by R. L. Perry
“Here! Here!” Silvia blurted out.
I might have blushed, realizing that it was true. I was often my own worst enemy. “I don’t mean to pry open so many coffins,” I said. “But these things just sort of fall into my lap. It goes along with the job.”
“Your father had that problem, too,” Rose interjected. “He just couldn’t keep his nose out of other people’s messes. He was always looking for skeletons in the closet.”
“Did he ever find any?” I wondered. “If he did, he never told me about any of them.”
“He kept his secrets close to the vest,” Rose said. “One of these days, we’ll have to have a long talk. Believe me, he could dig up the dirt.”
“I love your metaphors,” David said, opening his tube of tennis balls. “You’ve got this funeral home racket down pat.”
Silvia shot David her typical scowl and then added, “Rose, when you do have that talk, make sure I’m around to take notes. I want to make sure Mary understands the implications of her genetics. Obviously, morbidity is built into her DNA. It’s in her bones.”
“It’s in something,” Lance said before backing off. “But she certainly is good at what she does. And people obviously love her.”
“We love you, Mary!” David said, tossing a tennis ball in my direction.
I ducked and quickly countered with a love story of my own. Holding up my left hand, I fondled the engagement ring on my finger and allowed it to sparkle, at last, in the light. “And speaking of love,” I said, “Lance and I have an announcement to make. As of today, we are officially engaged.”
It was a quickening moment, and I studied the reactions of my friends. David looked at Lance. Lance made a face at Silvia. And Silvia tossed her own feigned surprise at Rose before the entire group rose in unison. “Congratulations!”
I knew something was awry. Lance was poking at the glowing coals in the fireplace, a wry grin on his face. Silvia and Rose leaned over and gave me a quick hug. David twirled his tennis racket.
“What’s going on?” I said. “You’re not surprised?”
David, always the first one to let the cat out of the bag, pushed forward with the news. “Sweetheart,” he said, “Lance called us before you did. He broke the news hours ago. He just asked us to keep the secret so we could see your reaction.”
“So naturally we said ‘yes’,” Silvia added. “We’ve been waiting for hours for you to break the news.”
“And I’m a little tipsy,” Rose said. “But congratulations, anyway.”
Lance padded over, leaned down and gave me a kiss. Everyone clapped.
I wiped away a tear from the corner of my eye, shooting Lance a “get even” smile. “Well,” I said, “so this is what you all do behind my back. Plan and conspire.”
“Don’t feel so bad,” Silvia said. “Look at what you’re getting out of the deal.” She shoveled a gesture toward Lance.
I shook my head. “He’s just trying to get even,” I joked. “He knows I would have figured it out anyway.”
“We figured it out,” David said. “The way you’ve both been carrying on for the past year, it was inevitable.”
“I wish you both the best,” Rose said. “Marriage is a beautiful thing when it’s right. And I think you both have the right stuff.”
“They’ve got stuff all right,” David said.
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Lance interjected.
Silvia was crumpling wrapping paper in her hand. She was not holding back. “So when’s the date?”
Lance, obviously, had not anticipated this turn of interrogation. But after a pregnant pause and a wink, he simply said, “Stay tuned.” He jabbed at the hot coals, repositioned the logs on the fire. Outside, the wind was tossing particles of debris against the window panes, a perfect complement to the crackling flames of the Christmas fire.
At last, Rose raised a glass of sweet wine and said, “Well, I propose a toast. To Lance and Mary. May they have a long and happy life together, and so may we all.”
It was a marvelous thought—one filled with family and friendship and the warmth of the season. I was happy in the moment, eager to get on with the next phase of my life—and our life together—though wholly uncertain of the ultimate outcomes.
“Thanks for sharing the day with me,” I said at last. “It means a lot.”
“But on a day like this,” David added, “what else is there? No Yuletide would be complete without Mary Christmas!”
Chapter Eight
The afternoon lapsed into a brilliant evening, all of us sitting around the table enjoying roasted lamb chops, vegetables, salad, and, of course, Rose’s peanut butter fudge. It seemed as if, for the first time in my life, time was actually standing still, with no intrusions and nothing to upset the delicate balance of my happiness.
As evening waned, we laughed and talked, our conversation turning and returning, it seemed, to the wonder and mystery of love—which was only fitting. We stayed on through the evening, all of us bathed in pale light and excess calories, our energies piqued with eggnog and fruit cake. David entertained us with his rendition of Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer. Silvia amazed us with small facts and figures of Christmases past. Rose reminisced about my parents, noted how the house had changed since she had last sat around the fireplace or held me in her arms when I was a baby. Lance at last regaled us with his exploits on the police force.
“That’s the thing I like about you two,” Silvia said to Lance. “You and Mary are the perfect complement to each other. I have a feeling that, working together, the two of you can get to the bottom of anything.”
Outside, the neighborhood lights appeared as pin points of light in the gloom. A persistent wind scoured the windows. The fire inside continued to crackle. Lance was sitting next to me on the couch, holding my hand, warming me with his touch.
Rose wondered about the future. “So, how can I help you two make a go of this marriage business? You can’t both be dealing in death all the time. You’ll go loony. You’ve got to strike a balance.”
