The Morbid and Sultry Tales of Genevieve Clare

by Hartnett, J. B.

  “I just wanted to make sure you’re all right, that’s all.” I handed her my share of the cake and pie. “Here,” I said, handing her the box with a little plastic fork sticking in the side.

  “So, it’s you who pumps up his sugar. I don’t know how I missed that. That’s something else I’m terrible at… I’ll add that to the list my ex-husband gave me.”

  “Sorry?”

  “Hm.” She took a drag and on the exhale explained, “I’m ditzy, my ass is too fat, I stopped being beautiful ten years ago, and apparently became ‘unattractive’ as he put it five years ago, and I… I… ” She took a shaky drag and, with disgust in her voice, overshared, “I apparently don’t give good head.”

  I sat down on the steps, took the box from her hands, opened it, stabbed the little fork in, and snatched the cigarette from her. “Here.”

  “This doesn’t help my ass situation,” she said, eyeing the goodies.

  “You know that man in there? The one that just yelled at you?”

  She said nothing to this. She’d taken her first bite, and I could see the beginning of a love affair with Brewster’s.

  “That man, he loves tits, and he loves ass. I’ve been single for ten years.”

  Her head shot up at this admission.

  “Until yesterday, that is… long story…but, in an attempt to tell you what you have is a commodity, I’m going to overshare.” I thought this was a good tactic to charm and disarm Cheryl. I looked behind me to make sure we didn’t have an audience. “Last night, I was on my knees with the man I have loved since I was eight years old, giving it to me from behind, and you know what he said?”

  She shook her head, eyes wide as she chewed.

  “He said, ‘God, your ass, baby. Back then and now, I see it and all I wanna do is grab it and fuck it.’”

  She stopped chewing. I went on.

  “My butt isn’t huge. I’m curvy and blessed to be in good proportion in the ass-tit ratio. I swear to God. Strut your stuff, pretend you have confidence even when you don’t. I had a really rough patch, and that’s what I did. I put on my work clothes, dressed to the nines, and I was the new me. Start with your hair and make-up, buy a new outfit, and the men that matter will want you.”

  She began to chew again as I took a drag from her cigarette. I’d smoked briefly for about six months. I enjoyed it, especially with coffee or beer, but I’d had my fun.

  Cheryl said, “I’ve had a crush on the fire chief for ages.”

  “Yeah?” I said hopefully. “Is he on the market?”

  “Divorced. He’s in the same bowling league as my friend, Vicki.”

  “Do you bowl?”

  “Not in years. Husband hated it.”

  “Then I think it’s time you get a shiny new ball.” I smiled and stood up, remembering I had a cranky, old man I had to get back to. “Bryce and I have a deal. He doesn’t overdo it with the sweets, and I keep him happy with reading material as long as he doesn’t drop dead.”

  I stubbed out the cigarette, feeling pretty good about myself, trying to spread the joy.

  She said, “I heard about you. I only moved here after the divorce was final. You know, this town gossips… Anyway, I’m sorry I was rude before. I apologize, Ms. Clare.”

  “You can call me Gen. I think me sharing about my man and my cake indicates a first name basis. Now, I have to see a man about a casket.”

  ****

  Delilah called me a few days prior and said she had an appointment the day after Thanksgiving to buy her casket. She wanted me to help her make a decision then join her and Mrs. Smith for cake and coffee in the afternoon. Mrs. Smith had left Delilah in my care while she went shopping at the Crestville Mall.

  “That woman loves a sale. You watch, there won’t be enough room for me in the car. I’ll have to take a taxi home,” Delilah stated.

  “We’re having cake later anyway, right? I can take you home. I’m a good driver,” I assured her as I purposefully bumped her wheelchair into a sofa.

  “Ha ha,” she mused. “Hey, stop a minute, what about that one?” She pointed her finger to one of the many caskets on display at Everly and Scott Funeral Home.

  “It looks like baby Moses should be floating down a river in it,” I commented. It really did. It reminded me of wicker patio furniture.

  “That is braided willow, hand woven and environmentally friendly.”

