The Dearly Departed Dating Service

by Rae Renzi

  The work, however, was not. I don’t mean to criticize how research money is spent, but if we can manage to let a person go for an earthlight stroll on the moon, can’t we develop the technology to make homes self-cleaning? I’ve seen ads for clumsy robotlike vacuums that bump and bumble around picking up dirt under specific conditions. How difficult would it be, I wonder, to create a fleet of tiny robots that could roam over a wide variety of surfaces and be taught to distinguish trash from treasure? We’ve developed artificial intelligence to the point that voice recognition is almost routine, so why not dirt recognition? We’ve developed unmanned flight for reconnaissance (and other, less benign purposes) in hostile territories. Why not reconnaissance for rubbish in domestic household domains? The reason, I’m sad to say, is probably a remnant of gender bias. Cleaning has traditionally been women’s work.

  In any case, without any tiny robots to help me, I worked until late into the night, dusting, mopping, polishing, washing. With the glow of satisfaction that accompanies a job well done, I hung up my mop and glanced around the house.

  The only bad moment had come when I discovered the business card of that pushy Realtor, Loretta. I picked it up, intending to throw it in the trash, but in the end I carefully placed it back on the coffee table, because for one horrible moment I recognized Loretta Hammer’s truth: it would be better to sell the house than to have it foreclosed upon. At least then I might realize some good from it, and I might have a little control over who became the new owners. The thought of my lovely little cottage being bulldozed down to make way for a giant McMansion turned my stomach.

  I let my gaze roam over my home, taking in every detail. It was clean and sparkled from top to bottom. The clutter was gone, and random books were re-shelved (although I’d stopped short of alphabetizing). Papers were sorted and filed or put into bags for recycling. Dishes were washed and dried, clothes put away. My domain was completely in order.

  It had been a labor of love and of guilt. If only I had taken better care of the house, if only I had paid closer attention to the details of my and Gran’s home, this wouldn’t have happened. If there was no way for me to save the house, at least I could give it my best in these last few weeks.

  As I crawled into bed, Alice, looking slightly traumatized, crept up and turned her woeful eyes on me.

  I studied her for moment and then lectured her on slipping boundaries and the necessity to be clear about expectations—blah, blah, blah.

  She wagged her little stub of a tail.

  I sighed. “Okay, Alice. Only for tonight.”

  The wretched animal hopped up on the bed and curled up beside me, making little happy grunts and snorts. I snuggled down, grateful for her. She was small and warm and comforting. She needed me. And right now, I needed her.

  The next morning the blue funk that my cleaning spree had staved off flowed over me like a mud slide. I sipped my cup of coffee dejectedly and shredded my toast into gravel-sized bits. Not even the sunshine streaming in the sparkling clean windows pulled a smile from the tar pit of my mind. I knew what I had to do—it was the only smart thing to do. I knew it and I hated it, but that didn’t change it one bit. I had a vision of myself as the despicable person who grasped a lovely rose bush and ripped it from the earth, its leaves and flowers wilting instantly, the roots helplessly flailing in the cold air, desperately reaching for the ground. To complete my round of self-flagellation, I had the visual-image me toss it onto a trash heap and then stomp it to pulp. I almost got sick, and I had the (painful) satisfaction of knowing I deserved it.

  With that horrifying image in my mind, I stood abruptly and went to my desk computer to do what I had to do. A moment later I had a slight reprieve: the first step could be done impersonally. At least whoever was on the receiving end of the “request an appointment” form would not bear witness to my wheezing, snuffling distress as I filled in the blanks. If I’d had to speak to an actual person, all bets would be off—no one could have gotten past the sobbing to comprehend my address.

  The hideous task done, I restored my bare equilibrium with a hot shower and another cup of coffee. Thirty minutes later I was ready to face a corpse.

  When I opened the door to my house, Luke was sitting on my porch.

  “Hi, Joy. Brought something to you.” He drifted up the stairs holding a plastic grocery bag.

