Mourning Wood Read online

  “What the hell are you talkin’ about, Nelly?” an enraged old man shouts. “We agreed on side-by-side drawers, now yer just changin’ shit up without discussin’ it with me first?”

  “It’s my body, and therefore my choice,” a woman snaps back.

  “Mr. Neal,” Whitney calls, her voice a soothing balm. “Why don’t we just hear her out before working ourselves up for no good reason?”

  He groans with such force that it vibrates the ear I have plastered to the unfinished drywall.

  “Now, Mrs. Nelly…go on ahead and explain your wishes.”

  “Well, I’d love to if that old…son of a gun would just shut up for two damn minutes.”

  What’s happening in that room puts any reality TV I’ve seen to shame. Forget following around the younger generation. Geriatric reality shows are the way of the future. This shit right here’s an untapped goldmine.

  “I need a damn cigarette,” he growls.

  “Well, as you both know, I’ve recently been diagnosed with bladder cancer. And while I’m doing the treatments and in all likelihood will be more than fine for a while yet, it just got me thinking that I could go first…and what I’d want should that happen.”

  “Damn it all to hell.” The pain he’s masking behind his sour demeaner is palpable—I feel the ache bone deep.

  “You said you was gonna let me speak. For God’s sake, stop being so dramatic… I ain’t planning on going tomorrow. Anyway…in light of our new circumstances, I’d like to be cremated—”

  “No way in hell I’m lettin’ ’em burn you,” he interjects.

  “I’d like to be cremated,” she says a little louder, “and placed in the most gaudy, ornate urn available.”

  “What about the second coming of Christ, Nell? How you gonna rise with no damn body?”

  “I understand your concerns, Mr. Neal.” There Whitney goes again, controlling the chaos with expert skill and the patience of a saint.

  “Listen, priorities change when you’re facing your own mortality, and that’s just not my biggest concern at the moment.”

  “What could be more concerning than makin’ sure you’re right with the Lord?”

  “I’m getting to it if you’ll let me speak…”

  “This is a buncha cockamamie bullshit, that’s what it is.” The sound of a chair screeching on tile has me jerking back with a start. I can just imagine him leaping to his feet and throwing it back in his frustration.

  “My wish is to be placed dead center of the mantle…where his next lover will have to pick me up and dust me. My wish is not to be forgotten.”

  It’s so quiet in that room you could hear a pin drop. I’m literally holding my breath.

  “You’re so stupid. God love ya, woman. There won’t be nobody else. I’d end up carrying ya around with me, lookin’ like a total fool the rest of my life. That’s what’d happen.”

  “A man has needs, Neal. I ain’t stupid enough to believe you won’t be finding someone to soothe ’em.”

  “Hell woman, I got needs now you haven’t tended in going on five years!”

  “Let me take you to dinner,” I say, startling Whitney clean out of her shoes when I approach just as she finishes locking up her office for the day.

  “Uhh,” she says, looking around. “You talkin’ to me?”

  “Don’t see anyone else.”

  “Thanks, but I’ll pass.”

  I brace a hand on the wall above her head, to keep her from running off. “Why not?”

  She takes her time, worrying her lips like she’s wrestling with some internal demons. “I just don’t want to.” Nothing about the energy she’s giving off agrees with that statement.

  I hang my head and give it a little shake. “You really were just using me?”

  “What?” Her muffled laughter is almost as sexy as that smile she’s fighting so hard to hide.

  “For my body.”

  She gives my chest a little shove, moving me out of her way. “Have you lost your mind?”

  “One date?” I press.

  “Listen,” she says, using the same tone she used with that irate man less than an hour ago, “it’s not you.”

  “Ohh,” I groan, grabbing at my chest. “And the hits just keep on coming.”

  “I have a daughter.”

  “I’m aware.”

  “I have responsibilities you wouldn’t understand.”

  “It’s one date. You don’t even have to tell her if you don’t want to.”

  “And one date’ll turn into two and maybe even three. Then come the awkward glances.”