  Taylor Scott was a really nice guy. The funeral home had been handed down, one Scott to another, and the two men who ran it had arranged my parents’ and Gran’s funeral. They had answered my funeral and cremation questions over the years, and I’d since attended several Shake N Bakes in their crematorium.

  “It seems like it would burn faster. And I don’t need all that fancy mumbo-jumbo. I won’t be in it for very long.” She looked up at Taylor, her eyes suddenly appearing so tired. “You and Gen, you’ll tell me what’s gonna happen? When they burn me?”

  I quickly jumped in, full of energy and positive thinking. “Oh, Delilah. We don’t have to do that today. Let’s talk about flower arrangements or something.”

  The truth was, I’d grown close to Delilah. I always kept some things to myself, but we were friends. She was my only real friend outside of Rocky. Guava loved me, but she let me lead the closeness of our relationship, never wanting me to think she was trying to take the place of my mother.

  Delilah put her hand on mine and said, “Honey… it’s getting to be about that time.”

  Damn.

  I crouched down beside her chair and, trying to keep the emotion out of my voice, whispered, “Well, let’s take that tour then.”

  Derrick Everly had someone in the retort/oven when we arrived. Delilah asked if he could open it so she could have a look, but he explained that, once the door was closed, he couldn’t open it. He did, however, lead her to an open retort in the cremator and explained how and where the flames came out, how they ground up the bones in the end then put them into a container. I was pleased he did all of that. Someone had once asked me to make sure their remains were placed in a can of their favorite coffee, then I was hired to give it to his brother as a joke.

  I gave the coffee can to the crematory with instructions. I made the delivery, armed with cake…lots of cake…and instructions to ask the man, “One last cup of Joe with your bro?” He opened the can to see the fine powdery substance that was once his brother.

  Luckily, the brother laughed until he cried, because, “That Randy, always a joker. Right until the very end.”

  Phew!

  I stood at the back of the room while Mr. Everly wheeled Delilah around. Taylor and I watched them until I struck up a conversation. “What do you do for fun when you’re not here, Taylor?”

  “Ah, well, I just took up a new hobby,” he replied.

  “Yeah?” I asked, inviting more information.

  “It’s embarrassing.” He looked beyond me, out to the enclosed courtyard where the deliveries and intakes were made.

  “I had a client who wanted me to make sure he was buried with his clogs. He was a clogger, as in dancing. I didn’t really know it existed, but there ya go. I thought it was kinda cool, like square dancing or something.

  “Is it clogging?” I grinned as I tried to pry the new hobby out of him.

  “It’s not clogging,” he stated. “Fine, it’s bowling. I’m taking lessons. Forty-five years old and I’m taking bowling lessons.” He chuckled. “I suppose it’s better than speed-dating.”

  I pushed away from the wall and faced him. “Hold…the…phone…” I said, palm up in a stop gesture. “How do you feel about a blind bowling date?”

  “Well, I—”

  “What’s your ideal woman? And be honest. You know me, don’t hold back.” I smiled.

  “Look at me,” he said, pointing to his belly. “A forty-five-year-old divorcee with a ponch who owns a funeral home can’t be picky.”

  I remembered Cheryl said something about Thursday night being league night. �
��Next Thursday, league night, I’ll set it up. Her name is Cheryl, and she needs a man who can be all…” I wasn’t sure how to sugar coat what I wanted to say, so I just said it. “She needs a man to adore her and make her feel beautiful again. Ex destroyed her confidence.”

  “They do that,” he commented blandly.

  “Well, then, you’ll have something to talk about, get that out of the way, and then tell her, her eyes are pretty. She has beautiful, green eyes.” I was going to tell her to buy a ball that matched her eyes.

  “Genevieve Clare,” he began and I knew something was coming.

  When people said your full name, it was usually followed by something of significance.

  “Betty Brewster is friends with Iris—that was Derrick Everly’s wife—and she called him on his lunch break, like she does every day…the lucky bastard…and she told him that darling Genevieve Clare was seen getting hot and heavy with whom she was sure was none other than Ahren Finnegan.”