  “Luke, I hope you haven’t been shoplifting—even if you’re dead, it’s still a crime.”

  He laughed. “Chill, Joy. Here.”

  He pushed the bag toward me. I took it and peered inside. Curled in the bottom were a five-dollar bill and three singles.

  “Down payment. For the Dearly Departed Dating Service. Okay?”

  A lump lodged in my throat and I wanted to tell him to never mind, I would brave Marybob and help him anyway. But I had an idea this was something he needed to do.

  “Okay, Luke. This is a good start. I’ll mark it down in the book. I think it’s enough for us to begin a search for a match. In fact, I think I have someone in mind.”

  He flashed me a smile and floated down the stairs. “Great. See you around.” With one last wink he twinkled out.

  At least someone was happy with me. Heaven (or wherever) knows I wasn’t.

  Chapter 39

  It was eight o’clock in the evening, and my mood had taken an upswing. Or more accurately, I suppose, had returned to normal from its precipitous plunge into the abyss. I blamed my temporary decline into sadness on men in general (especially mortgage bankers), and on Sam and Craig in particular. Obviously I was better off without any of them.

  I had just returned to Tranquility Park after showing the not-really-forged letter from Mr. Heckenkamp to his wife. I was pretty pleased with how it went. She’d signed up—tentatively, and with reservations, but that didn’t matter—and had written a check to the Dearly Departed Dating Service.

  I was jubilant. A sliver of light pierced the gloomy outlook for my future. The corners of my mouth turned up, and I hummed a little tune.

  As I updated the book—surely if I showed the bank this evidence of a burgeoning business venture, they’d give me a little more time—a knock sounded on the office door. Surprised, I looked up.

  It was Marshall.

  “I hope there isn’t an emergency case,” I said to him, making a little joke. It was pretty hard to have an emergency when the person was already dead.

  He just stared at me a moment. “There will be three more tomorrow morning.” He handed me some papers.

  “Wow. We’re getting pretty darn busy. I guess that’s good. At least for business.” A little niggling worry nibbled at the edges of my equanimity. Where was all this business coming from?

  His face didn’t change. “Yes.”

  I studied him for a moment, wondering if he ever got lonely. “Do you like your job, Marshall?”

  He didn’t answer right away. His eyes got a faraway look. “I grew up here. In the mortuary. The upstairs used to be my home. The children at school made fun of me, but I knew something they didn’t. I knew all about death.” His eyes refocused on me. “It served me well. I need my job. It’s all I have. Good night.”

  And with that, he turned on his heel and walked out.

  I watched him leave, stifled a shiver, and slid the Dating Book into my desk drawer. I had an hour before Clydes arrived here at Tranquility Park for the séance. I’d studied his page, which was now full to brimming with helpful suggestions, all of them provided by Ruby. I was sure we had chosen the right match for him.

  I was less sure about the mechanics of the séance. Marybob had not been overwhelmingly helpful, as she was focused entirely on her costume.

  I slipped into the chair at my computer and turned to Wikipedia for information. The article I found was stuffed with instances of fraud and surprising accounts of famous people who had attended séances (President Lincoln, for one) but offered little help on how to conduct one. This was particularly frustrating in that I needed no help whatso
ever with the contacting of spirits—the Departed were abundantly present—but only with the rituals, etc. I had an idea that the stage-setting could make or break our goal of convincing Clydes to move on. Perception was everything.

  We had decided to conduct the séance in the waiting room. Since it was well after hours, we would not be interrupted, and it was the only room in Tranquility Park that had the atmosphere necessary to our mission. It had heavy velvet draperies, mahogany furniture (or a reasonable facsimile thereof), plush carpet, and plenty of mirrors, vases, candlesticks, and other relevant incidentals.

  “We need at least three people,” I reported to Marybob, who preened in front of the small mirror behind the waiting-room door.

  She wound silver, gold, and red scarves around her head, turban-style, and appraised the effect. “No prob. You, me, Clydes. I’m taking that as real people, like with bodies, right?”

