A mental shift happened so naturally that he didn’t even notice it, and he didn’t shed a tear for the only person he’d ever loved, but looked at her instead with a degree of curiosity that compelled him to action. He looked for blood and found none, making him curious as to how she had died instantly. No blood meant that she had been dead prior to her body impacting the steps, although her broken neck would’ve been the naturally assumed cause of death. She could’ve had a heart attack, he supposed, despite the fact that she’d had the energy and verve of a person half her age. Or perhaps it could’ve been a stroke that slammed through her brain, rendering her inanimate as she tried to go about picking her apples.
Tim sat on the step beside the husk of the woman who had raised him with tender, loving care, and gazed at the dark irises of her cerulean eyes, staring sightlessly skyward. Her skin was cold to the touch, feeling a bit like a fragile, squishy sack of goo, and he prodded her arm, just to see how far his finger would sink into her flesh.
Leaves skittered across the yard, and the young man without a grandmother shivered, not because of loss, but because the unrelenting breezes of Fall had brought the temperature of his skin down whilst he sat relatively motionless on the steps. Sighing at the unfortunate series of events that this occurrence would spur, he stood to his feet, bent over to pull Gram’s skirt over her legs for modesty, and turned to go back in the house, not relishing the phone calls that he’d now have to make.
Gwendolyn Eckels was well-respected in the community, despite the strangeness of the grandchild that she’d raised. She had baked her famous pies for church socials, festivals and school events, and was known for her generosity and service toward friends, neighbors and strangers alike, so the turnout for her funeral was profound. Tim hadn’t wanted to attend, preferring to avoid any event that involved a roomful of people with whom he’d have to make small talk, but the funeral director had insisted that the only remaining member of Gwen’s family be present for the ceremony at the very least.
After the formalities, Tim was the last to file past the open casket that held the remains of his beloved Gram. He was astonished at the artistry with which the mortician had prepared her body – she looked as though she were merely sleeping - and in a brief moment of beautiful pain, her grandson had reached into the casket to brush back a lock of iron-grey hair from her forehead. There had been no fluffy white “old-lady” hair for Gwendolyn Eckels, she was made of sterner stuff, her hair as iron as her constitution. The unflappable lad gasped in abject horror as the skin beneath his hand slid a bit sideways, and the glue that held her eyelids shut pulled apart, revealing a sightless eyeball darkened by air exposure, covered with a plastic cap to give an appearance of roundness.
A fury mounted within Timothy Eckels, one of the last strong emotions that he’d ever experience. He was angry that her healthful appearance had deceived him for a moment, angry that the mortician had violated her shell with glue and stitches and whatever was producing the chemical smell that emanated from her flesh, and he was angry that the careless technician had screwed up. He wasn’t meant to see the frailty of his grandmother’s flesh, he wasn’t meant to be left to live life without her, and she deserved better than to be hastily cobbled together by a worthless hack.
This butcher of the dead had made Tim attend an event that ground into his bones the cold reality of his grandmother’s death, and in a moment of white hot anger, the young man charged at the tall, thin man in the pious black suit, bellowing in fury. He was restrained by the pall bearers who were waiting to close the lid and carry her to the death chariot that would take her to her planting place.
Advised by the sheriff, who had also attended the funeral, to avoid the graveside service, Tim, as usual, did as he pleased. He stood under a maple tree several yards away from the gravesite, while an officiant droned on, blazing red leaves sifting down around him as they lowered his Gram into the ground. The very next day, he enrolled in Mortuary School.
CHAPTER 3
* * *
Do No Harm and a Bucket of Arms
Timothy Eckels hated group activities. He hated it when people carelessly brushed up against him, and hated the constant yammering that always seemed to happen when more than two people occupied a room. He was fortunate so far, because he’d been able to slip into the back of his classrooms without notice, taking notes and absorbing information, without having to actively participate. School was a means to an end – he needed an education in order to perform the very important task of properly preparing the dead, and if he could get through the educational process without having to speak to another human being, that would suit him just fine.
Cadaver Lab was the class that he’d been looking forward to the most. It was the place where he’d finally get to experience working with cold, lifeless flesh for the first time, and he couldn’t wait to get started. Walking into the sterile room with polished linoleum floors, he caught a whiff of formaldehyde and rubbing alcohol and his pulse sped up a bit. There were lab tables set up with spots for two people at each table, and when Tim spotted one that was entirely unoccupied, he made a beeline for it, dropping his notebook on the frigid metal and settling himself on his stool.
Students chattered around him, and he hoped that the vacant spot at his table would remain unoccupied, but alas, it was not to be. Just as the professor made his way to the front of the class, a chubby young blonde woman, clutching her backpack in front of her, made her way to the stool next to Tim, sitting down quickly and not looking at anyone. He sighed inwardly, but was glad that at least she had not attempted eye contact or conversation.
“Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen,” the frazzle-haired man in a rumpled lab coat greeted them. “I’m Professor Soskowitz. If that’s too much for you to handle, you may call me Professor Socks. Not box. Not cocks. Socks. Are we clear on that?” he peered over his black spectacles, raising beetled eyebrows, as students tried to hide their surprised titters. Tim and the young woman next to him merely stared.
