1 Grim Tidings

by Amanda M. Lee

  “What did you just say to me?” I feared that if my dad’s face got any redder he might burst a blood vessel.

  “I said you’re right,” Aidan sighed. “I’m sorry.”

  “That’s what I thought you said.”

  When I was sure my dad wasn’t looking, I shot a triumphant smile in Aidan’s direction. He flipped me off, discreetly, but my father and his eagle eyes didn’t miss the gesture.

  “I saw that.”

  “Shouldn’t we get the soul transfer over with?” Aidan asked, trying to change the subject.

  “Fine,” my dad replied. “Perhaps I should oversee the soul transfer, just to be on the safe side.”

  “Knock yourself out,” Aidan grumbled.

  My dad motioned for me to join him, holding out his hand so I could place the scepter in his palm. I watched as he took the silver staff – which was about ten inches long – and placed the bottom end into the purple urn in the corner of the room behind his desk. The process was a mild curiosity – until I joined the family business I wasn’t allowed to see this part of the operation. The urn lit up, flashing once, twice, ultimately five times, and then going dark. My dad retrieved the scepter and handed it back to me.

  “At least one job was done without incident today,” he grumbled.

  “The easy part,” Aidan scoffed.

  My dad opened his mouth to let loose with a choice verbal smackdown but was interrupted when the door to the office opened and the rest of my family filed in. My older brothers, Redmond, Cillian and Braden, were in the middle of a deep conversation.

  “She was after me,” Redmond said, sliding down onto the couch I had just vacated.

  “You’re crazy,” Cillian said, his eyes flashing. “She wanted me.”

  “You’ve both gone blind,” Braden interjected. “She kept touching my bicep. She wanted me.”

  “She kept touching all of our biceps,” Redmond argued. “She tried to stick her tongue in my ear, though.”

  “She was coughing,” Cillian replied. “That wasn’t her tongue. It was spit.”

  Gross.

  All of my brothers look exactly alike. No, really, they do. If not for the white streaks I had recently added to my hair, there would be no doubt that we all swam from the same gene pool. Every one of us had inky black hair and bright purple eyes, both traits passed on to us from our father. There wasn’t a lot of deviation in our ages – apparently our parents were randy in their youth – so we were extremely close, and competitive.

  Redmond is the oldest, and most stable at twenty-nine. Cillian is a year behind at twenty-eight, and he is a touch more volatile (and by a touch I mean he freaks out at the drop of a hat). Braden has middle-child syndrome at twenty-seven and, while the rest of us have straight hair, his is wavy like our mother’s was before she passed away. Aidan and I are the babies at twenty-five and, if Redmond is to be believed, we were not exactly happy accidents. It’s not as though my parents didn’t love us as children, but we weren’t explicitly in their family plan. They had intended to have three children – not five – so it’s no surprise that my father’s patience often wears thin with us faster than it does with my older brothers.

  “What are you three arguing about?” My father’s voice was gruff, but his eyes were twinkling. He liked hearing about my brothers’ romantic conquests. Since my mother had died – almost a decade ago now – he had lived like a monk, except for their stories.

  “Cillian tried to steal my date,” Redmond explained. “She shot him down, though.”

  “She shot you down,” Cillian argued.

  “She obviously shot you all down because you all came back here alone,” I interjected, shoving Redmond’s foot from the coffee table so I could move past and settle into the open spot on the couch next to him.

  Redmond slung his arm around my shoulder affectionately. “We actually came home early to see how Aisling’s first day of work went.”

  My mouth dipped into a frown as I regarded him.

  “That bad? It will get better, kid,” he said, squeezing my shoulder in a show of solidarity.

  “If she had finished her training when she was a teenager, she wouldn’t be scrambling to catch up now,” Dad said.

  Redmond rolled his eyes. This was an old argument. When I was eighteen, I had gotten drunk at a holiday party and informed everyone that I had no intention of joining the family business as planned. We were raised knowing that we had to join the reaper fold, and my brothers had all fallen into line.