  “Pretty sure we’ve already mastered that part,” I interrupt.

  She sighs. “Eventually you’ll get over the whole single mom gig and start seeing someone else, and break my child’s heart in the process, because she already thinks you walk on water all thanks to that damn dog of yours.”

  “I don’t see how her liking me is a bad thing. I mean, I would think that should be a requirement.”

  “It’s a bad thing because I’m not going to give her even an inkling of hope to cling to that anything will happen between us.”

  “Fair enough.” I can tell by the depth of her conviction that she believes every word of what she’s saying, and I’m not about to pressure the woman. “See you tomorrow,” I offer, retrieving my ballcap from my back pocket and slipping it on my head as I make for the door.

  “Friends?” she calls after me.

  “For now,” I say, before shooting her a wink on my way out.

  With only a few days left until Thanksgiving, we’re all running around like chickens with our heads cut off, trying to get things taken care of so we might be able to share a turkey day meal together.

  Bodies are being embalmed, services held, and others planned around the holiday. There’s still no guarantee we won’t be interrupted by a death, but we do what we can to have what little normalcy we’re able to manage around here. I don’t think people outside this industry realize just how demanding it is. Unfortunately, death doesn’t adhere to our schedules. We have to be ready at a moment’s notice to go out and scoop up those bodies. There’s no telling Betty she’ll just have to throw a sheet over Bill till tomorrow, ’cause we’re taking a day off. In our line of work, there’s no such thing as a day off.

  “Whit?” Momma peeks her head into my office, and just from her tone, I can tell something isn’t right.

  “Ma’am?”

  “We got us a situation.”

  God bless my mother and her flair for the dramatics. I look up from the papers I’m sorting, giving her my full attention. “Well, what is it?”

  “Got a body to pick up, and Rusty just called…said he done tested positive for the flu and won’t be in all week.”

  Wonderful.

  “Well, I’m meeting with poor Elly Joe in an hour to make arrangements for her Gramps…I can’t go,” I say, nibbling on the end of my pen. “What about Daddy?”

  Her head shakes. “He’s in the middle of an embalming.”

  It’s times like these I wish we had another person on payroll, but we just can’t justify the expense of more than one apprentice. We don’t usually run into issues unless one of us falls ill—like right now. There’s no way Momma can move a body on her own. She just isn’t strong enough.

  “You think, maybe…you might ask Wyatt to help out?” She flutters her lashes at me, gnawing on her thumbnail. If there was any doubt as to whether my father filled her in on our sordid past, there isn’t anymore. That’s the look of a meddlesome mother if I’ve ever seen it.

  “I mean…you can ask him,” I say, looking back down at my papers, but I can still feel her looming presence.

  Annoyed, I jerk my head back up. “Something else?”

  “Well,” she says, plopping her butt down in the chair across from mine. God help me. “As the funeral director, making sure all the business is tended to really is your job…seeing how I’m retired and all.”

  My eye
s bulge. I look around at all the work sitting on my desk and throw my hands out in her direction. “You serious right now, Momma?”

  “Yeah.” She sighs deeply. “I’m afraid I am.” Her right leg crosses over her left slowly and she leans back, making herself nice and comfy.

  “Ugh,” I groan, shoving back from my desk. “Sure, I’ll just stop all what I’m working on to go ask the contractor to accompany you on a body removal.”

  “Atta girl,” the irksome woman says, slapping her hands twice on the wooden arms of her chair. “Good luck.”

  It’s an effort not to flip her off as I walk past while she’s staring at me with that mischievous smirk of hers. Always up to no good, that one. She thinks she’s playing matchmaker, and she needs to just stop and mind her own dang affairs.

  The clomp of my heels seems to echo louder than usual as I make my way to the chapel. I can feel my heartbeat pounding in my ears. My nerves are at an all-time high, and not for the reasons my momma’s thinking. She has no clue of his past—of just how much we’re gonna be asking of this poor man.