“Good then,” he nodded, continuing. “This is a practical application course, so you will be working with human remains, beginning today. Your studies should have prepared you for this, and if you are unable or unwilling to conduct yourselves in a dignified manner in this lab, feel free to leave now,” Socks challenged. “I’m sure they still have some openings in the Liberal Arts department,” he rolled his eyes.
“No one? We’re all adults here?” he confirmed, gazing at the class. “Good, then let’s get started. Get to know the person with whom you’re currently sitting, they will be your lab partner for the duration of this course,” the professor instructed, causing Tim’s stomach to drop to his shoes.
The introverted young man hazarded a glance at the blonde sitting next to him, only to find that she looked just as dismayed at the prospect of working together. They made awkward eye contact, their mouths attempting to form polite smiles, both failing miserably. Mercifully, the professor began speaking again, removing the need for further interaction.
“There are smocks in the closet at the rear of the room and boxes of nitrile gloves in the drawer under your tables. You have five minutes to prepare for today’s lab, starting…now.”
He deliberately drew back the sleeve of his coat and looked at his watch as students streamed toward the supply closet, passing Tim and his lab partner by.
Tim sighed and watched them climb over one another, scrambling to get their smocks and get back to their seats. He intended to wait until the frenzy had subsided, loathing the thought of being caught up in the fray, and apparently his lab partner was like-minded in that regard, standing behind her stool, watching, waiting. The two of them bided their time, then made their way to the closet, pulling the smocks on over their heads just as the professor began to speak. He reached down behind his desk and lifted up two buckets, which were filled with arms. Human arms.
When some of the students saw Professor Socks hoist up the buckets and begin to move between the
rows, allowing each team to select an arm to place on the cafeteria style tray that was in front of them, they had to work to suppress nervous giggles. The theory of handling a dead body was different than actually seeing a lifeless hand, nails chewed to the quick, on the cold metal table in front of you. The professor gave more than a few stern looks as he made his way around the classroom. His teaching assistant followed behind him, handing out packets of instructions to guide them through the lab.
Tim gently grabbed the hand nearest him when it was his turn. He found himself oddly fascinated by the bright pink manicured nails that were in nearly perfect condition on the curled fingers of the deceased, and pursed his mouth with regret when he saw the long slash on one wrist which had most likely been the cause of the woman’s demise. He set the arm on their brown plastic tray carefully, almost reverently, not wanting to disturb the inanimate flesh, feeling the chill of it even through his gloves.
His lab partner pushed her glasses up her nose with a forefinger and bent closer to examine the upper arm, where it had been severed from the body.
“Hmm…sloppy,” she murmured with a frown.
“Excuse me?” Tim couldn’t help but blink at her in confusion.
“I’m a Culinary Arts major. The chickens we butcher are dissected with more precision than this,” she explained, gesturing to the arm. “It’s disgraceful.”
Tim nodded, not quite understanding, but not wanting to have a conversation either. His lab partner went silent, suddenly focused on the table across the aisle from them, where two students were pulling various tendons in the arm to make the deceased’s hand stick its middle finger up to “flip the bird,” the universal symbol of contempt. They snickered quietly as they violated the remains with their frivolous behavior, and both Tim and his partner stared at them, aghast.
Timothy Eckels looked at the blonde woman by his side, seeing that she shared his dismay, and shook his head in disbelief.
“Barbarians,” he whispered.
“Shameful,” she replied.
“I’m Tim,” he offered awkwardly.
“Susannah,” was the quiet response.
“Nice to meet you,” they said in unison, each of them looking down and blushing, relieved when the professor interrupted with some helpful hints, from the front of the room.
CHAPTER 4
* * *
Shakes and Spikes
Susannah trudged homeward, not looking forward to yet another evening spent enduring dinner with her parents, then doing homework until it was time for bed. The beast had made it quite clear that he would only fund her college education if she lived at home, so she’d stayed, despite the numerous escape fantasies she’d nurtured for the past several years of her miserable life.
Today, her step was a bit lighter than usual, oddly, and it was all because she’d been forced into interacting with someone, which she typically hated. Her lab partner, Tim, wasn’t like the other students. He was a bit older for one thing, and didn’t seem to care a bit about the frivolous things that most people in her classes nattered on about. When he looked at her, it seemed as if he saw a person, rather than a misshapen blob of humanity who had never quite fit in. Thick coke-bottle glasses magnified his warm brown eyes, and the way that his thin, lifeless hair fell over his forehead was rather endearing. He was the first person she’d met in a very long time who neither disgusted, nor infuriated her, and that made her feel a tiny bit exhilarated.
The beast and the china doll were having an argument when Susannah walked up the front steps and onto the porch. They lived in the country, so it took her two buses and a three mile walk to get home, but that meant that there was plenty of privacy when the perfect couple chose to go at each other’s throats. She sighed, her hand on the knob, and barely caught snatches of their conversation. When she heard her name and the word tuition enter the argument, she figured it was time to interrupt.
“I’m home,” she announced quietly, walking into the living room. The douchebag duo was in the kitchen, and she heard a moment of silence as they processed the fact that she was present.