  I had wanted something different, something that didn’t revolve around death. So, instead, I dropped out of the reaper-training program and started classes at the local community college. After changing my major four times – nothing seemed to fit just right – I dropped out and took a job as a secretary at an insurance agency. Unfortunately for me, downsizing eliminated that position about six months ago.

  With few options – and no degree to fall back on – I finally agreed to join the family business when my roommate gave me an ultimatum: Start paying rent or get out. He meant it in the nicest way possible. No, really, he did. He was just trying to give me some direction – one that didn’t lead to a fast food chain -- at least that’s what I keep telling myself.

  So, here I am. I joined the family line, but there was no way I was going to move back into this mausoleum on the hill. It’s kind of like a castle. I’m not exaggerating. When you tell people you live in a suburb of Detroit, they picture falling down houses and rampant gang bangers. We live on Grosse Pointe’s Lakeshore Drive, though, in one of the richest areas of Michigan. Even for this area, though, our house is just a little bit too much. You know that show, Downton Abbey? They wish their house was this big. No joke.

  All four of my brothers still live here, taking over one of the wings as their party pit (their words, not mine). I couldn’t get out of here fast enough, though. To me, a home is supposed to be warm and inviting. The only thing this house invites is unrest.

  “I don’t want to argue about the training again,” I said, my voice low.

  “Let the training thing go,” Cillian agreed. “It’s over. It’s done with. You’ve won. Move on.”

  “I’ve won what?” My dad looked incredulous. “Is this the lottery and no one told me?”

  “You wanted her in the family fold since she announced that she wasn’t going to do it,” Braden said. “She’s in the family fold. Give it a rest.”

  My brothers are nothing if not loyal. Sure, they’re total pains, but they’re loyal pains.

  “I wanted her to go through the proper training and join the business when she was nineteen, like the rest of you,” Dad replied. “I didn’t want her to waste money and jump around from job to job before finally starting work with us because she had no other choice.”

  “I didn’t jump from job to job,” I grumbled.

  “And she paid for her own college,” Redmond reminded my dad. “Why don’t you stop bringing it up?”

  “Why don’t you mind your own business,” my dad shot back.

  “Why don’t we all calm down,” Aidan suggested.

  “You’re the reason we’re even having this discussion,” Dad said, fixing his eyes on Aidan.

  “How?” Aidan’s voice was high and unnatural.

  “You helped her pay for that community college,” my dad charged on. “You didn’t think I knew that, did you? But I knew.”

  “So what?” Aidan said, his voice angry and firm. “That was my choice, not your choice.”

  “And how did it work out? Was it money well spent?”

  Aidan shifted his gaze over to me uneasily. “She wanted to see what was out there. I don’t see what the big deal is.”

  “The big deal is she is one of us, despite whatever it is she’s done to her hair – and I know you did that just to tick me off, young lady – and she should have been with us from the beginning. Do you know how many jokes I had to listen to at the reaper council because she chose to be a secretary ins
tead of a reaper?”

  “So you’re angry because your friends are asses?” Redmond was rubbing his hands together, as though spoiling for a fight (which was often the case).

  “I’m angry because, until now, she’s been a tremendous disappointment.”

  The jab hit me where it was supposed to – right in the heart. His aim was always true, even if he regretted the words the minute they escaped from his mouth.

  “She’s not a disappointment,” Braden growled, getting to his feet. “Don’t call her that.”

  My father’s face softened, instant contrition taking over. “I didn’t mean that.”

  “Then why did you say it?” Aidan asked.

  “Because … I don’t know why I said it. She just frustrates me. I didn’t mean it, though.”

  “You frustrate us,” Cillian interjected.

  “How do I frustrate you?”

  “By saying things like you just said. Why do you always have to harp on her?”

  I listened to the argument continue around me with my ears but I tuned it out with heart and my head. I can’t let him get to me, I reminded myself. He didn’t mean what he said. No, he really didn’t. Boys he gets. Adolescent boys. Teenage boys. Adult boys. He gets their feelings and emotions and he can deal with them.