  I felt my face heat with a red-hot blush.

  “Any truth to that juicy bit of town gossip?”

  “Yeah,” I muttered.

  “Sorry? I couldn’t hear you?” he joked with his hand cupped around his ear.

  “We’re taking it slow,” I said.

  Taylor reached out and took my hand. “Gen, you know, this job…well, you do know. You see people, generations of families, say goodbye to grandparents, parents, children, friends…you see the toll grief takes on them. I watched you, the bereaved, you lost so much. There isn’t one person who doesn’t know your story. And I suppose, seeing you reunited with the one person who could have brought you back from that profound loss, back in your life…it kinda gives the rest of us hope.”

  I pulled my hand away, knowing if I didn’t, I would probably start crying, and I didn’t want to do that in front of him, his business partner, or Delilah.

  “You should know, plenty of men in this town would have happily asked for your hand.”

  “Right,” I scoffed and rolled my eyes with a grin.

  “It’s true. I’m too old for you, but I know Chad Healy had it bad for you for years. Probably still does. But what he and everyone else knows is, they’d always be your second choice.”

  I was happy when he steered the subject away from my love life.

  “I’ll go to league night. I’ll meet this green-eyed gal.”

  Awesome.

  By the time we left, I could see that Delilah was “tuckered out,” as she put it. Mrs. Smith helped her into the house. I followed behind them and said I would wait to have afternoon coffee and cake with her if she wanted. Mrs. Smith was going to start on dinner and do some housework while Delilah went for a little nap.

  But first, she turned in her chair and said, “Thanks for today, Gen. Why don’t you go and enjoy the river from my garden. The sun is shining, just beautiful this time of day. You take your time, and I’ll see you in a couple of hours.”

  Mrs. Smith went to get Delilah settled. I stared at the baker’s box, filled with four cupcakes, and wondered if I should listen to my accountant and start claiming my bakery bills on my taxes. I’d spent over forty dollars in baked goods for one day of work.

  But it was worth every penny.

  The smile on Mr. Oskin’s face. The satisfaction on Cheryl’s. And later, I knew, when Delilah and I had our coffee and cake—probably after dinner if she was planning on a two-hour nap—she, too, would enjoy the baked goodies.

  I grabbed my bag, buttoned my coat, and made my way down the back porch steps and into Delilah’s magical garden. I could never imagine caring for something like it; I would most assuredly kill every living thing around me. My dad once commented I could probably murder a geranium by just looking at it funny. He made sure to add that geraniums were one of the heartiest plants around, true survivors, like a cactus. And that’s how my reputation for being a plant-killer began. I was given a cactus by Ahren’s dad as a joke. I watered it every day. No one said a word, not my dad, my mom, or my Gran as I crushed up my chewable vitamins, mixed them with milk and orange juice, and fed them to my cactus.

  It lasted a month.

  When my parents and Gran died, our home was like a flower shop since everyone knew they would be buried in the cemetery next to the house. But one woman, an older lady from the church, gave me this complicated plant arrangement with care instructions and told me, “To remember them, so year after year, you’ll look at it and know that their memory lives on.”

  Worst gift ever.

  It also lasted a month.

  But I appreciated the beauty around me so much. I could never live anywhere else, except close to the river and the redwoods. This garden had an organized wildness about it, delicate ferns, bushes with tiny blossoms, sturdy looking tropical flowers. I thought it odd for them to bloom in December. I moved along, slowly, taking in every last beautiful plant with admiration and awe, until I came to a narrow trellis-covered pathway. My first thought was being caught in a spider web since the space wasn’t large, but I spied that, in a few more yards, I was going to walk into the showpiece of the garden. I was not disappointed.

  The path opened into a gazebo you would never know was there unless you were on the river itself. Hanging from the roof was a large garden swing. It was something right out of Better Homes and Gardens. The seat was deep, so deep, you could get lost for hours simply listening to the water rush by, lost in the inviting mossy-green cushions.

