Mourning Express

by K. M. Waller

  In my enthusiasm to prepare the food, I’d forgotten that the down-home cooking genes that flourished in most southern girls had never quite taken hold in me. I often wondered if some of the traits had skipped me because my dad might have been from somewhere north of the Mason-Dixon line.

  Much to my Grammy’s chagrin, Mom never told her who our dad was, and since it hadn’t mattered much to Mom, it didn’t matter much to me. I doubted Victor had searched for him either, since my dear brother only cared about himself.

  Mateo pushed through the door a quarter after seven and an hour-and-a-half into my baked pork chop and corn chowder disaster. At least the bread rolls were premade.

  He dropped his duffel on the floor and strolled into the kitchen wearing workout shorts and a gray tank top. “What’s that smell?”

  I could tell by the wrinkle above his nose that his question didn’t come from a place of hunger.

  “Hi, roomie!” My left eye twitched at my false perkiness. Had I ever been a good actress? “I’m making you a peace offering dinner.”

  He picked up the wooden spoon from the counter and stirred the thick chowder. Then he picked up a now-cooled, and decidedly overcooked pork chop and let it dangle from his fingers. “I’m not sure this offering says peace.”

  I sighed and wiped my hands on the towel I’d slung over my shoulder. The warm flush of embarrassment crept up my neck. “I don’t have my mom’s skills when it comes to cooking, I guess.”

  He maneuvered me by the shoulders out of the kitchen. “Let’s see if I can fix this. I’d hate for good food that you actually paid for to go to waste.” He dug in the refrigerator and retrieved a fresh jalapeno and a half bar of cream cheese. “I think I can fix this creamed corn thing.”

  “I thought it was corn chowder.” The corners of my mouth lifted as he busied himself with chopping the jalapeno. “Who taught you to cook?”

  “Our abuela taught all of us, boy and girl alike.” His dark eyes twinkled. “Even before we were old enough for school, she had us on a stool at the counter mixing and chopping.”

  “That’s nice.” Grammy had sent me to modeling and acting classes. I’d wanted to be a star like Mom. Mom had wanted me to have a normal childhood. My ambitions caused a rift between them that I still regretted.

  After adding the new ingredients to the corn chowder, he lifted the spoon and held a hand under it. “Give it a try.”

  Careful not to burn my tongue, I pulled the creamy chowder into my mouth. A mixture of sweet and spicy assaulted my taste buds in the most pleasant way. “That’s amazing.”

  So much better than the thick mess I’d created.

  For the first time since I’d moved in, he gifted me with a real smile. One that showed a neat row of white teeth and crinkles at the edges of his eyes. “Thanks.”

  A flash of something that looked a smidgeon like romantic interest crossed his features.

  The doorknob jiggled and a humming Gabe strode through the front door. The humming stopped as he regarded Mateo and me in the kitchen, the wooden spoon still hovering between us.

  I took a step back and cleared my throat. Awkward. “Hey, you’re…here.”

  He glanced from Mateo to me and a knowing smirk replaced his confusion. “I didn’t mean to bust in on you guys, but I do live here too. Sometimes.”

  “No, no. We’re not doing anything,” I said in a rush of words that clumped together. I stilled my features, careful to focus on anything but the attraction I’d felt for Mateo. No good ever came from roomie romantic entanglements. “I’m surprised to see you is all.”

  Mateo focused his attention on the corn chowder. “Rosie cooked dinner.”

  Gabe burst out in throaty laughter. He came over and wrapped an arm around my shoulder. “Rosie doesn’t cook.”

  I slinked out of his touch and cast him a wary glare. “Rosie is standing right here. And I cook sometimes. When I have good news. Like, I got a job.”

  Gabe and Mateo glanced at each other before looking back at me warily.

  Their hesitation to congratulate me hurt my feelings. “I mean it, guys. I got a job this morning. I interviewed and got hired on the spot.”

  Gabe smiled. “That’s great. I actually came home because of a halt in production but also because I saw you’re trending on Twitter again. Hashtag Diva Rosalind at it again.”

