To Mom’s eternal disappointment, all the men I meet are dead. But that’s what happens when you work in a funeral home. Even the guys I spot on my days off strolling the boardwalk in their flared pants and open-necked shirts, smirking at girls and eating handfuls of salt-water taffy, look hardly alive. Of course, to be fair, they’re tourists, here for the gambling and the fun of the arcade. They’re in Atlantic City to escape reality.
There are never any tourists around when I get up and head for the beach. It’s not just the early hour, the sky pink with dawn light, it’s because our neighbourhood’s considered out of bounds. Don’t go more than one block from the beach, is the general recommendation. ‘Heavens to Betsy,’ the old ladies in their plaid pants tell each other, ‘be sure not to stray too far.’
But once I’ve crossed the wide strip of Atlantic Avenue, the clapboard houses and vacant lots fall away, and I’m in the area people think of as Atlantic City: big casinos and towering hotels, doormen in uniforms yawning on their patch of red carpet. By now I can smell the briny tang of the ocean, and soon I’m on the long line of the boardwalk itself, the sea murmuring beside me. The weak spring sunshine doesn’t take the chill out of the air, so no one else is fool enough to think of swimming. As I pass shops with Closed signs on the doors, chained-up surfboards rattling in the breeze, it’s just me and the night cleaners, and a few stray cats.
Green wooden benches are positioned all along the front, facing the ocean. Every morning, I stop beside the exact same one, resting my hand on its curved back, touching its little bronze plaque. And down by the shoreline, the sea waits: the comforting hush, hush of the waves, the never-ending stretch of blue on blue. I hold my breath, because I’m hoping for a sight of fins, and I gasp as I spot them: three dolphins ducking in and out of the waves. I know I won’t be able to get close, but the joy of seeing them propels me down the steps and onto the sand. At the surf’s edge, I strip down to the swimsuit I’m wearing underneath my jeans and sweatshirt, and before I can gauge the exact level of biting cold, I plunge straight in.
Nothing else exists except green-blue water and mind-numbing cold. I swim fast, my arms carving a path through the low waves, keeping the shore in sight, counting the empty lifeguard stations in order to know when to turn and swim back. By the time I’m out and towel-dried, clothes pulled on over skin tacky with salt, the early crowds are gathering. I hear the familiar chink and clatter of the arcades opening for business, awnings being winched over shopfronts, racks of postcards and novelty souvenirs wheeled onto the wooden boards.
As I head for home, the scent of coffee wafts from the Beach Shack, reminding me that I’m hungry. In front of me, a tall guy rests his guitar case and a huge rucksack on the ground, then rolls his shoulders and gets a map out of his jeans pocket. He looks to be in his mid twenties, and I like his face. He has a long mouth that seems made for smiling. He bends his head to examine the map, floppy dark hair falling into his eyes. I slow my steps, thinking I could offer him directions, but a couple have already stopped. They hold a camera out to him, gesturing. As I pass, I hear his voice replying politely. He’s English. His voice sounds as I imagine those old-fashioned heroes in my favourite novels might.
Immediately, I have this scene in my head – a kind of mash-up of Pride and Prejudice and Rebecca, Mr Darcy crossed with Mr de Winter: a man with beautiful manners and a stately home. A man with a wide mouth and an easy smile. In my head, I watch him striding off into the distant green of an English countryside to right an injustice, to win the heart of the woman he loves.
I wonder what the tall guy with the guitar would say if he knew that hearing a snatch of his British accent triggered a fantasy in the space of five seconds. But that’s what’s so great about an imagination, the freedom to roam inside your own head. Without it, I’d probably be certified by now.
Dad’s slumped on his chair on the porch, and it’s clear he hasn’t been to bed. He’s been playing blackjack or poker at one of the casinos. Red-eyed and dishevelled, he gives me a weary glance.
I take his hand. ‘Come on, Dad. You need to eat something. You can’t be late for work again.’
‘I was on a roll, Kit-Cat,’ he says in a hoarse voice. ‘It was my lucky night …’
‘… and then it wasn’t,’ I finish.
‘Yeah.’ He pushes a hand through his thinning hair, then fishes a crumpled packet of cigarettes from his pocket and attempts to light one with shaking fingers, the flame stuttering out. I crouch beside him and hold his lighter steady. He smells of stale sweat and nicotine. He takes a deep drag.
There’s a small birthmark on my forehead shaped like a star, or it is if you squint and use your imagination. ‘My lucky star,’ Dad likes to say. I don’t ask him how much he lost. He wouldn’t admit the truth anyway. No need to panic, I tell myself, my wages will cover the rent. Just as well, because there’s nothing of value left in our house to sell or pawn. Mom’s piano went months ago. She says it’s easier now, better without the worry of losing it. But sometimes I catch her running her fingers over the kitchen table, sounding notes in her head.