  I had a couple of hours; Delilah told me to take my time, so I put my bag on the swing and sat down next to it. A matching storage bench was to the left of the swing, and I thought it probably housed garden tools or something. I decided to have a peek inside and spied two heavy blankets and a pair of rain boots I suspected were Delilah’s from years past when she puttered in the garden herself. I took out a blanket, shaking it in case some little creature decided to call it home, and slipped off my Chuck’s to settle into the cushions. If you’re going to do it, do it right. I pushed my weight forward and set the swing in motion, closing my eyes as it rocked back and forth.

  I drifted off, and when I woke, I was relaxed into the solid warmth next to me.

  His voice said, “Can’t believe she kept you a secret for as long as she did. Did you know Dad designed her garden?”

  “No,” I answered and curled deeper into his arms.

  “Friday isn’t your usual day with her,” he stated. “That, old lady. Who woulda thought?”

  We watched the sun set on the river, then we had Mrs. Smith’s turkey sandwiches. Afterwards, we had cupcakes and coffee, all under the knowing, smiling eyes of Delilah Von Kesteren.

  Two weeks had passed since Ahren and I reunited. Although I didn’t celebrate the holidays, I still gave gifts. Some I bought online, but most were bought in town. I gave a little something to the people I saw each and every day.

  This was my first time seeing Bryce in two weeks. I arrived at The Elms armed with eggnog, meringue layer cake, and gingerbread cookies to share with his geriatric cohorts. I walked right in, oblivious to anything but the cloud I’d been flitting around on since love came back to grace me with its awesomeness. And that was exactly what it was. Awesome.

  Cheryl just about tackled me when she gripped my arm and pulled me into the break room. She wasn’t hurting me, not on purpose anyway. But whatever she had to say was urgent.

  “Was it you? It had to be you. It was you, wasn’t it?” I smiled my answer while she explained, “I met this man… Taylor… funny thing, we met at the bowling alley!”

  “You don’t say,” I commented in mock-surprise.

  “Oh, I do. I do say! And, I don’t know how else to explain this but, we fit together perfectly. And what’s even more interesting, do you know what my very first job was?”

  “I could guess,” I kept smiling, “but I want the juicy details.”

  “I worked for the county morgue. Can you believe that?” she beamed.

  As much as I wanted to hear all the juicy d
etails, I really needed to get going. Christmas Eve, and I had a full day.

  I had to buy a tree.

  I was supposed to meet Ahren at Delilah’s.

  I was freaking out.

  “Cheryl, that is great. Think we can talk next time? I hate to rush you, and I totally want to hear everything, and I mean everything, but I…I am a busy bee today.”

  “God, of course, of course.” She was so happy, and, as she chatted away and escorted me right to Bryce, she said, “Even if it doesn’t work out, thank you.” She put her arms around me to give me a big squeeze, even though I was bogged down with a big white box of baked goods and a large gift bag…in addition to my normal shoulder bag.

  “Merry Christmas, Cheryl.” I said it to convey the warmth I felt at knowing I’d successfully meddled in other people’s love lives. She left me alone with Bryce and still high from, well, everything, I hadn’t noticed he wasn’t greeting me like he usually did.

  I took off my big coat to reveal a shirt I’d bought online especially for him. It was Rudolph’s cartoon face. The antlers were on the shoulders. His big eyes stretched right over my D cups, and, written below his bright shiny nose, it said, “Wanna guide my sleigh?” When I’d made myself comfortable and opened the box to a magnificently displayed piece of cake, I moved to lean down in front of him, my boobs right in his face.

  “Bryce?” I asked softly.

  He looked up at me, his eyes puffy and bloodshot. He lifted a shaking hand with a handkerchief to his eyes and said, “Sorry, Cookie. Shoulda warned ya. I’m no good on holidays.”

  I set the cake down so I could hold his hands with mine. “Me neither. My birthday is the worst.”

  “We didn’t have kids. Shoulda had kids. Maybe they woulda come to see me. Woulda taken the sting outta losing her.”

  He was crying. It was quiet, and it physically hurt to see him in so much pain.

  “You and that fella…” he said. “That Finnegan boy, he’s back. I heard you two are back together.”