”
Helen grabbed a pen and some paper. She jumped over little Ramon like a hurdle, then sprinted into Vito’s office. She was the second person in the room and snagged a seat on the corner of his desk. The other telemarketers pushed in, until Vito’s office was crowded as a Beijing bus. Good. The others would screen her.
Helen pulled out the paper she’d brought with her and began making notes. “Buy cat food. Throw out old takeout in fridge. Or feed to cat.” It was a list of things she had to do on her afternoon break, but she looked diligent from a distance.
Vito, pink and porcine, stalked up and down the room.
“You’re not selling, people. And if you’re not selling, you’re not telling the right things about our product. What do we know about Tank Titan? Here’s a refresher course:
“Tank Titan eats sludge like Pac-Man.”
Vito demonstrated with greedy chomps until the telemarketers were giggling. Helen glanced down at the boss’s desk. It was a landfill. With a fingernail, she lifted the top sheet of the paper pile nearest her. It was a stack of articles on the do-not-call law, printed off the Internet. Nothing she could steal there.
“Tank Titan is so good it’s like being on the city sewer,” Vito said. He quit chomping. Helen went back to scribbling.
“And it’s all-natural. Your baby could eat it for breakfast, and it wouldn’t hurt him.”
Vito grabbed Ramon from his mother’s arms and grinned at the boy like a deranged kiddie-show host. Helen noticed guiltily that Ramon’s mouth was yellow with stale Cheetos. Ramon burst into sobs, squirming to get away from Vito. The kid’s instincts were good.
Vito said, “Of course, you’d be changing a lot of diapers for a couple of days, but Tank Titan is harmless.” He handed Ramon back to his mother like a rejected package. While Marina carried her sobbing child from the room, Helen examined the next paper pile: a stack of time sheets and racing forms. Nothing again.
“Helen!” Vito said.
She jumped.
“Name two things that we never say to customers.”
“You can send the product back,” Helen said. “And, we will send you a free sample.”
“Very good,” Vito said. “See? The lady pays attention.” Fat lot he knows, Helen thought, as she went back to her list of things to do. She looked at Vito’s well-packed form and wrote, “Buy ham.”
Vito tormented three more telemarketers, who hadn’t a clue about what they should not say—or should, for that matter. Helen poked through more paper stacks. She found overdue invoices, ads for hair transplants, blank employment applications. Nothing.
“Remember, you’re not a telemarketer,” Vito said. “You’re an insurance agent for their septic tank. And how does a good agent sell? With fear. Make them afraid not to buy our product. Tell them, ‘If your septic tank backs up, and a backhoe rips up your lawn, that’s five thousand dollars down the drain.’ Fear sells, folks. Fear is the great motivator.”
It is for me, Helen thought, as she inched toward the last heap of paper. It was blank copy paper. Damn. The desk search was a bust. Then she saw a stapled corner sticking out of the pile. Blank paper didn’t have staples. She gave the corner a tiny tug.
Vito shouted, “What’s the most important thing to remember?”
Every telemarketer knew that answer: “Never, ever give out our 800 number!”
Vito clapped his hands. The telemarketers applauded themselves. Helen gave the stapled corner a good yank and pulled it out. She caught the paper tower before it toppled. She had the list of phony employees. It was covered with dust and coffee rings, but she had it. She stuck her to-do list on top of the stolen paper.
The pep talk was over. Helen joined the crowd surging for the open door.
“Helen!” Vito called.
Helen froze.
“Can you come here?” Vito didn’t look porcine anymore. He looked like a mass of robust muscle. Even his eyebrows were muscular.
“I saw
what you were doing.” Vito cracked his knuckles. Next, he’d crack every bone in her body.
Helen was too frightened to talk. He knew. He saw her steal that paper. What would he do next? Beat her up? Shoot her? Burn her with cigar butts? She could stand anything, as long as he didn’t lock her in with Mr. Cavarelli. Please don’t call in the lizard, she wanted to beg, but her mouth wouldn’t work.
“Taking notes is a good idea,” Vito said. “Sets a good example for the other telemarketers. Makes ’em take me more serious-like.” His smile showed sixty-four teeth.
Helen nodded. She still didn’t have her voice back. She fled the room, the purloined papers in her hand.