After a quick shower, I’m dressed for work in my uniform of black shirt and trousers. In the kitchen, Mom’s bustling about, a white apron over her sprigged cotton dress, a blue ribbon in her hair like a young girl. She’s cooking grits and eggs for my father. Coffee boils in a pot on the stove. I pour myself a cup.
She gives my steel-capped boots a sorrowful glance. I’ve given up telling her that I wear them for protection. It’s mandatory. She longs to see me in elegant pointed slippers with delicate heels.
I take a sip of scalding liquid. ‘It’s got worse, hasn’t it?’ I lift my eyes to the ceiling. Above our heads, Dad’s heavy footfall creaks across the boards.
She turns, hisses, ‘You think I don’t know?’
‘But Mom—’
‘There’s no point, Catrin. No point talking about it. We manage, don’t we?’ Her words trickle into silence. Neither of us speaks for a moment. ‘He found it hard after little Frank died.’ She flutters her fingers. ‘Then you were so ill … at death’s door. It took a toll. And there were the medical bills. It’s been a struggle ever since. I think that’s it. I think that’s why he does it.’
‘I know he doesn’t want to hurt us …’
Mom grimaces. ‘I have one of my sick heads.’ She touches her temples with the tips of her fingers, rubs in tiny circles. ‘Just do one thing for me,’ she says.
‘Mom?’
She comes close, and I think she’s going to ask me to massage her feet or fetch a damp cloth to cool her brow. ‘Don’t be hasty when it comes to finding a husband,’ she says. ‘Not like me.’ She grips my wrist and squeezes hard. I didn’t realise she had the strength. ‘Make the right choice. Use your head, not your heart. I want you to have a good life. I want you to be secure.’ She lets go of me. ‘Safe.’
‘Safe?’ I repeat. ‘Mom, I’m not going to rely on a man for that.’ I frown, rubbing my wrist. ‘Do you … regret marrying Daddy?’
She looks at me with something like pity. ‘Regret is pointless, Catrin. Best just to make decisions that will save you from the sorrow of it.’
‘But … you did love him, before?’
‘Love?’ She clicks her tongue impatiently. ‘Love’s not real, Catrin. Not romantic love.’ She turns from me, busying herself with putting crockery away.
I spent so long wishing Baby Frank hadn’t died, imagining how he’d have turned out, that the wanting has made him real, real enough that I can conjure him at will: a lanky big brother giving me bear hugs, dishing out advice along with plenty of teasing. He sounds deep and slow, with a hint of the South; not country, but that lovely, lazy stretch to his vowels like Mom’s.
Mom’s fallen out of love with Dad, I tell him. Do you suppose Dad knows?
I imagine Frank wrinkling his eyes in irritation. What’s to love about a man who lies? Dad hasn’t got a clue. Haven’t you been watching? He whispers into my ear. Listen, you can’t fix Mom and Dad. You need to fix yourself, Cat. You need to start living.
I suspect Frank disapproves of my job. Which is ironic, when you think about it. Like Mom, he probably worries that there’s not much of a social life attached; I’m the first to admit that most people I meet aren’t exactly raconteurs. Corpses tend to be on the quiet side.
I get to Greenacres on time, clumping up the steps to the front entrance, past the sign saying: Funeral Home. Est. 1927. Pushing open the door, I’m in the hushed, respectful silence of the foyer, lilies upright in a pale vase.
At the end of every working day, there’s a silky dust on my skin, a grey tinge of something that looks like soot. Human ash gets everywhere, flying free just as soon as the door of the retort is opened, riding on a wave of heat.
‘Oh Catrin,’ Mom said when I first told her about the job. ‘How are you going to find yourself a husband working in that place?’ She shuddered. ‘Never tell a soul you work there.’
‘Isn’t it a sin to tell an untruth?’ I teased her.
‘Well, this is different.’ She gave me a sad, damp look. ‘A gentleman would think it odd.’ She sucked in her cheeks. ‘Anyone would think it odd.’
She can disapprove of my job as much as she likes; truth is, it’s the best-paid option for someone like me, with only a high school education and no qualifications. Don’t get me wrong, I wanted to go to college to study English and American literature. ‘Plenty of books in the library,’ was Dad’s helpful take on it.
Mom’s right, of course. I never will meet a man at a funeral parlour. But her Southern upbringing has made her believe a woman isn’t complete, or even capable, without a man at her elbow, protecting her virtue, paying her bills. Only I wasn’t brought up in the Deep South. I was brought up on the road, fending for myself at new school after new school, never settling in one place long enough to make real friends or finish my studies. More than acquiring a man, I’d like to acquire a talent.
At Greenacres, I’m often the last in this world to touch a person, and it’s as if their spirit haunts my fingers. I have to find a way to release them through writing. After work, I go home and scribble out ideas for stories, writing those lost souls back into existence as brand-new characters. Maybe that’s it – maybe that’s my talent. I want to believe it.