“You’re already helping more than you know,” I told Rose. “I’ve been without a secretary for over a year. A burden has been lifted. Thank you!”
“Promise me you’ll let me help,” Rose said.
“I will,” I answered. I meant it . . . or wanted to mean it. Lance squeezed my hand.
“I wish I could do more than eat pie,” David said. “You know I would help out at the funeral home whenever you need me. I can always drive the hearse, and I’m only drunk on the weekends.”
Silvia assured me that she was always willing to provide information. “I’m no investigator,” she said, “but sometimes I think I know more than I should. If it’s digging you need . . . .”
“Well then, it’s settled,” Rose said. “Lance and Mary can have their time to make plans. We’ll handle the business for awhile.”
I smiled at the thought of so much love, but knew in my heart that the good intentions would not be enough to shield us from the harsh realities of death. Lance would have his dark days, I would have mine, and somewhere in the mix we would have to meet in the middle. Lance knew it, too.
Although everyone wanted to leave earlier in the evening, I would not allow it. There was nothing like friendship to lengthen a day and I didn’t want this Christmas to end. But as the evening pressed on toward midnight I could tell that Rose, most of all, was showing the strain of weariness and wine. David volunteered to take her home. Lance spread the hot coals across the hearth and Silvia gathered up food in the kitchen and stowed it away in the refrigerator. The day wound to a close.
“Merry Christmas,” Lance said as he hugged each of my friends in succession as they exited the house, the air now so cold that it immediately crystallized on the windows when the door was opened. “Stay warm out there and drive carefully.”
And then we were alone. I turned out the lights in the living room, blew out the candles. And then Lance gathered me into his arms and
escorted me upstairs to the bedroom. “There’s still some day left,” he said, his face showing he hoped that I would agree.
Standing next to the bed, Lance became breathless, all of his remaining energies focused on me as he tugged and pulled at my clothes, his hands plying my breasts, over me, inside me. I relaxed, swept up in his passion as he placed me on the bed and whispered time and again of his love, each new move stirring me toward a crescendo.
I didn’t want to hold back anything—not now. And every time Lance expressed himself in some bold topography, I countered with contours of my own, our bodies entwined or fighting for release, our hearts pounding against each other as we leapt, breathless, into each other time and again.
When, at last, we had ushered out Christmas and rolled into a new day, we fell headlong into a deep sleep, not knowing where one day had ended and another began. I was dreaming of Lance, I know, as I parted ways with Christmas and fantasized about the way it would be when, at last, our lives would mesh into the one beautiful whole. And I was still dreaming of Lance when I awoke with a start at five a.m. to discover that he was no longer beside me, just a note on the nightstand, reminding me that he had been called back to duty on our warmest, and the coldest, night of the year.
Chapter Nine
Forcing myself back to sleep, I rose again at nine a.m., not refreshed, exactly, but swooning in the bliss of our powerful love. I showered slowly, holding onto the memories of the day before and Lance’s brilliant ending, hoping that Christmas would prove to be a denouement of our scattered life and the beginning of something more sane and comforting. I wanted nothing else for myself and for us.
Allowing myself a relaxing morning at home, I tossed on a robe and headed to the kitchen to make my usual pot of coffee. Lance had also left a note at the coffeemaker, a heart doodled on the front.
Sweetheart,
I hope that Christmas was both a surprise and a comfort to you. I hope you didn’t mind my strategy yesterday, but I wanted to invite your friends to share the moment with us. That, and it was the only way I could get you into bed at a reasonable hour. Thanks to you (and you were amazing BTW!) I’m back on the beat, working another shift in total exhaustion. Again! But you are worth it. Please have a wonderful day at home without a cadaver!
Love,
Lance
I read the note twice before I brewed my coffee, fully enjoying the scroll of his handwriting—his high “T’s” and swirling “F’s” and compact, nearly-illegible signature. Perhaps it was simply the surprise, or perhaps the ubiquitous use of texts and tweets, but I found that a handwritten note, especially from Lance, always filled me with delight, a kind of euphoria. The scrawl of ink on paper somehow inviting me to embrace some part of our history that he had left behind. I was in love with the letters and the thought of love.
Of course, the coffee settled me and I padded over to the kitchen window to check the reading on the outside thermometer. The mercury, solid on “0”, was an ominous sign, and I poured a second cup, black and boiling hot, to steel myself from any curiosity about the cold. I also eschewed a tempting bagel on the counter, trying to hold my weight in check and balance it against the calories I had consumed on Christmas day, especially my third helping of Rose’s peanut butter fudge.
Unlike years past, when I had longed for a fleeting Christmas, this year was different. I wanted the spirit to hang in the air, for Christmas to sound no retreat. Sitting at the table, I studied my engagement ring, admiring Lance’s thoughtfulness and, for the first time, considered how much Lance had sacrificed to purchase it. It was beautiful—a half carat teardrop set in a while gold band—the facets sparkling in the light much like the shimmering snow on the tree limbs. The promise stirred me, enticing me for the first time to begin my daydreaming, a long-winded consideration of a wedding day . . . perhaps not long in the making.