  High-strung girls with their drama and mean-girl attitude, though? That he doesn’t get. He was fine with me when I was little, when I was digging in the dirt and wrestling with my brothers. When I wanted to be Batman he was perfectly fine. The minute I put on a skirt and discovered boys, though – in the same way (and at the same age) that Aidan discovered boys, by the way – he started to falter as a parent. That’s when my mom swooped in and took over as the main parental figure for Aidan and me. Even though Aidan didn’t know what he was at that point, my mom knew. My dad claims he didn’t, but I find that hard to believe.

  When my mom died while trying to collect a soul in a burning building – it happens more often than most reapers would like to admit – my dad had to take on our parenting again. He wasn’t very good at it, by his own admission. Not that he didn’t try. He did try – and those are the memories I cling to.

  “Let’s just drop it.” I had said the words barely above a whisper, but every head swung in my direction and all arguing ceased.

  “I’m on your side,” Redmond said, gripping my shoulder tightly.

  “I know, and I appreciate it. It’s just not worth arguing about. I know I’m a disappointment. It doesn’t hurt me anymore. Just let it go.”

  With those words, I got to my feet – fighting the shakiness that threatened to overwhelm me -- and exited the room. The one thing I need above all others right now is an escape from this house. I always need an escape from this house. Why I agreed to return is still a mystery to me.

  It has to get better, right? Right?

  Three

  While the rest of my family lives in luxury on Lakeshore Drive – maids and butlers included – I have opted for minimalism. Okay, maybe minimalism isn’t the right word. Cozy. Yeah, that’s the word that best describes the condo I share with my best friend in Royal Oak, a northern suburb of Detroit in the more affluent Oakland County.

  Royal Oak isn’t ritzy, but it’s certainly not run down. It’s comfortable – and the nightlife is to die for (probably not a great phrase for a reaper, I know). It’s more hipster-meets-music snob, with great food on every corner thrown in for good measure. There’s a festival every other weekend and something new to discover every month.

  I love it here.

  I unlocked the door to my condo – located within walking distance of Royal’s Oak’s bustling after-dark activities – and found my best friend, Jeremiah “Jerry” Collins, lounging on the couch watching Golden Girls in his boxer shorts.

  Before you ask, yes, Jerry is gay. I’ve known since we met in kindergarten and he immediately vetoed my Converse and Levis, something he does to this day. I didn’t know he was gay right away. I did ask my mom if he was a girl dressed up as a boy, though. She merely smiled, patted me on the head, and told me that someday I would appreciate his fashion sense. She was wrong on that one.

  “Hey, Bug,” he greeted me without looking up from the television. He had called me “Bug” since we were little, when my brothers were happily burning ants with a magnifying glass while I tried desperately to save them -- in vain, I might add. Nothing can dissuade my brothers from a task when they set their minds to it.

  “Hey,” I said, dropping my purse on the coffee table and sliding onto the couch next to him. “How was your day?”

  “Oh, just so stupid,” Jerry replied. “Mrs. Noonan came in again.”

  I wracked my brain for an identity hint. “Is she the one who wants the four-tiered wedding cake?” Jerry owned a chic little bakery – Get Baked – on Royal Oak’s main drag. He’s extremely creative and talented, and I’m not saying that just because he’s my best friend.

  “She’s just unbelievable,” Jerry continued. “She wants me to somehow include dolphins in it now.”

  “Dolphins? That doesn’t seem very wedding-y. Is that a word? Wedding-y? I don’t think that’s a word.”

  Jerry ignored my grammar constipation. “Dolphins have nothing to do with a wedding,” he agreed. “She only asked for the dolphins after I told her that putting shirtless men on a gay wedding cake was tacky.”

  Yeah, because of who he is and how well known he is in the gay community, a lot of Jerry’s business revolves around same-sex weddings in Michigan. That’s a thing now because a recent court decision pretty much spanked Michigan’s governor and told him that a gay marriage ban is repugnant – which he’s still fighting. Jerry’s business is booming, though.