Helen went home at lunch break and fed Thumbs the leftover Cantonese chicken with water chestnuts. Her cat ate around the water chestnuts just like she did. Helen made herself a peanut butter and strawberry jam sandwich, but couldn’t finish it. Her encounter with Vito had ruined her appetite. The terror diet, she thought, an effective new weight-loss program.
She tried to take a nap, but she was too charged with adrenaline. She knocked on Phil’s door to give him the stolen list, but he wasn’t home. She slid the list under his door with the phantom employees starred.
Three hours before she had to be at work. Helen paced restlessly, wondering what to do. Then she had an inspiration.
The wife of Damian Putnam, the horny plastic surgeon at the Mowbrys’ party, was the CEO for a funeral-home chain. Helen had seen her picture in the society story.
What was that woman’s name?
Patricia Wellneck, that was it. The funeral home chain was called The Wellneck Group. Helen had heard their ads on the radio, with a professionally lugubrious announcer intoning: “The Wellneck Group. We’re here when you need us.”
Helen needed Patricia now.
She checked the phone book. The Wellneck headquarters were in Lauderdale, a half-hour bus ride away. Helen put on a black pantsuit. The bus pulled up to the stop as she arrived, a good omen. Even better, the bus stopped right in front of the pink stucco funeral home.
Florida funeral parlors looked about like the ones in Helen’s hometown of St. Louis, with one major difference: they were preternaturally sunny. No matter how thick the curtains, a Florida funeral home was flooded with sunshine. In the softer St. Louis light, you could say, “He looks so natural” with a straight face. But the relentless Florida sun was the enemy of the mortician’s art. It cruelly revealed the corpse’s makeup, the sprayed hair, the too-stiff stiff. Helen thought that was why there were more closed-casket funerals down here.
The casket in Slumber Room A was mercifully shut. It was pinkish bronze with a red carnation cover, like a flower blanket on a Kentucky Derby winner. Helen thought the red carnations clashed with the casket color, but it was fairly tasteful for Florida.
She tiptoed past Slumber Rooms B and C, both empty, and found the office. A young woman in a somber navy suit said, “May I help you?”
Her soft, solemn voice made Helen want to clutch a tissue.
“I’d like to see Patricia Wellneck about some pre-need arrangements.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
“No. But if I don’t make them now, I’ll never have the courage again,” Helen said.
Ms. Solemn Suit knew better than to let a live one get away. “I’ll see if she’s available.”
Patricia Wellneck was back in two minutes. She photographed better than she looked in person. She was so thin, she looked like one of her coffin candidates. Her yellow-blond hair was upswept, and in the harsh light of day, facelift scars were visible behind her ears. She also had an eye-job slant. Her husband had been whittling on her, Helen thought.
“Now, how may I help you?” Patricia gave a death’s-head smile.
“I’m looking into some pre-need arrangements,” Helen said. “For myself. I want to buy a coffin.”
“And your name is?”
What’s my name? Helen thought. Patricia’s skeletal smile made her panic. I can’t use my real name. Who do I want to be in this place?
“Rob,” Helen blurted her ex-husband’s name.
“Yes, Ms. Robb. You are wise to make your choice now. We have a full line of caskets. Many younger people, like yourself, prefer our theme line.”
“Theme caskets,” Helen said. She flashed back to those awful corporate theme parties from her former life, where unhappy servers had to wear lederhosen for unfestive Oktoberfests and cowboy hats for dreary chuck wagon cookouts.
Patricia pulled out a catalogue. “These,” she said, “are dignified but distinctive.”
She showed Helen a casket covered with Monet’s water lilies. It looked like a giant jewelry box. “This is from our Eternal Masters series. It makes a comforting statement for your family. This is a quiet reflection of a full life.”
Helen looked at the water lilies and thought of groundwater seeping around her body. Florida flooded a lot.
“Uh, no thanks,” she said.
“If you are religious, we have many beautiful expressions of faith. Like this one.”
Helen saw a sky-blue casket covered with flying seagulls. She looked for the telltale white splotches left by seagulls, but apparently that didn’t happen in heaven. Two curlicued words announced, “Going Home.”
Helen thought of herself stuck in her mother’s home for all eternity and shuddered.