At any rate, we would discuss it.
I was making my third round with the ring when my cell phone rang, and when I picked up I heard Blanch’s voice on the other end. Her rasp, not nearly as heavy as I had remembered in person, didn’t keep her from pressing forward with her findings. She spoke from the stark echo of the morgue and, as I listened to her voice, I could almost taste the latent film of antiseptic in my mouth, the vapors of hydrochloric acid burning my eyes.
“I think you can sign a death certificate for Sheila Carrington,” she told me.
“You determined cause of death?” I asked.
“I believe so,” Blanch answered. “But I did find a deadly combination of sorts.”
“Oh?”
“First off, this woman was dehydrated. She’d been vomiting. Signs of severe diarrhea. She was also a long-time smoker, so her lungs were compromised—and her heart. She was taking medications and had ingested some over-the-counter acetaminophen not long before she died. She had consumed some liquor, too. Might have thought it was going to settle her stomach, but alcohol dehydrates ever more. She had a lot going on inside.”
“Good Lord.”
“And get this, Mary,” Blanch continued. “Her stomach lining indicates that she had been vomiting for some time—probably days. This wasn’t the sudden onset of an illness. No doubt she had been feeling bad for some time, maybe even weeks. And here’s another thing. I also found traces of Listeria.”
“What’s that?”
“Listeria? It’s a bacterium, not as common as salmonella or E coli. But it can be severe.”
“That’s weird.”
“Yes.”
“I don’t get it,” I said. “Why didn’t she go to the hospital?”
“Looks like she was trying to hold her own with alcohol and painkillers,” Blanch said. “Or perhaps she was so dehydrated from the fight with the pain her weakness overtook her and she couldn’t move. Maybe she wasn’t thinking clearly. Did she have any family?”
“Her husband was there, but he was sick too. At least he looked sick when I arrived to pick up the body.”
“I see. You might follow up with him. He might have the same illness. Of course, I can have the body transported over later today if you’re ready to start the embalming.”
“I haven’t called the husband yet,” I said. “I was making rather merry last night.”
Blanch gave no sign of acknowledgment. I could picture her working through the night with the cadavers, holding up beakers of blood and tissue to the light, examining cells under a microscope. I hoped she would not hold a grudge—but I was not about to mention my engagement.
“There’s one more component to this . . . because it’s the cause of death,” Blanch said. “I think we’ll have to report this to the health authorities.”
“Why is that?”
“The listeria. It’s usually food-borne. Could be a health risk.”
“Tell me more,” I said.
“It’s a food-born pathogen. Doesn’t usually affect people who are healthy. But pregnant women and older folks are more susceptible. In the case of Sheila Carrington, the Listeria had migrated into her blood, and that can be deadly. She might have been dehydrated and already compromised by smoking and heart disease. But the Listeria did the trick. She had some clotting in her stomach, too.”
“Doesn’t this combination strike you as odd?” I asked aloud, hoping to receive the confirmation of Blanch’s expertise.
“I’ve seen a little of everything over the years,” Blanch told me. “And although listeria isn’t found too often, it’s not third world. The clotting might be a mystery. But there’s no doubt we’re looking at a source that is food-borne.”
I didn’t know how to respond. I sighed, “It’s a food-borne death, then.”
“You can sign a death certificate,” Blanch said. “And if you think there’s anything to investigate, I know the police can handle it.”
“Okay, go ahead and send the body,” I said. “But wait a couple of hours. Let me catch up to the world. I’m still at home. And my secretary won’t be at the funeral home, either. Than
ks for the good work.”
Blanch grunted on the other end of the line and gave a clicking sound before hanging up. I finished my coffee and wondered how long I could linger around the house in my robe before making the move to return to the office. And I wasn’t about to call Rose. She was probably still sleeping off her glasses of sweet wine.
Meandering into the living room, I picked up the vestiges of the previous night’s celebration—the Christmas wrapping, the empty boxes, and bows and ribbons and sticky residues of tape. I scooted the last of the charred embers into the back of the hearth, rearranged the furniture. But all the while I was thinking about Sheila Carrington and her deadly cocktail of indecision. Or, perhaps, an amalgam of death that she had consumed without even knowing it. I pondered my meeting with Phil Carrington and began to formulate certain questions. Delicately phrased questions. And potentially probing.
I was gladdened, however, by the promise of sunshine cross-hatching a plane of translucent winter clouds. And though bitter cold—and getting colder by forecast—my heart was warmed yet again by the thought of Lance working out of his office instead of on the mean streets.
I turned off the coffeemaker, headed up the stairs, and considered yet another wardrobe change. I had hoped for a day of rest…but already it seemed as if the night had come.
Chapter Ten
Before leaving the house I called Phil Carrington. He answered, groggily, his voice trembling slightly as we talked.
“I’m hoping we can meet later this afternoon to work out the details for Sheila’s funeral,” I said. “But if you’re not feeling better we—”
“—I can get there,” he interjected. “I want to get this done. Well, you know . . . to make the arrangements. I haven’t slept.”
“I understand,” I said. “I’ll do my best to make this simple and helpful.”