  “Correct.” I looked around the room. “But we’ll have plenty of Departed here, too.” Maybe too many. At least ten were already hanging around, and they appeared far more curious than sympathetic, which wasn’t at all comforting.

  “So, what else do we need?” Marybob began to layer dozens of bangles on her wrists. Although she was uninformed about séances in general, she had come well equipped to fulfill the role (or at least her idea of the role) of Madam Mystique, with long, flowing skirts, a sheer blouse, and enough jewelry to start a shop. My own attire was a little less compelling, though more practical: a pair of black pants and a snug, low-cut black top with flowing sleeves that seemed midway between businesslike and mysterious, set off by a black onyx choker necklace.

  I consulted my notes. “We should have candles—”

  “Ta da!”

  “—and matches to light them—”

  Marybob brandished a butane lighter.

  “—soft lighting—”

  She jerked the draperies closed and doused the lights, plunging us into darkness.

  “Uh, Marybob?”

  “Just checking.” She clicked the lights back on.

  I smiled. Her enthusiasm was contagious. “‘Other traditional tools,’” I read from the screen, “‘are spirit boards, like a Ouija board, spirit trumpets to magnify the voices of the dead, slates for them to write on and a special table.’”

  Marybob waved grandly. “That stuff is for wimps. We don’t need it.”

  “Wimpiness is not the issue. Proof is. As long as Luke insists on being here, we may as well use his talent.” I held up a fat felt-tipped marker pen.

  Luke immediately gravitated over and reached for it, the little devil in him rising to the occasion.

  “Luke, this is not meant to be used as—”

  A loud knock sounded at the front door.

  Marybob and I froze. The Departed drifted through the wall to see who was there, except Ruby who looked at us and said, “You gonna to let Clydes in, or do you want to take your chances with Luke greeting him?”

  “Good point. Marybob, go.”

  By the time she returned leading Clydesdale by the hand, I had the candles lit, the drapes drawn, the overhead lights extinguished, and the paper and marker hidden (because I had no confidence Luke would reappear). The effect was eerie and altogether otherworldly. I was tickled pink.

  As Marybob led him to his place on the sofa, Clydes’s face cycled through several emotions: hope, anxiety, sadness, and, completely normally, a little bashfulness at Marybob’s somewhat enthusiastic greeting. Or perhaps it was her semi-transparent shirt. He was a male, after all. Fortunately, rage did not make an appearance, nor, of course, happiness. But I hoped the latter would show up soon. I was afraid that if it didn’t, the former might.

  This next bit was tricky. Honestly, I don’t know what we’d been thinking. With Marybob playing Madam Mystique, we were stuck with constructing an elaborate ruse to translate Ruby’s words through me to Marybob. Or with—I shuddered—letting Marybob wing it.

  On the other hand, as I’d tried to pound home to the Departed (and Marybob), the purpose of the exercise was to comfort Clydes and get the idea across that Ruby was happy and wanted him to move on. Once that was established, I hoped he would be open to receiving comfort from another source (i.e., the dating service, specifically, Cherry Belle). Then we’d tell him that with Ruby’s help we’d found his perfect match. This all had the advantage of being true. I loved it when that happened.

  “So, how does this work?” Clydes asked.

  I sat beside him and took his hand. “Why don’t you tell us what would give your heart peace, Clydesdale.”

  His face screwed up into a fierce scowl that only highlighted his anguish. “I want my Ruby back.”

  Ruby said, “Aww. That’s sweet.” She crossed the room to sit beside him on the sofa.

  His devotion to Ruby brought tears to my eyes.

  “Not gonna happen,” said Marybob.

  Sometimes I thought it would’ve been better for everyone if Marybob had been on the receiving end of Clydes’s outburst in our previous meeting. There was nothing like a little physical pain to induce empathy.

  I halfway expected Clydes to respond badly to her bald statement, but to my surprise, he just nodded.

  “Yeah. I know. I’ve gotten that far.” He looked around the room. “Is she here?”

