Black Cat Weekly #76

Chapter 7-1

The Barb Goffman Presents series showcases

the best in modern mystery and crime stories,

The Barb Goffman Presents series showcases

the best in modern mystery and crime stories,

personally selected by one of the most acclaimed

personally selected by one of the most acclaimedshort stories authors and editors in the mystery

short stories authors and editors in the mysteryfield, Barb Goffman, for Black Cat Weekly.

field, Barb Goffman, for .

byAnastasia Brent wrapped the long ties of a white plastic apron around her trim waist twice and clicked on the harsh light over her embalming table. She’d been called in to work at Curren’s Funeral Home on this sunny California Saturday, when she could have been driving south to Monterey Bay, or hiking in the Sierras, or riding her bike through the Berkeley hills.

Such was the life of a freelance embalmer.

She’d even rather be home, tapping. Anastasia shook her right ankle to a shuffle step. Brush forward on ball of foot, pull back on ball. Then a shuffle dig. Shuffle, stomp. She dug into the floor with the ball of her foot. She thought how Marty, her boyfriend and tap teacher, would be pleased to know she was practicing. He was intent on including her in the Valentine’s Day dance performance at their local community center.

Brush forward on ball of foot, pull back on ball.Shuffle, stomp. “Just a four-minute routine,” Marty had said, his off-centered smile charming her as usual. “And you’ll be with three other beginners.”

“We’ll see,” was all Anastasia had promised, wondering how she was going to fit in the tutorials he’d sent her, links to five YouTube videos, in less than a week.

As Anastasia began to remove her client’s clothing, a wave of sadness rolled through her. Even after more than twenty years, it didn’t get easier. The girl—she preferred not to think of her as Trudi—now stretched out on the cold metal table had been only fifteen years old. She’d been on her way to a birthday party with her friends when their car careened across a divider and into oncoming traffic on I-580.

TrudiSome days, Anastasia wished she’d followed her mother’s advice and taken over the family bakery. She could be frosting cupcakes now, or making those miniature Bundt cakes that were the rage in town.

She reminded herself that hers was a noble profession, relieving a great burden from the families of deceased loved ones, seeing to the last minutes of their appearance on earth. An unappealing task, but one that served many families’ needs for closure.

The prep room where Anastasia carried out her tasks seemed eerie this afternoon. Each piece of equipment emitted angry hums and clicks as it stood by, waiting its turn. Anastasia imagined the entire room edgy, upset at the incongruities—youth and death, promise and decay.

But Anastasia had work to do.

Trudi Meyers’s family deserved a little extra effort on Anastasia’s part. As if losing a daughter wasn’t bad enough, they’d endured an unexplained mix-up that had sent the Curren van to the wrong hospital, delaying Trudi’s removal by the better part of a day.

The mistake wasn’t Anastasia’s fault. This was what was nice about being a freelancer, responsible only for preparing her clients for viewing. She’d had enough of the rest of the business after her first few years out of mortuary school—removal calls in the middle of the night, dealing directly with grieving families and fussy clergy, casket sales spiels, even picking up flower arrangements when the florist didn’t come through.

Trudi’s parents had given Curren’s a photo, a studio close-up taken for her sophomore class album. Anastasia studied the look—blond hair pulled back, except for a few curls falling around her tiny ears; a slight overbite; a shy smile, as if she’d just been complimented on her bright blue eyes. Using the photo as a guide, Anastasia shaped the girl’s face. At least, I can try to recreate the beautiful daughter her parents saw a few days ago.

At least, I can try to recreate the beautiful daughter her parents saw a few days ago.Except for a few new instruments, Anastasia’s embalming kit was the same one her parents had given her when she graduated from mortuary school almost twenty years ago, one of only three women in her class. Scissors, forceps, suture needles, arterial tubes, and hooks all lay in their original, custom-molded slots in the lined plastic case.

“I don’t even want to think about what you’ll be doing with these things,” her mother had said, her hand fingering the top button of her blouse, as if the instruments might jump from their velvety berth and attack her throat.

Ruth Brent taught fourth grade in the Berkeley school system until her retirement last year. A civilized profession, she’d frequently said, though Anastasia questioned whether a room full of ten-year-olds could be called civil.

Anastasia often wished her mother had won the battle of names over her father. She might have been Sue or Ann or Jean. She would have loved a simple name everyone could spell. But her father, Nicholas Brent, who’d done his master’s thesis on the Romanovs, had prevailed, claiming his infant daughter looked just like the youngest daughter of Nicholas and Alexandra, with light brown hair, blue eyes, and a certain mischievous quality even as she came out of Ruth’s womb.

“Did I also look like I’d disappear one day?” Anastasia remembered asking during her teen years. “And did you think, like, for the next hundred years women would claim to be me? No wonder I’m having an identity crisis.”

No identity crisis now, Anastasia thought, just midlife crisis. Two weeks from her forty-fourth birthday, and the only present she’d come up with when Marty asked what she wanted was a new trocar.

“The thing you stick in people’s stomachs to…” Marty had trailed off.

