Not Another One Hit Wonder

Chapter 1 Monday. I’m at the kitchen counter, waiting for the Keurig brewer to fill up my coffee mug, when my phone beeps with an incoming text. Since it’s barely seven in the morning and I’m still dressed in lounge pants and a T-shirt, my phone is laying on the table in the dining room, well out of reach. For half a second I debate going to get it—anyone texting me this early has to have a pretty good reason—then hot java starts to trickle into my mug. The text can wait a little longer. Let me have my first cup of coffee, at least. I mean, geez, it isn’t like it’s a matter of life or death. Another chime signals a second text as I stir sugar and milk into my mug. Under my breath, I mutter, “Alright already.” It’s someone from work, most likely, one of the interns or whoever was on call last night. They thought it’d be another uneventful shift, I’m sure, and now suddenly, an hour before the rest of us come into work, it isn’t. True, business isn’t exactly booming in the small town of Ashbury, which may only be a half hour’s drive south of the state capital but at times feels like a world away. Here’s a newsflash, though, something the interns and new employees always learn the hard way—the hours on our door may say eight to five, but sometimes we have to work around the clock. It’s the nature of the job. Either you deal with it or you don’t, but you can’t ask the clients not to bother you after hours. When my phone beeps for the third time, though, I begin to get a little pissed. “Seriously?” I ask the empty room around me. “Do I have to do everything?” I thought being the boss meant I could delegate, but I guess no one else wants to think for themselves this early, either. With mug in hand, I head into the dining room and take a seat at the table, where my bagel waits, slathered with cream cheese. Riley’s bowl sits abandoned in front of the chair nearest to mine; it’s still half-full of milk because she refuses to drink it after she eats all the cereal. Yet the empty cup beside it proves she will drink milk—she just doesn’t like the way it tastes after the cereal’s been in it, or so she says. She’s six, so I don’t bother arguing with her about things like that. It doesn’t make sense to me, but if she can rationalize it to herself, fine. What isn’t fine is that she’s gone upstairs to get dressed and didn’t take her bowl and cup into the kitchen first. I’m not putting them in the sink for her, she knows that. I have half a mind to call her down, make her do it now before I forget, too, when I notice the string of texts on the lock screen of my phone. Damn. It’s way too early to start this day yet. Pulling the phone towards me, I enter my key code and glance through the texts. They’re from work, as I thought. The first is from my secretary Molly Hunter, or as Riley calls her, Miss Molly. Miss Molly is a good fifteen years my senior, a round, jolly woman who’s buried two husbands already and is hard at work on number three, to hear her tell it. Once I jokingly asked, “Isn’t he afraid of your track record?” To which she winked and replied, “We all have to go sometime. Rog likes dating a woman in the business, so to speak. Says it makes him feel like he has one foot through the gates already.” Or one foot in the coffin, take your pick. Wisely I kept that comment to myself. Her text is a no-nonsense, just the facts message she sent to both me and our intern Taylor Smithson. Which explains all the other messages, since Taylor might be fresh out of college but the guy doesn’t know how to not reply to everyone in a group text. I’ll have to mention it to him again later, because I don’t need to read all the back and forth that goes on. Especially when it only makes me question whether or not he’s cut out for this gig. Molly’s text reads, Home removal requested at 233 Lakeside Ave. Natural death. I nod as I sip my coffee. Okay, so far, so good. Many people will call 911 when a loved one passes away. Even if the caller says the person has passed, an ambulance is usually dispatched just in case. The police follow to make sure the death was a natural one. Natural means there isn’t anything suspicious about it, such as an elderly person or someone who was ill. Most of what we deal with are natural deaths—this is Ashbury, after all. I can count the number of homicides I’ve been called out to on one hand and still have fingers left over, and I’ve been in the business for twenty years. But his first text reply to Molly shows his inexperience. If he bothered to think it through, he would’ve removed me from the group before sending the message, because the last thing most interns want their boss to read is a childish complaint. Do I have to go? When Molly didn’t write back, Taylor followed this up with a message I’m sure he thought better explained his position. We open in an hour. Henry can take it then, right? What a lazy ass. As I try to think of a way to respond that shows my disappointment and anger in plain text without resorting to all caps or those stupid emoji things, Molly