Arlo #5
So they had taken this scrawny ten-year-old, whose first nine years were marked with the kinds of horrors and death that many people never see in their lifetimes.
They had taken him in and tried to get him help, and even when it looked like the therapy wasn’t helping, they continued to love that boy and support him in their own way.
They, and especially my difficult, irritating, weird siblings, had all been the fix I had needed to remember how to smile, to remember how to be happy, and to remember that life was as, if not more, important than death.
In a fit of what I could only call irony, it had been the therapist I’d stumbled upon by accident in my early twenties who had figured out the most accurate diagnosis.
She had been wonderful, not just accepting the way I was immediately, but understanding it.
She had been through her own trials and had understood what it meant to come out of that darkness.
I might have still been seeing her to this day, but a bizarre accident involving a construction site and a loose bolt had taken her before I’d had a year of therapy with her.
It was the final straw. I didn’t have the heart to find another therapist, knowing I would never find one like her.
Ultimately, I had decided I needed to improve, but would have to do it alone.
The past few years had been devoted to that effort, and sometimes, when I thought there might be existence after death, I wondered if Abigail occasionally peeked at me and was happy with my progress.
“Now,” he said, pulling me out of my thoughts, and I wondered how long I’d been lost in them. His tone gave no hint that anything was wrong, so I figured it hadn’t been long. “Let’s go back to that slightly morbid, but no less interesting comment you made that specified ‘the living’.”
“I’m a funeral director,” I explained, knowing there was no way around the subject.
“Ah, now there’s a conversation for cocktail hour,” he said in amusement.
“I figured it was something of that sort. No one would specifically mention the living unless they were used to dealing with the dead. Which, in all fairness, narrows down the list of possibilities. Half of which are not exceptionally flattering or encouraging.”
“I...treat dead bodies, I don’t create them,” I said, guessing where his mind had been heading.
“And here I thought funeral directors were responsible for running the show, not being down in the trenches.”
“The owner of the funeral home has a few locations. The one I work at is the smallest. He prefers to keep minimal staff, to create a more friendly and less clinical feeling for those who use our services,” I explained carefully.
“We do have a dedicated embalmer, or mortician if you prefer. We also have dedicated staff for running the day-to-day business, essentially number crunching, but most of it is overseen by one of my coworkers. There are also staff who deal primarily with the family and friends of the deceased. I oversee all of it, but I began as a mortician there, so whenever our embalmer can’t make it, or if there’s no reason to call him in, I handle that as well. ”
“A master of one turned into a master of none,” he mused. “Do you miss it?”
“Miss what?”
“Dealing only with the dead, as opposed to dealing with the living.”
“Ah,” I said in understanding. “I can’t say I have a preference. Each position offered different experiences, and being a direct help to the living and aggrieved has been...nice.”
“I’m sensing more to this than you’re letting on, but again, I respect your privacy. I’m sure you’re used to scathing comments and sidelong looks from people when you reveal what you do for a living.”
“That is true, but it doesn’t bother me. Death is and forever will be a taboo and difficult subject for people.”
“I’ll also save both of us the trouble of asking what led you to that career choice, as I suspect I’ll get another vague if not obtuse answer. You are a puzzle.”
“Not particularly, I am just...not in the habit of talking about myself.”
“A shame,” he said, and I blinked when I realized he was practically purring in my ear. “As far as I can tell, you are interesting enough to merit attention.”
“I...thank you?”
He chuckled. “So, man who spends his time with the dead, what prompted you to call me? I had reached the point where I thought you wouldn’t.”
“I...” glancing toward the strips of plastic separating this room from the next, I grimaced. “Have no good answer for that.”
“I suspect you have a very good answer, a motivation you don’t want to express. Could it be that perhaps you are interested in my offer for a little one-on-one time?”
“It was on my mind,” I admitted quickly.
“Hmm,” he hummed, and I thought I heard a note of suspicion. “Now that was an awfully quick answer, and considering how reluctant you were at my first offer...there’s another reason, isn’t there? A reason popped into your head, besides my devilish good looks and insufferable charm.”