  “Wy—” My voice gets lodged in my throat when I round the corner to find him bent over a table saw, his white tee tucked haphazardly into his back pocket and little bits of sawdust stuck to his glistening back as he guides a plank of wood through the machine. It takes me a minute to regain my senses and knock on the open door. I don’t know why I even bother. “Wyatt,” I call, but he doesn’t hear that either.

  Carefully, I cross the room in my stilettos and yank the extension cord until it comes unplugged from the wall. That gets his attention.

  He does a double take when he finds me standing there. I can’t blame him seeing as I rarely make my way over to this end of the building. “Too loud?” he asks, swiping the sweat from his upper lip with the back of his hand.

  “N—no. I—can I talk to you for a minute?”

  “Sure,” he answers, ripping his thick plastic goggles over his head. The little red indentation they leave around his eyes and over his nose are sickeningly adorable. “What’s up?”

  I bite my lip, trying to figure out the best way to pose the question. “Dammit,” I growl. “This is hard.”

  Wyatt looks down at his crotch, pointedly. “Oh, that? That’s barely a bump.”

  “Ugh,” I groan, fighting back a smile. “I’m trying to be serious here!”

  “Just spit it out. Whatever it is, can’t be that bad.”

  I take a deep inhale and go for it. “We’re kinda in a bind and were hoping you might be willing to help?”

  He gulps down half a bottle of water before nodding. “Sure.”

  There’s that word again. “Ummm, you might wanna hear the rest before you agree.”

  “Whitney, just ask me already.”

  “Okay, so…Rusty. Remember you met him last week?” Gosh has he really only been working here less than two weeks? It seems so much longer. Sexual tension has a way of transforming minutes to hours and hours to days. Days to weeks and weeks to years, and now I’m just stalling because I’m the worst person on earth for asking this man to do this. I know it, and I’m gonna ask anyway, and that makes me the worst of the worst. Deplorable.

  “What about him?” Damn, but his smile is beautiful. Shame I’m about to wipe it clean off his face.

  “Well, he’s usually the one to accompany Momma on body retrievals, only he came down with the flu, and I have a meeting with a family and Daddy’s in the middle of an embalming.”

  His answering laugh lacks its usual warmth. “You’re lucky you’re cute,” he groans.

  “So, you’ll go?” I can’t keep the surprise from my voice.

  He takes his time, retrieving his shirt from his pocket and shaking off all the dust before pulling it over his head. “On one condition.”

  “Name it,” I rush out.

  “I was hoping you’d say that.” He clucks his tongue. “I’ll pick you up at seven.”

  “Huh?”

  “I’m ‘bout to go earn me a date,” he says, grinning like the cat that ate the canary.

  Why on earth did I agree to do this?

  I’m beginning to question my own sanity while I follow Mrs. Marie’s instructions and pull around to the rear entrance of Moss Pointe Retirement Community.

  “Just back the van up to those doors.”

  “You got it.” A cool sweat breaks out over my forehead and the nape of my neck as I maneuver the white stalker van under the covered parking and the reality of what I’m doing here begins to sink in.

  “I really appreciate you helping us out like this, Wyatt.” Her smile conveys her gratitude while her eyes hold the sincerest of apologies.

  “No problem.” And it’s not—so long as I ignore the fact that my esophagus is collapsing in on itself and I’m beginning to feel a bit woozy.

  I meet up with her at the double doors at the rear of the van, where she’s already sliding the gurney out of its slot. “Come with me,” she says heading for the entrance. When the automatic doors slide open, I’m hit with the scent of antiseptic and coffee, a smell that triggers memories of late-night emergency room visits with Mimi and Pop as a child.

  It’s my first time in a retirement home, and I find myself stunned by how clinical of an environment it is. I guess I expected that since it serves as a residence, it would be a little homier—warm and inviting. This place is neither of those, although I’m sure my purpose for being here is clouding my judgment.