“Susannah…” the beast looked her up and down, seeming as though he was trying hard not to sneer. “You’re going to have to drop out of school and get a job,” he proclaimed, folding his perfectly tanned arms over his muscular chest.
“Honey, I’m sorry, it’s just that we…” Greta began, looking pained and embarrassed. The beast cut her off before she could finish her sentence.
“No, don’t apologize,” he ordered, holding up a hand to silence her. He then turned his judgmental gaze toward their daughter. “You do chores around here, but it’s not enough. You need to realize the value of good hard work, young lady. You need to start pulling your own considerable weight,” he quipped nastily. Susannah had only gained back a fraction of the weight that she’d lost in high school, but she still disgusted the fitness-obsessed beast.
A rage so profound that it momentarily blinded her with a swimming miasma of red and purple, rose up within Susannah, and it took a considerable amount of self-control for her to maintain her composure. Her mind was made up in that instant. She would do what must be done. The beast saw an unattractive fat chick when he looked at his daughter, but what he didn’t see was the clever and calculating mind behind those bespectacled eyes. She would make her way in the world, of that she was certain, and what that meant for him was yet to be determined.
“Fine,” she replied without expression, and headed for her room.
The beast smirked, and her mother looked worried…as well she should.
**
Susannah dumped the remains of their “super food” dinner into the hog trough, absently noting that the pigs got to eat more of the expensive organic food, which her father insisted upon having, than she did. She was less resentful about that fact this evening however, because her mind was a million miles away, and when she finished slopping the pigs, she headed to her little woodshop in the goat barn. It didn’t smell great in there, but she could create her wooden masterpieces in solitude, and the goats didn’t care about the noise of various power tools.
She unrolled the Very Special Instruments that she kept hidden under a floor board, wrapped first in felt, to protect the shiny surfaces, then in plastic, to keep them safe from any barn-type substances which might make their way between the floor boards. She had worked hard for the money to procure these items over the internet, and opened up a post office box under a false name so that her parents couldn’t intercept the packages when they came in. There were countless essays written on behalf of stupid or disinterested classmates, aluminum cans collected and taken to the recycling center, and even a stint working as a throaty phone-sex worker, which had allowed her to save the money that she needed to buy the Very Special Instruments.
Susannah’s heart sped up a bit, as it always did when she first saw the glint of sublime metal after taking off the wrappings. She touched the VSI’s lightly, affectionately, dreaming of the possibilities, then wrapped them back up with a sigh, whispering, “soon.” Turning her attention to the tools which were displayed prominently above her workbench, she selected a handsaw and set it down on the well-worn surface. She had brought a stick of firewood with her, nothing special, just an ordinary piece of cord wood, which she cut in half. Carefully dusting off the blade of her saw and hanging it back up in its rightful spot, she then went to work on one of the halves of wood with a razor-sharp chisel.
Tapping on the end of the chisel lightly with a mallet, Susannah shaped and honed the wood until it resembled a very sharp railroad spike. It was roughly eight inches long and, at its thickest point, nearly two inches in diameter. Once the perfect size and shape had been achieved, she refined the piece further with a hand plane, then sanded it to a smooth, dull finish. She tapped a nail into the thick end of the spike and coated it entirely in polyurethane, then hung it to dry, with a string tied around the nail, out of sight, underneath the workbench.
**
The one thing that Susannah appreciated about her parents’ strict adherence to routine was that it made their behavior much easier to predict. They went for an early morning jog every weekday, after which, her mother, Greta, would shower quickly and get out the door, while the beast went down to his basement gym to work the weights for precisely half an hour. He would then implement his morning cleansing ritual, after which, he’d drink a carefully measured protein shake, brush his teeth one more time, and head out the door.
Typically, Susannah would get up after the douchebag duo left for their run, and try to finish her chores, hurrying to prepare and eat her breakfast, so that she could hide the evidence of her consumption before they returned. For the past several mornings however, she’d had other tasks to accomplish. It was amazing the things that one could order from the internet, and after a couple of envelopes of cash had been sent to foreign countries, useful packets of a tasteless, but terribly toxic white powder had begun to appear, in discreet brown wrappings, in her post office box.
Susannah had been adding the arsenic, little by little to the beast’s container of protein powder, and his condition had been worsening by the day. First he had nosebleeds, felt fatigued and experienced light nausea. As the days wore on, he started vomiting, and staying in the bathroom for long periods of time wracked with spasms of painful diarrhea.
There was one thing about the beast, Todd Guntzelman, which would lead to his eventual demise… Todd took great pride in never being sick. He boasted of his extraordinary immune system, and Susannah had watched him suffer through various minor illnesses, while never for an instant admitting that he was ill. He never took over-the-counter meds, and he never went to a doctor. Ever. Which, of course, was perfect. Greta had tried to get him to go to the doctor this morning, but he’d responded with the excuse that he was merely choosing to sleep in because he was working too hard. He passed his vomiting and diarrhea off as a “part of his cleansing process,” and shooed her out of the bedroom. Susannah watched with grim satisfaction as her mother closed the front door behind her, a worried frown on her lovely face.
The Quiet Type Page 2