  “Ugh! It was the stupidest misunderstanding.” I grabbed three bowls from the cupboard and set them beside the stove.

  Mateo dipped his creation into the bowls and I moved them to the table.

  “Yeah.” Gabe retrieved his cell phone from his pocket. “Something that happened at a library.”

  Social media and the mob mentality could either make you or break you. Lately, it’d been all about breaking me.

  I chucked three spoons and the bread rolls in the middle of the table and sat down. “Well, my new employer doesn’t care about my notoriety.”

  Mateo sat down opposite me. “So, what’s the job?”

  I dipped my bread into the chowder and took a larger than necessary bite. Until this moment, it hadn’t occurred to me that I needed to explain professional mourning. Or even if I should. Like with any role, while I’d allowed the pork chops to burn, I’d further researched the professional mourning business and it appeared to be a growing industry. Yet, some considered it macabre for people to pretend to know a deceased person and insert themselves into others’ grief.

  Gabe sat down beside me and leaned in, waiting for my answer. I didn’t want to lie to my best friend. But I couldn’t stand another judge-y comment from Mateo.

  “I’m working behind the scenes at the local theater.”

  Mateo rolled his eyes and focused on his chowder. At least the judging hadn’t come in the form of a comment. And I’d really thought we’d had a moment earlier in the kitchen.

  Gabe nudged my arm. “That’s great. What’s the production?”

  “More importantly, is it a steady paycheck?” Mateo asked.

  “That’s what I wanted to talk to you both about.”

  He scoffed. “Here is comes.”

  “I need to get Grammy’s payments up to date first, then I can get back to contributing to the rent. I get paid tomorrow already, so the money’s coming. I promise.”

  Mateo stood with his bowl and shrugged one shoulder. He pointed to Gabe with his spoon. “You’re responsible for her half until she gets it figured out.”

  He didn’t wait for Gabe to answer as he stomped down the hallway and slammed his door.

  “Why is he always so grumpy?” I asked.

  Gabe took a huge bite of bread and spoke around half-chewed dough. “He’s actually been in a much better mood since you moved in.”

  I shook my head. I’d hate to see what Mateo’s bad side really looked like.

  “So, about this production you’re working on?”

  I swallowed hard on my last spoonful of chowder. “I lied about that.”

  His eyes grew into large circles. “You lied to Mateo? That’s not going to help his grumpiness.”

  I reached for my bag and removed the file folder. “Actually, I just lied about what the job is.”

  He scooted his chair closer to me. “Who is this guy?”

  “Harold Baumgartner. He died Sunday night and I’m going to speak at his funeral tomorrow.”

  “Like a paid speaking engagement?”

  “Not exactly.” The end of my nose itched as I searched for the right words. “I’m pretending to mourn for him.”

  “Why would someone do that? Pay for a celebrity to mourn at their funeral?”

  “In this instance, the guy doesn’t have a single person to say anything nice about him except for his home-health nurse, so she’s asked for a professional to come in and just be nice.”

  “And you get paid for that?”

  “The same day apparently.”

  “Works for me.” He took our bowls and dumped them in the sink. “You have dish duty while I’m here.�
��

  The lack of judgment warmed my heart. “Thanks for supporting me, Gabe.”

  “I’ve always got your back. I’ll even do your makeup before you go tomorrow.” He yawned, making a sound like a wounded animal and rubbed his eyes. “I’m worn out. My turn on the couch or yours?”

  He’d already done so much for me and he deserved a good night’s sleep. “I’ll take the couch since I have a eulogy to write and I’ll probably be up for a while.”

  “Good luck.” He ruffled my hair in a brotherly fashion and headed to the bedroom.

  I focused my attention on Harold Baumgartner and the eulogy. What did it say about a person if even a pastor couldn’t conjure up a few good adjectives to describe them? Yet, he couldn’t be all bad if he’d won over Pearl. Across the room Mateo’s laptop beckoned me. Searching information from a computer would be ten times less strain on the eyes. If I could get a good template started, then after my conversation with Pearl in the morning, I could fill in the blanks.