“Insufferable charm,” I repeated, smiling at the phrasing. “And you tell me I say interesting things.”
“I’ve been called insufferable and charming equally,” he said with a snort. “Now, don’t avoid the question. Surely the question can’t fall under ‘too much to ask’, can it?”
“No, I suppose not,” I admitted reluctantly. Though the admission wasn’t nearly as reluctant to come out as the reason he was asking about. “I’m at work at the moment.”
“Mmm, slacking at work? Tsk tsk, but am I to assume that is relevant to my original question?”
“It...is.”
“Ah, anything or possibly anyone I know there? Or...knew, I suppose, is a possibility, considering your line of work.”
“I’m not sure you knew, but knew of.”
“Interesting, mind telling me who?”
“Her name is Olivia Thorne. Ring a bell?”
“Would I be terribly judged if I didn’t recognize the name? Doesn’t even ring a bell.”
I wasn’t surprised. “No. I do not believe you remember everyone who comes to your parties.”
“My...oh. Is she…” he began, and I heard him clear his throat. “Is that the woman from my bathroom?”
“She is,” I confirmed.
“I see, “ he said slowly, as if tasting the words, or more likely, tasting the idea. The humor had disappeared from his voice. “How strange that she ended up where you work.”
“I had a similar thought,” I admitted. “All the funeral homes in this city, and her family chose this one. And that she was scheduled for...preparation on a day where our staff is low and I’m the one called upon to do the job.”
“And I was tempted to wonder if your belief that death was following you around was superstition born from some tragedy in your life.”
He was a lot closer to the truth than he thought. “Is that so?”
“Yes, but for you to be at my party when the first person to die at one in years, and then end up with that person in your funeral home is...well, I won’t say definitive, but it’s compelling evidence.
You seem to attract a certain...I don’t know, actually.
I won’t say I’m convinced you have death stalking you through life, but it’s certainly a more possible. ..possibility.”
“Redundancy? From you? You must be a little shaken.”
“Taken aback,” he corrected quickly, and I wondered if, like me, he wasn’t fond of being caught shaken or vulnerable. “To say her suicide put a damper on the rest of my night is putting it mildly.”
“You are aware that it’s normal to be bothered by the sudden, bloody death of a person?
Even if it’s someone you didn’t know,” I told him, pulled by the idea that he was trying to rally himself back to his normal personality.
Maybe it was on my mind because I did my own version when I was taken off guard.
“Not that you have to share your feelings.”
He sighed. “I’m trying to understand what compelled her to do it at my party, of all places. The cleaning alone was significant, from what the crew told me. Blood is notoriously difficult to get out of grout.”
Which presented me with the difficulty of determining if he really was as dismissive of the woman’s fate as he made himself out to be, or if he was simply using his rich, playboy image to conceal a harder internal battle.
I knew his behavior wasn’t exactly the nicest, and I wouldn’t blame anyone for taking offense at how he talked.
The thing was, I’d dealt with death, and those who were dealing with death to know the subject always brought out the strangest, and sometimes the worst in people.
For all anyone knew, he had lost someone, or several someones, in his life, and his way of dealing with the pain was to treat it like a joke, or at least something that wasn’t that important.
It didn’t even require personal loss for people to get awkward and even offensive when it came to the subject of death.
I also needed to remember that I knew next to nothing about him, even on the surface, let alone what ran deeper.
It was my rule of thumb that when dealing with someone new, it was best to view their behavior under the best lens possible, while keeping an eye out for proof that they were not a good person.
Essentially, treat someone like they had good intentions unless they prove otherwise, but do not wear rose-tinted glasses; otherwise, all flags look red and could be easily dismissed as dangers.
“Alright,” he said after a pause. “I have to admit my comments are distasteful and don’t give gravity to the scope and depth of the tragedy.
Honestly, this is the first time someone has done anything like that.
The last death a few years ago was due to an overdose that no one caught until it was too late.
It’s easy to dismiss someone who didn’t take the time to learn their limits.
To have someone...take their own life is altogether bewildering.
Not the act itself, just the timing and place. ”
“Suicide is like any other manner of death; it happens when it happens.”