“There’s also this one with Raphael’s angels on the casket.” The two cherubs, who looked like winged juvenile delinquents to Helen, stared out from the coffin lid. Helen had also seen them on umbrellas, cocktail napkins and candles. She felt like a gift-shop special.
“Pretty,” she said. “But I don’t think I’m the angelic type.”
Patricia was not discouraged. “If you have a profession,” she said, “we have many choices to honor it. This model is for firefighters.”
The bright red casket was covered with fire trucks, which Helen liked a lot. But she thought the flames were asking for trouble.
“Veterans prefer this model,” Patricia said, showing Helen a coffin with the Stars and Stripes, an abandoned rifle, and an empty helmet. What a way to go: at war, with a permanent reminder of defeat.
“Very patriotic,” Helen said. “But the only place I ever served was a Greek diner. I was a waitress. I had to fight off the owner, so maybe I qualify as a combat veteran.”
Patricia didn’t laugh.
“Did you attend college?”
“University of Missouri at Columbia.”
“Then perhaps you’d like a college scene or your school colors on your casket.”
Mizzou had never cared two hoots about Helen until she started making a hundred thou a year. Then the alumni association dunned her for contributions until she finally wrote “deceased” on their begging envelopes. Now the university could follow her to the grave. She would never be free.
“Do I need ivy on my tombstone?” Helen said.
“I see you have a sense of humor,” Patricia said. “This model might be the one for you. It packs you for the trip home, so to speak.”
The casket was a giant brown package stamped with “Express Delivery” and “Return to Sender.” Great. She could be an eternal joke.
“Elvis fans would like it, too,” Helen said. “But I’m more of a Clapton fan.” Or a fan of a Clapton fan. Helen knew where she’d wind up if she had a black coffin emblazoned with “Clapton Is God”—some place even hotter than Florida.
“These are certainly unusual,” Helen said. “But perhaps I’m more of a traditionalist than I thought.”
“We have many traditional styles. Some have the newest features, like memento drawers. That’s if you want to send something special with your loved one: a photo, medals, letters. We’ve had wedding photos, jewelry, children’s drawings and many other meaningful keepsakes.”
She showed Helen a bronze casket with a flat pullout section at the bottom, like a pencil drawer on a desk. Helen had slipped a six-pack of Falstaff beer i
nto her grandfather’s coffin, along with a bottle opener and a bag of Rold Gold pretzels. The drawer didn’t look big enough for her kind of memento.
“I have an odd request,” Helen said.
“We will do our best to accommodate your wishes.” Patricia smiled her skeleton grin.
“Could I have the coffin delivered to my home? Before I’m dead.”
Patricia didn’t bat an eyelash. Maybe she couldn’t with her tight eye job.
“Well, yes, you could,” she said. “The casket company does not like to deliver to private residences. You’d have to order it from us and have it delivered here at the funeral home. Then you’d pick it up from here with your own truck. Are you interested in one of these models?”
“I was thinking of something in wood,” Helen said.
“Pecan, pine, cherry or walnut?”
“Ebony,” Helen said.
“Fine woods such as ebony are very expensive,” Patricia said.
“I bet they are,” Helen said. “But I saw one at a party and really liked it.”
Patricia turned white as a satin lining. Her surgery scars glowed red with rage. She rose like a zombie from a new grave.
“I don’t believe I can help you after all,” she said. “My assistant will show you out.”
“I believe you can, Ms. Wellneck. Tell me about the Six Feet Unders. Drop-dead sexy, aren’t they? Especially in coffin clothes. Did they buy them here?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Patricia stepped around her desk and clamped her hand on Helen’s arm. It was cold as ice, but steel-strong. Patricia could have been a South Beach bouncer. She’d spent years dealing with the overwrought at wakes and funerals. She knew how to subdue someone while making it look as if she was helping the person out of the room.
Helen struggled to get free, and Patricia changed her grip. Pain shot up Helen’s arm. Patricia dragged Helen out of her office.
“Buying a casket can be an emotional experience,” Patricia said. “Perhaps you would like to rest a moment in our family comfort room. I’ll bring you a cup of tea.”
She steered Helen toward a gloomy green-curtained area with a dark door. Helen knew if she went through that door, she’d come out feet first. She took her size-eleven shoe and stomped down hard on Patricia’s foot.