  Marybob glanced at me. I caught Ruby’s eye and jerked my head fractionally at the sofa.

  “Sitting right beside you, buddy.”

  Unfortunately, so was Luke. I tried to covertly convey to him that he should behave like a gentleman, er, gentleghost. He ignored me.

  Ruby reached up to pull Clydes’s long braided ponytail, but her hand went right through it. In a flash, Luke reached over her shoulder and gave it a tug.

  My hand flew to my mouth to keep from yelling at him.

  Clydesdale started and whirled toward Ruby, who grinned at him. “Hey!” He looked behind the sofa and all around. Finding no one, he looked at the empty space beside him and said, “Ruby?”

  “Do it again, Luke. Twice. Easy-like,” Ruby instructed her sidekick. Luke picked up the ponytail and tugged twice.

  Clydes closed his eyes, overcome, it seemed, with emotion. His shoulders loosened and he relaxed back into the sofa.

  “Ruby.” The comfort and relief in his voice was heartbreaking.

  “Used to do that to tease him,” Ruby said. “It used to make him mad.”

  Marybob looked confused for a second and glanced in the direction of Ruby, or, more accurately, at the space between Ruby and Luke. She, of course, wasn’t party to the hair-pulling incident. Fortunately, and contrary to all expectations, she kept her mouth shut.

  “Now that Ruby’s made her presence known, shall we go on?” I asked. “Clydes, what would help you move along?”

  “Move along?” Now Clydes looked confused.

  Honestly. Why did he think he was here?

  Marybob slapped her hands together, jingling her bracelets. “That’s right. Move on. As in get along with your life. Move forward. ‘Cause, Ruby’s not coming back, and you’re keeping her from going forward.”

  “Forward? What’s forward? Where’s forward?”

  Marybob opened her mouth then closed it. Wisely, I thought. Spirituality wasn’t her strength.

  “Forward to…” I hesitated. This might be tricky. If Clydes wasn’t over the hump, and if “forward” was painted in too glowing of terms, he might reconsider joining Ruby. That wouldn’t help our cause one bit.

  “Forward to… the next stage. Heaven, if you will, or whatever name you wish to attach to it. She’ll stay with you as long as you need her here on earth, but to do that she has to put off, ah, taking the next step in her spiritual development. And no, Clydes, you can’t go with her. It’s a journey we each take alone.” I was rather pleased with my explanation, once it came out of my mouth.

  Clydes frowned. “How am I supposed to get along with my life without her? I don’t know how—”

  “We do,” said Marybob.
“With Ruby’s help, we’ll find you a new partner. Tonight. Now, what we have in mind—”

  A footstep sounded in the hallway, and a form darkened the doorway.

  “What they have in mind is a scam.”

  Chapter 40

  I hadn’t laid eyes on Sam Kendall since the moment of painful clarification at the park. I didn’t want to see him now. But whether I wanted it or not, there he was.

  It was annoying that he looked magnificent, his impressive muscles showing through his scrubs, his hair rumpled (as usual), his storm-blue eyes flashing—the handsome and brave protector come to see justice done.

  I seriously considered slamming the door in his face.

  “I don’t know what exactly they’ve told you, but there is something wrong going on here, and I plan to get to the bottom of it,” Sam said to Clydes.

  “Who in the hell are you, and what the fuck do you know about anything?” Clydes asked.

  I considered Clydes with renewed interest. Maybe he would slam the door in Sam’s face? He certainly looked willing.

  However tempting, I couldn’t in good conscience allow Clydes to be distracted from his purpose here. Nor, I supposed, should I encourage violence. Even against Sam.

  Not one to shirk my duty, I took up the gauntlet. “A good point, Clydes, since from my experience, Dr. Kendall here, to make the introduction, knows only what he wishes to know.” I turned to the doctor in question. “Is that how you usually make diagnoses? Pick and choose convenient symptoms to support your view? It’s called the confirmation bias, in case you’re interested.”