sends a longer message that says exactly what I’m looking for. She’s been at this longer than I have, and I grin as I read her reply. Yes, you have to go. Someone has DIED, and it is OUR responsibility to attend to that person and their family in their time of need. You have to go when it’s pouring rain outside, or when it’s snowing so bad you can’t see the road in front of you, or when you’re tired or hungover or drunk. YOU HAVE TO GO. This is your job, and if you don’t like it, then you can hand in your resignation by noon today. I’m sure Mr. Eckert will be happy to accept it, since you’ve copied him on these messages. Silence. Just when I think Taylor won’t bother responding—in my mind’s eye I see him grumbling as he rolls out of bed, slouching for the dark suit and tie in his closet that’s practically a uniform when we go on a removal—another text comes in. Taylor, bitching again, of course. What a whiny little ass. Don’t home removals require two? I’m sure he thinks he’s being slick, waiting for Molly to come back telling him he can wait for Henry after all. Henry’s the oldest employee we have—hell, he’s worked at Eckert’s back when the name referred to my father and not me. He’s a big, burly man in his late sixties who can still manhandle a loaded casket by himself if he has to. He outweighs Taylor by a good hundred pounds, almost all of it muscle. If he saw these texts, he would’ve torn Taylor a new one. Molly’s scathing reply is a gentle reprimand compared to what I’ve heard Henry yell at interns in the past. The man’s ex-military, after all. The Army taught him all he learned about mortuary science in the first place. But Henry doesn’t text. He has a cell phone, of course—who doesn’t, in this day and age? It isn’t a smartphone, though, and he doesn’t know how to send or reply to text messages. When Molly has a removal for him to pick up, regardless of the time, day or night, she has to call him with the details. Taylor knows this, and will use it as an excuse not to go on this removal right away, instead waiting after eight o’clock so he can slough it off onto Henry completely. We’ll see about that. Quickly I type a text to the group: 233 Lakeside’s close to me. I’ll meet you for the removal. Be there in ten. After I hit the send button, I realize I’m still in my PJs, and there’s Riley to think about, too. I’ll have to drop her off at Mrs. Duran’s earlier than normal, which shouldn’t be a problem. Mrs. Duran’s known my family for years—she was my first grade teacher, actually, and her son Derek used to be my best friend back when we were in school together. But he moved out of Ashbury after high school, moved out of Virginia altogether, and managed to hit it big with one Top 40 pop song they still sometimes play on the radio station during oldies’ weekends. Derek, God…I haven’t thought of him in years. Mrs. Duran’s retired now, but she watches Riley when I’m at work. I usually drop her off in the mornings so she can catch the school bus in front of Mrs. Duran’s house, and I pick her up when the funeral parlor closes at five. If I get a call after hours, I leave Riley at Mrs. Duran’s on the way. “Oh, it’s no bother,” Mrs. Duran told me once, when I asked if she was sure it wasn’t a problem dropping Riley off when a call came in shortly after midnight. “It gets lonely here anymore, now that Walter’s passed and who knows where Derek is anymore. I’m just happy for the company.” Two of my ten minutes are gone, and I’m still not dressed. Hurriedly I gulp down the rest of my coffee, ignoring the hot liquid as it scalds my tongue and throat. I scoop up Riley’s bowl and cup and take them into the kitchen with my mug. No time now to fuss at her about them. I’ll deal with that later. Halfway up the stairs, I holler out, “Riley! I need you to get dressed, please! We have to leave.” “Daddy!” she cries, then I hear heavy feet stomp as she storms out of her bedroom and into the hallway. Peering through the railing, she frowns down at me, her long brown hair an unbrushed, disheveled mess. “I still have until the big hand reaches the five before I have to get ready! You said!” “Yes, but something’s come up, sweetie.” I reach the top of the stairs and plant my hand on the top of her head. Turning her around, I explain, “I have to go on a removal—” “Eww!” Her nose scrunches up in distaste. “Who died this time?” With a laugh, I tousle her hair. “Like it’s anyone you know. Go get dressed. Hup hup! I’ve got to get to work.” Her eyes go wide. “Can I come see the body?” “No.” As if I take her to removals all the time. “I’ll drop you off at Mrs. Duran’s a little earlier than usual, that’s all. You don’t have to bother with your hair—she can comb it out for you. It’s a rat’s nest, I swear.” “Rats?” she shrieks, grabbing her hair with both hands. “Daddy, stop! I don’t have rats in my hair!” As I head into my bedroom, I tell her, “Just get ready, will you? We have to go.” My ten minutes are already up, I know, but I doubt Taylor’s on the scene yet, either. If he is, oh well. It’ll serve him right if he has to wait.