The small windows near the basement ceiling rattle, but something persistent about the noise causes me to freeze. What if the boys have returned and flung their bikes aside so they can drop into the window wells and press their faces to the glass? They do this sometimes. I only have to show my face and off they go, whooping, clapping one another’s hands. It used to be my peers who did this. Now it’s the children of my peers.
When the banging becomes more forceful, I climb the counter below the windows.
“Leave us alone!” I shout.
But even as I slap at the glass, I remember their words that have become a part of me. Why else would they treat me this way unless there’s something strange or repulsive that they see? The outrage drains from my arms. I search again for their bikes, their smug faces, so they can have their laugh, get it over with, and go away.
All I see is a stick, pinned on one end, and striking our house whenever the wind blows it. No boys. No teasing, at least not tonight.
Trash cans tumble through the dark, dusty streets. The sky is filled with twirling plastic bags, bits of roof tile, tarps set free to billow through town like phantoms. And then I see it. The shiny pickup in Doris Golden’s driveway, brake lights on. I can’t see the plates well, only that they’re not Montana. It has to be the younger brother.
The brake lights go dark, and I press my forehead against the cold glass to see the man who steps out. Only his shadow at first. I still remember the day we heard he’d quit school and skipped town. The playground erupted in cheers.
As my eyes adjust, his form separates gradually from the night sky. His leather jacket looks silly. No one here wears a thing like that. He walks closer to a light hanging above the side door of his mother’s house. His dark curls fall almost to his collar—the kind of hair I’ve only seen on TV. For a moment he turns, looking directly at me, no change in his expression. And I realize I am completely exposed in this bright window. I imagine my face alarmed and washed out under the fluorescent lights.
Slinking down from the counter, I strip off the latex gloves and rub my fingers together, trying to work the nerves out of them when the doorbell rings.
I know who is ringing the bell because I made the mistake of catching his eye. I’ve called him to me like a stray dog that I looked at for too long. The younger brother waits on the other side of this dark stained door. Upstairs, the TV continues to drone, but my father is likely passed out by now.
I twist the knob and feel, even as the door groans open, that Pop would insist I keep it closed. Wind slips inside, running through our front hallway. And there he is—the town’s disgrace—thin, even in a leather jacket, its black skin buttery and creased. His wavy hair, streaked with gray, blows to one side of his head. Funny to see him grown when I’ve thought of him all my life as a fourteen-year-old.
“I saw someone at the window,” he says with no trace of the local accent. “I’ll be needing your services before too long. For my mother. I don’t know what I need to do to get started except come here, I guess.”
The entryway is almost completely dark except for a soft blue glow from the upstairs den.
“I’m Robert Golden,” he says, wiping his hair back in place.
He extends a hand much too smooth for the men in this town. All I can think of is that awful crying up in the gray tower. He stands there a moment longer before withdrawing his hand into his pocket.
“My mother. She’s not well,” he says. “Doris Golden. She lives just over there.”
He points into the dark.
“I know where Doris lives,” I say.
“Are you one of the Cramptons?” he asks.
What a funny thing, in a town this size, for someone not to know all about you.
“I’m Mary Crampton,” I say. “The embalmer.”
Another gust blows inside, knocking the brochures to the floor. Funeral Planning Made Easy, Sad Isn’t Bad, Prepaid Peace of Mind. Robert Golden should read that last one, but it’s too late at night to remember the introductory speech I’m supposed to give. I’ve never had a knack for talking with those who need our services. It’s fair to say I’m not a people person. Pop usually meets with clients so I can stay in the basement.
“I’ll help you pick them up,” he says.
I pull the door shut behind me as a response to his offer so that now, quite unintentionally, we are standing too close together on the front porch. My eyes sting under the glare of the naked bulb.
“Oh, there,” he says. “The light helps. Now I can see you.”
His smile lifts on only one side of his mouth as if the muscle hasn’t fully developed.
Wind elbows between us, rocking us onto our heels. My cheeks feel hot. A wisp of hair falls across my face, and I tuck it behind my ear. Then, remembering that my ears are weird, how they curl too hard at the top, I swipe my hair back down so it hangs flat against the side of my face.
For most of my adult life, I’ve tried to make myself invisible, but suddenly I’m aware of my physical presence. I’m an ordinary woman. My hair is brown, but not a brown that would inspire a name like chestnut or milk chocolate. It’s more the color of a brown couch cushion that’s sat too long beside a sunny window and faded to something you could only describe as drab. My eyes are hazel, but most wouldn’t know because I look at my shoes if others are around. You wouldn’t call me fat or thin or tall or short or curvy or flat. I’m what you might call unremarkable in my ponytail and grocery store makeup.
“So you’d like to set up services for Doris?” I ask, folding my arms.
“Yes,” he says. “I think so. I’ve never had to do anything like this before.”
We are shouting over the wind.
“I don’t know how much longer she has,” he says. “I just want these last days to go peacefully.”
Across the street, a rusted sign over the Petroleum Hotel bangs back and forth. The building is plain as a sugar cube, with an unadorned window for each of the six rooms. It’s no-frills living in this inn that was built to serve hunters. No television in any room, and a single toilet and shower down the hall. Much of the year, as now, it’s empty, the rooms on the top floor dark. The only one there is the owner, an old man who lives on the first floor through a door behind the welcome desk.
“I’ll get you the forms,” I say. And remembering the mess in my father’s office, how it may not even be possible to get to the file cabinet, I add, “Tomorrow, when I’m not in the middle of a job.”
“I’ve interrupted your work,” he says. “I’m sorry.”
Wind shoves my shoulder back toward the house, and we hear a loud crash, then a barking dog. Across the street, a light snaps on in the hotel lobby, the owner’s face glowing at the front window. He looks to the rusted hotel sign, finally ripped from its hinge. But when he steps outside to have a better look, it is our porch that interests him. He doesn’t even pretend not to stare.
“I should head back to my ma’s place,” Robert says. “Mary Crampton, did you say?”
He looks as if he might try to shake my hand again, but decides against it, turning down the steps. I say nothing as Robert Golden walks into the black, debris dancing along the ground under the moonlight. He’s an odd man for these parts. His clothes are out of place. He walks too fast. I want to keep watching until he’s gone, but the wind has forced my eyes shut.
Back inside, I hold the knob for some time, letting my nerves quiet down. I think of “the younger brother,” said like a curse in this town. Then I think of the man at my door with his crooked smile, hair blowing to one side. Right now I feel, well, I don’t know what I feel. I only know I haven’t let go of the doorknob.
I bend down to gather the pamphlets that had scattered across the floor when I remember Mr. Mosley. I still have work to finish tonight.
Hurrying downstairs, I slip on gloves, then squeeze my fingers open and shut to calm my nerves. I search the tray of tools until my fingers relax around the metal handle I need. I inhale, exhale, then draw the scalpel down Mr. Mosley’s neck.
My hand disappears, sliding through dark and slippery passages. My fingers know the way, feeling the dense muscle, soft knots of fat, until they locate the thick, white carotid artery. I tie it off with string and attach a tube to the free end. I do the same for the jugular vein, then, using my elbow, flip a switch.
Embalming fluid the color of pink lemonade pumps through Mr. Mosley’s arteries via one tube while blood leaves his body out another. Red streams and jellylike clumps gurgle down the drain. Right away, his skin becomes firmer, his face appears to blush. As the machine hums and clicks, I massage his arms and legs to break up clots and help distribute the fluid. Already he looks like the man he must have been earlier in the week. I wonder how his life measured up against his dreams. Or if he still had dreams. Some of us have let ours go.