  “I thought you liked tacky?”

  “For a bachelor party? Sure. For a wedding, though? Some things are sacred.”

  Sometimes I think Jerry is more of a girl than I am. When he thinks of wedding cakes he gets all twitterpated like in Bambi. When I think of wedding cakes, I don’t get anything but hives.

  “Well, what did you finally tell her?”

  “That I knew what I was doing and to trust me.”

  “And how did she take that?”

  “She told me I was bitchy.”

  I couldn’t hide my smirk. Jerry idles at bitchy. That’s what I love about him. “Then what happened?”

  “Then I called her son and told him she was driving me crazy.”

  No, not bitchy at all.

  “And he agreed with me and she backed off,” Jerry added.

  “And how did you end things?”

  “She started crying and admitted that she’s manic about the wedding because she wants to make sure her son realizes she’s okay with it, him being gay and getting married and all.”

  “That’s kind of sweet,” I admitted.

  “It is,” Jerry agreed, slinging his arm over my shoulder and pulling me close so I could get more comfortable.

  I thought about his response for a second and then smiled. “The cake is going to have dolphins, isn’t it?”

  “Small, tasteful ones,” Jerry replied.

  Tasteful dolphins on a wedding cake? I can’t wait to see it. I turned my attention to the television, fighting to stifle a laugh as Rose launched into a story about St. Olaf. While Golden Girls may seem stereotypical for a gay man – and it is -- there are some stereotypes that have to be embraced. At least that’s what Jerry always tells me. Golden Girls is one of our coveted nightly rituals. We also watch Little House on the Prairie. We’re multi-faceted weird.

  We watched the episode in silence for a few minutes, but then I felt Jerry stir beside me. “So, Bug, you haven’t told me how your day went.”

  That was on purpose. “It was fine.”

  “Fine?”

  “Fine.”

  “That doesn’t sound very convincing. I would think a day of gathering human souls and helping them pass to the great beyond would be fulfilling.”

  Yeah, Jerry is in on the
big family secret. I told him when I was eight. My dad had some sort of fit when he found out but he eventually got over it. Jerry is a part of our family, by right if not birth. My dad won’t admit it, but even he is fond of Jerry and his antics.

  “It was fine,” I repeated, trying to convince Jerry -- and myself -- that I was telling the truth.

  “Then why are you so stiff?”

  “I’m not stiff.”

  Jerry ran his hands over my shoulders, kneading the knots out of my back. “You feel stiff.”

  “How do you know when a woman feels stiff?”

  “Honey, there’s nothing about anything stiff that I don’t know about.”

  I wrinkled my nose. “Thanks for that visual.”

  “That’s what I’m here for.”

  “I thought you were here to keep me entertained?”

  “That’s what I was doing.”

  “Oh, good to know. Sometimes it’s hard to tell.”

  We lapsed into silence again. I was hoping that Jerry was going to forget about my first day at work. I should have known better.

  “So, how was work?”

  I blew out a frustrated sigh. There was no way out of this. So, I told him. I told him everything. I told him about Stan. I told him about Aidan. I told him about my dad and the big argument. When I was done, Jerry’s body was taut with anger. “Your dad makes me mad.”

  “He loves you,” I pointed out.

  “He loves you, too, Bug,” Jerry said, his voice low. “He just has trouble with you.”

  “Because I’m a girl?”

  “No, not because you’re a girl, although that probably doesn’t help.”

  I glanced up at him in surprise. I was expecting the answer to be yes. “Then why does he have trouble with me?”

  “Because you remind him of your mother.”

  That hit me hard so, of course, I denounced its truthfulness without even considering the possibility that he was right. “That’s ridiculous.”

  Jerry ran a hand through his dark hair and fixed his somber brown eyes on me. “Bug, I love you dearly, but you are completely ignorant when it comes to your father.”