  We’re met inside by a few staff members who are obviously quite familiar with Marie Daigle. She talks in hushed tones with the head doctor while they lead us back to the patient’s room. We’re told he died peacefully in his sleep. The family has already come and said their goodbyes, and they’ve been instructed to contact the funeral home to make the arrangements. The body has been cleaned and prepared for transport.

  “These are the easy ones. Sometimes,” she whispers as she lowers the cot, positioning it beside the bed, “we have to bag ’em ourselves.”

  It takes me a second to realize she’s referring to the dead body that’s already nicely zipped for us. “Can’t imagine that’s very pleasant.” I shudder at the thought.

  “Oh, darlin’, nothing about this profession ever is.”

  “Then why do you do it?” I ask, stationing myself at the foot of the bed while she takes the head.

  “You know, oftentimes I ask myself that same question, and it always boils down to, if not us, who?” She shrugs her shoulders, and that’s the end of that. “Make sure you get a good grip on his ankles, and when I count to three, we’re gonna lift and move him over to the gurney.”

  Somehow, despite feeling like I’m going to hurl, I muster the wherewithal to follow her orders.

  “You done good,” she says, brushing a tuft of hair from in front of her face with the same hand she just used to move a dead body.

  “Thanks,” I rasp, internally cringing while rushing to the sink at the far end of the room. I rip my gloves off and fling them into the bin before scrubbing my skin raw.

  “You had gloves on,” she huffs, shaking her head while busying herself with fastening the straps. I’m amazed by how comfortable she seems—how this is all second nature to her, while I have never been more freaked out in my life.

  “You ’bout done?”

  “Almost,” I say, passing my hand under the automatic sanitizer dispenser a few times and slathering it all the way up to my elbows.

  Her eyes widen.

  “I’m good,” I say, waving my hands through the air to dry them off.

  “You sure?” Marie chuckles. “Cuz there’s a shower behind that door.” She dips her head to the right. “I’ll wait…”

  How can she have a sense of humor at a time like this? “Let’s just get this over with,” I say, my voice flat. I’m too disturbed to even smile at her attempt to lighten the mood.

  In what feels like slow motion we wheel him out the way we came, while I try desperately not to make eye contact w
ith the patients lingering along our path. I can’t help but assume they’re all wondering how much longer until they’re the ones under the sheet, making their final procession through these sterile halls.

  Once outside, we hoist the cot up and slide it into the slot. When those twin doors slam shut, I fold in half, resting my hands on my knees and drawing in a few deep cleansing breaths.

  I did it.

  “That was a whole lot to put yourself through just for a date,” Marie muses, patting me on the back.

  “Ah,” I say, shrugging my shoulders. “I’d have helped y’all out, regardless. I just saw my opening and took it.”

  “My Whitney-girl’s a tough egg to crack…be patient. I promise, she’s worth it.” With that she leaves me to collect myself.

  As soon as I start the van, Marie reaches for the radio dial, switching it off out of respect for our passenger. She’s not so chatty on the ride back, I’d imagine for the same reason. There’s a somber cloud that seems to have fallen over us—a quiet that’s giving me way too much time to reflect on what just happened.

  I’m so preoccupied that I hit a pothole straight on, giving us a good jolt. “Sorry.”

  “No worries,” she replies, right as a loud brrrt fills the cab.

  I side-eye the petite spitfire of a woman next to me, but I’m too much of a gentleman to comment on the fact that she just passed gas. Noticing my gaze, she sucks in her lips, trying not to laugh.

  A polite pardon you is on the tip of my tongue, but then it happens again and, call me crazy, but I swear to the Lord it’s coming from behind me.

  I sneak another glance at the woman beside me, who’s trying like heck not to burst into hysterics.

  Maybe it was her? It had to have been. Surely the dead guy ain’t back there lettin’ ’em rip.

  It’s all I can do to keep a straight face once the stench reaches my nose. I try holding my breath, but the odor doesn’t fade. I’m starting to think this sweet, Southern grandma might’ve gone off and shit herself.