  For no reason other than my own sense of guilt for borrowing without asking, I tiptoed across the small living room and grabbed Mateo’s laptop. A happy sigh of satisfaction escaped my lips when I didn’t meet a prompt for a password. I clicked on the minimized web browser at the bottom of the screen.

  It’d never occurred to me that his last search would show up or that it’d be my name.

  I clicked the first link beneath the search bar. The infamous YouTube video filled the screen. I pressed Play. I could watch the shaky amateur video now with a detached sort of regret. My agent and my ex-boyfriend holding hands across the candlelit table. Me stomping in and tossing their drinks in their cheating faces. None of which helped my career, but then I backed into a table and tipped over the candle, which caught the tablecloth on fire and subsequently the sleeve of the man sitting at the table. The video gets even shakier from there as the person holding the camera began to panic like the rest of the restaurant patrons when the man ran around in a circle waving his arm, inciting the flame to climb toward his face.

  Three million views and three lawsuits later, there I sat barely recognizing the woman who’d lost control. I hadn’t even loved Armando. Not really. To save face, he’d immediately given interviews about my horrible relationship behavior, all lies to justify his infidelity. Rarely did I find a person who cared to listen to my side of the story.

  I guess Mateo had watched and formed his opinions of me too.

  I clicked the little X in the corner that removed the pain of my past from view. I opened the browser again and started with a fresh search on eulogies.

  After finding a suitable template, I made notes on the back of the threatening letter from the law firm. I’d make sure to give a powerful performance the next day at Harold’s funeral. I certainly hadn’t planned it as some publicity stunt, but the good publicity couldn’t hurt. Harold and I could both get some good vibes out of this arrangement. Everyone deserved a second chance.

  5

  After a fitful night of sleep on the lumpy couch, I grabbed a shower and ducked out before Mateo and Gabe could complain that I’d used all the hot water. Pearl would be doing the morning rounds with breakfast, and I needed to talk to her about Harold before the facility’s admin shoved another past due bill into my hand.

  I skipped the sign-in desk and walked directly to Grammy’s room. Pearl pushed a meal and medication cart farther down the hallway, and we waved and used hand gestures to communicate she’d meet me in the room in about ten minutes. Perfect. Just enough time to convince Grammy to allow me to borrow one of her dresses. While her memory faded, her love of clothes stayed strong. Even the facility’s cleaning ladies had to haggle with Grammy to get the soiled clothes out of her room on laundry day.

  I cracked the door open and stuck my head around the edge hoping she might still be asleep.

  “Quit lingering in the doorway, Jojo. It’s not ladylike.”

  The use of her nickname for Mom signaled one of her better days.

  “Good morning, Grammy.” I pushed into the room and stooped to give her a kiss on her cheek. I perched on the edge of her recliner and focused on the black and white movie playing across her television screen. A sassy Myrna Loy glided toward her on-screen husband. I’d watched many a Golden Age movie at Grammy’s during my younger years.

  Burt Lancaster, Jr. joined us at the chair and gave a thorough sniffing of both of my shoes before pressing his wet nose against my leg. He then whimpered a little and sat by the door. I seized the opportunity to get Grammy out of the room by picking up his leash from its hook and holding it out in front of her. “It seems Burt needs to use the grass.”

  She smiled at me and I noticed she hadn’t yet put in her dentures. “You can take him, dear.”

  That wouldn’t work. “I thought maybe you’d like to get some exercise this morning?”

  “I’m in the middle of my show.”

  Burt let out a louder whimper.

  “Go on now.” Grammy’s voice sharpened with each word.

  I wondered at southern women’s use of vocal tones that halted most arguments before they began. Would I ever be able to muster that much authority through inflection?

  Burt stretched up my leg until his paws reached almost to my knees and I clipped the leash to his collar. I cracked opened the door but shut it again. If I ran into the living facility’s director, we’d have an awkward conversation about money. If she handed me an eviction notice before I had a chance to get some money in her hands later in the day, she might not change her mind about giving Grammy the boot.

