T he footsteps of the mortician are that of a slightly heavy woman. The marble floor squeaks underneath her cheap sports shoes. Or so I believe. It's hard to tell for sure.
Heavy steps. Very slow. Trudging.
I try to slow my breathing, as there isn't enough air inside the bag. This should be over soon. I need her to just roll my table out of the room. She's probably looking for my ID or something to identify my corpse.
The mortician stops a few tables away and waits.
Then she walks again. I hear her tap what I assume is a paper chart. Her breathing is heavy, like a shivering gas pipe about to explode.
I try to occupy my mind again with anything that will calm me down. In the beginning, it is Jack. Oh, Jack, with all your absurdness, your silliness, and your cute dimples. But then Jack's image fades to the sound of music outside my bag.
The mortician woman probably uses an iPod with small speakers. A song I know well: "Don't Fear the Reaper" by Blue Öyster Cult.
Interesting.
This might take some time. I don't think she is in a hurry. All I can do is wait for her to pick me up.
A flick of the mortician's cigarette lighter drags things into an even slower pace. I don't blame her. Time is probably worthless for a woman who spends her days living among the dead.
She inhales her cigarette shortly and then exhales, coughing. Smoke seeps through the bag and into my nostrils. I manage not to sneeze. Dead people usually don't , I imagine the Pillar saying.
But I know the woman is near.
I hear her pick up the paper chart again, and tread slowly toward me. She starts whistling with the song: "Don't fear the reaper...la la la la la la. "
I want to wiggle my feet to the rhythm, but I hold back.
I wonder if she listens to the same song each day. While the Pillar's favorite subject is madness, this woman is surrounded by death. Maybe she grew too numb to it. That would explain her easiness and relaxed demeanor. I wouldn't be surprised if she orders pizza. Two slices, chopped-off heads topping, and some mayonnaise, please. I'll tip generously if you slide me a Meow Muffin from under the table.
"Alice Wonder," the woman mutters, flipping the chart. "Where art thou?" She taps her heavy feet and then sucks on the cigarette.
I imagine her in a white coat, a bit too tight for her size. Big-boned, almost square; red curls of thick hair with a pencil lost inside the bush. Fat cheeks, bubbly and wavy, too.
The waiting is killing me. I am about to zip up and scream at her: Here I am. Just take me out!
"So, here you are." She stands really close, reeking of cigarettes, the cheap stuff, and some other smell I can't identify. "Someone made a mistake shoving you here." She kills the boredom by uttering everything she does aloud. I know because I used to do the same in my cell. "Your sorry arse belongs somewhere else, young lady."
This blind game isn't fun anymore. I realize I will probably never know how the mortician looks like after she delivers my corpse to the chauffeur's car. Then she stops again and coughs. This time, she coughs really hard, as if puking. I hear the cigarette swoosh into something. What's going on out there?
A heavy thud causes a ripple through my metallic table. The rollers skew sideways. The woman chokes.
The tune of "Don't Fear the Reaper" continues in the background, but the woman has stopped whistling, if not breathing.
"Help!" she barely pronounces, while her fat hand slaps like a heavy fish on the side of my bag.
What am I supposed to do? Help her, right?
And blow my cover?
What is happening to her?
Surprisingly, the woman stops choking.
"Bloody cigarettes," she mumbles. I hear her stand up. Her voice is a bit rustier, the music in the background making the whole incident sound like a joke.
There is a long moment of silence, only interrupted by her heavy breathing. She should also stop smoking. And eating—what's that smell again? Yeah, she somehow reeks of baking.
She decides to change the song on the iPod. Am I ever going to get out of here?
I am not familiar with the new tune. An American sixties song. A merry song, actually. Funny and quirky.
"'I am a Nut' by Leroy Pullins," the mortician documents. Then the lighter flicks again. "I love this song!"
What? Is she smoking again?
This time, she takes a long drag as if her near-death experience rewarded her with an additional lung.
She moves toward me again, tapping her paper chart. Her feet aren't as heavy. I wonder how.
She takes another drag and whistles along with the song. The singer is a nut himself. All he says is "I'm a nut," a few fast words, then "I'm a nut" again. Then he stops to a stroke of a chord of his guitar and says, "Beedle-dee-bah, beedle-dee-bah, beedle-dee-ree-pa-dom. "
I have to check this song out if I ever get out.
I hear the woman stop and swirl in her place like she's Elvis Presley on mushrooms. I am about to laugh. What happened to this mortician woman? Am I back in the Radcliffe Asylum already?
She approaches my bag and taps a hand on it. "Here you are, Alice Wonder," she says. I picture her with a big smile on her face, pushing against those chubby cheeks. "Time to take you where you belong."
Finally! I sigh. This took forever.
The smell of baking on her breath makes me hungry. I should have had a big meal back in the asylum. What's with all the mentioning of food today?
I don't care. I just want to get out of here.
Instead of being rolled outside, the woman's hand reaches for the bag's zipper. Maybe she wants to check out my face. I wonder if I will look dead enough to her.
Hold that breath, Alice.
The zipper slowly reveals my face to her, and the reeking of baking strengthens in my nostrils. There is a long silence, followed by the end of the nut song. The silence doubles up uncomfortably. I do my best not to open my eyes. But I don't know if I can hold my breath any longer.
"Very paradoxical, I must say," the woman says with a satirical tinge to her voice. "If you hold your breath long enough, you're dead. If you give up and start breathing, you're mad. Isn't that so, Alice from Wonderland?"
My eyes snap open.
I inhale all the air it can. I am in utter shock. A silent shiver pinches through all of my limbs, and madness almost blinds my vision.
What did she just say?
Although the mortician looks exactly like I imagined her, the smell of baking on her mouth says otherwise.
It's the smell of a Meow Muffin.