“To eliminate gas or fluids from body cavities.” Anastasia had finished her boyfriend’s sentence, a common occurrence when issues of mortuary science were involved. “The trocar I want is glass, so you get a visible flow.”

Eliminates guesswork, Anastasia remembered from the catalog. Showing the nature and consistency of aspirated material as it passes through a glass window.

Eliminates guessworkShowing the nature and consistency of aspirated material as it passes through a glass windowA gulp from Marty. “Right. I’ll get you either that or some new tap shoes.” He’d swung his long skinny limbs in an elaborate falling-off-a-log step, topped off with the exaggerated bright-eyed look he used in performances.

Marty Gilbert was nine years younger than Anastasia—eight years and nine months, as he often corrected. “In fact,” he’d told her, “between my birthday in November and yours in February, I’m technically only eight years younger.” It helped that he was balding early so she didn’t feel like she was dating the pool boy.

No one was sweeter than Marty, Anastasia thought. He’d reintroduced her to old dance movies, gave the best massages, treated her like a grand duchess. So why was there always this enormous but whenever she considered their future together? The age difference? When she’d tried marriage with someone her own age, she reminded herself, it had failed miserably.

butBack to work. The best escape from decisions like what to tell Marty the next four times he’d ask her to marry him or at least move in with him.

Anastasia did as much as she could on Trudi’s prep, given the enormous number of fractures the girl had suffered. She’d deal further with the back of Trudi’s head tomorrow, since the cuts would be leaking all night. She’d come back with sutures and glue, then dress Trudi in the pink party dress her parents had brought. No doubt this was how her parents imagined her in heaven. Not in the neon-green knit crop top and minishorts Trudi had been wearing under her sweats when she died.

Think happy, Anastasia told herself as she untied her apron, ready to leave the prep room. Picture Eleanor Powell and Jimmy Stewart dancing through Central Park to “You’d Be So Easy to Love.”

A knock surprised her, ending her escape to feel-good movies and songs. Ed Curren’s six-foot-tall broad-shouldered frame filled the doorway. Her boss on this contract, Ed was older than Anastasia by several years but seemed to look younger with each divorce.

“Don’t hang your apron up yet,” he said. “We’re bringing in another one.”

“Really, Ed?” Anastasia was not thrilled at the idea of a double-duty day.

“Other end of the age spectrum. Some ninety-something female. A heart attack. Guess it was time.”

Ed smoothed the top of his thinning, blow-dried hair and picked a tiny piece of lint from his black jacket. Anastasia knew the drill from her old textbook: An immaculate appearance goes a long way toward cultivating an air of dignity and respect, which is one of the mortician’s primary obligations. “Yeah. This old lady was in the paper recently. Got some honorary award from Berkeley High.”

An immaculate appearance goes a long way toward cultivating an air of dignity and respect, which is one of the mortician’s primary obligationsAnastasia squeezed her eyes shut and drew in her breath. “My old chemistry teacher? Mrs. Granger?”

Ed’s face fell. Anastasia took that as a yes. Mrs. Granger had died.

It didn’t take Anastasia long to convince Ed that she was not so emotionally involved that she couldn’t work on Mrs. Granger, her chem teacher and mentor. Unlike Anastasia’s parents, Mrs. Granger had been thrilled with Anastasia’s career as an embalmer and often asked her for insider stories. On her most recent visit to the Comfort Springs home, where Mrs. Granger lived, Anastasia had recounted the special training she’d needed to place a bindi in the correct orientation on the forehead of an Indian American woman.

“Your life is so interesting,” Mrs. Granger had told Anastasia.

“Okay, you can work on your teacher,” Ed said now. “It’s not as though you’re related. But definitely take a little break. A couple hours either way isn’t going to change anything. Well, maybe a few molecules here and there.”

Ed’s last lines were spoken as he headed back out the door, and Anastasia guessed that he didn’t see her disapproving look. This wasn’t a peak day for her sense of humor.

She sat at a small table in Dziva’s, following her boss’s orders. The bookstore-café combo on the north side of the Berkeley campus was owned by her best friend since high school.

“Not Mrs. Granger!” Keicia exclaimed when Anastasia gave her the news about her next client. “Wasn’t it just last week that we brought her that new collection of teas?”

Anastasia nodded, hoping this tea break would refresh her spirits. “I’m so glad we made that visit to Comfort Springs. You never know when’s the last time you’ll see someone—alive, anyway.”

Keicia sipped rooibos, an African bush tea she’d just prepared for herself. A petite, fair-skinned blonde, Keicia seemed an unlikely candidate for an African poster girl, but a college semester in Kenya had changed her style—and her life, she’d tell you. Today she wore a new multistriped, close-fitting cap, in the same bright hues as her silky tunic top.

Anastasia admired how Keicia could pull off a head-turning colorful look day after day. She herself felt average and boring—medium height; the right weight, except for maybe five pounds, all on her thighs, it seemed; middling brown hair, mixed with gray when she didn’t find time for a rinse. And today, solid-color pants, shirt, and sweater, in different shades of brown. Boring.