  With Grammy immersed in her movie, I slowly slid her closet door open and grabbed a gray curly wig from the top rack. I didn’t even know why Grammy owned it but that paired with a shawl would be the perfect disguise to get Burt out to the grass and back.

  I stuffed both items in my purse so Grammy wouldn’t start a fight over her prized possessions. I didn’t want to get her worked up before I started trying on dresses. I opened a drawer in her kitchenette and pulled out a pair of readers. She had close to ten pairs I’d never seen her wear.

  “Be back in a sec,” I called over my shoulder. As soon as I stepped in the hallway, I donned my disguise. After I tucked the last bit of my hair beneath the wig, a voice behind me grabbed my attention.

  “Sweetie, what’re you doing?”

  I let out a small yelp and whirled to face the speaker. I placed a hand over my heart. Pearl. “You startled me. Burt needs a potty break.”

  She glanced at her watch. “I can take a few minutes. It might be better for us to talk outside anyway.” If my attire surprised her, she didn’t make any additional comments on it.

  I wrapped the shawl around my shoulders and let Burt lead us down the hallway.

  “You need to stoop a bit more to pass off being older than thirty.”

  “I’m only twenty-eight,” I mumbled, but I did as she said. A nurse I didn’t know by name passed us and I hunched my shoulders a little more as she blinked hard and did a double take.

  Countryside ALF had a large fenced-in dog walk area within the larger fenced in backyard. Once inside, I unclipped Burt’s leash and allowed him to roam freely. There were only three or four other dogs on the premises as the extra fees usually became too much for family members to pay. Burt had the area to himself today.

  Pearl sighed heavily and I felt guilty for taking up too much of her time. Harold’s funeral was in the middle of the afternoon and there was plenty of work for her to do before then.

  “Ruthie Colburn is an interesting lady,” I started.

  “That she is.”

  “Harold on the other hand…”

  “You’re finding he didn’t have a friend in the world, aren’t you?” Pearl asked.

  “Other than you it would seem. Not even the pastor had a kind word for him.”

  “Do you know what it’s like for people to see you one way but you’re really another?”

  Boy, did I.

  “T
hat was Harold. Although, some of his bad reputation he rightfully earned, but this urban legend of being the worst kind of man came from gossip and busybodies in that age-restricted community where he lived.”

  His documented feuds with the neighbors and the mention of the private investigator came to mind. “Why don’t you tell me what you know about him and I can make up my own mind.”

  “It’s a terrible thing to be lonely and regret decisions made in the past. That was Harold to a ‘T.’ Do you know, he didn’t even need a nurse checking on him daily. The man was fit as a fiddle. He hired me because he needed the human interaction. He needed kindness.”

  “If he wasn’t sick, what did you do for him?”

  “Oh, I checked his blood pressure for him. And talked him through the phantom symptoms and pains that were most usually just a bout of indigestion.”

  “Then how did he die?” I thought back to the file that had only listed natural causes written in a neat script near his name. Without giving it much thought, I’d assumed he’d died from a heart attack or something similar.

  “It’s the oddest thing. He slipped and fell in the shower. Hit his head so hard he ruptured that big artery that’s in the front there.” She tapped me on my forehead. “I found him face down with the water still running ice cold over his body.”

  Even though Pearl worked at Countryside and probably saw her fair share of patients passing away, the tone of her voice suggested Harold’s death made her uncomfortable.

  “I’ve heard of fatal slips in the shower before. What makes you think his fall was odd?”

  “He didn’t like showers. I’d always run him a bubble bath after our morning checkup routine.”

  Burt finished his potty business and let out a few yips of relief.

  I glanced at Pearl, her eyes watering as she watched Burt run in a circle. “Is there anything special you want me to say at the funeral this afternoon?”

  “Nothing I want you to say, but more like something I want you to know.” Her voice filled heavy with grief as if she’d lost more than just a patient.

  Practicing my professional mourning skills, I listened with focused attention and placed my hand on her upper arm.