Black Cat Weekly #76

Chapter 7-3

Anastasia started her warm-up. Loosen shoulders and arms; bend knees; up two, down two, up on toes. The fifteen-by-twenty-foot space in Marty’s house, in which one might expect living room furniture, was bare of everything except a CD player He swore he’d never give into music coming from “something that shouldn’t even be a telephone,” as he’d put it. Two walls were mirrored, one was covered with dance posters, the fourth had an enormous window onto tree-lined Hillegass Avenue in Berkeley’s Elmwood district. The floor was unwaxed, worn, and pitted from constant stomping, digging, and shuffling. The perfect practice room.

Loosen shoulders and arms; bend knees; up two, down two, up on toesAnastasia heard Marty’s teaching voice: Your body is a percussion instrument. Your body is the drum, you are the drummer. This is not ballet where you’re trying to fly; in tap you’re digging into the earth.

Your body is a percussion instrument. Your body is the drum, you are the drummer. This is not ballet where you’re trying to fly; in tap you’re digging into the earth.Not unlike her day job, Anastasia thought.

But a waltz clog routine turned her arms and legs fluid, her tension given over to “East Side, West Side,” until, halfway into it, her cell phone rang. Best case, Marty, she thought; worst case, Sonny.

Neither. It was Ed Curren, speaking with some urgency. “Stas, do you remember when you prepped Johnny Warner?”

“Of course, that was just yesterday,” she said, turning down the volume of her dance music. “He was scheduled for Parlor B this afternoon.”

“It ended up being moved to this evening. The family called and wanted to wait, and so I had to leave him to take care of other things, but I thought, no problem, right? Everything’s in order.” A big sigh from Ed as Anastasia waited for the point of the call. “The family’s in an uproar. They’ve been trying to reach me for a couple of hours, I guess. I had my cell off while I was…uh…”

“It’s okay, Ed. I don’t need to know.”

“They’re saying Johnny’s in the wrong suit.”

Anastasia plunked down on a blue chenille floor pillow, as if to cushion her surprise. “What? That can’t be.” She remembered dressing Johnny Warner, an old-timer who ran a barbershop in the Berkeley flats, in a brown suit and yellow shirt. “The bag was marked, Ed. There was a huge ‘WARNER’ along the side. I know, because I thought it was unusual to receive the clothes in a brown paper bag.”

“His wife says he’d never wear a yellow shirt and that jacket is way too small and not his.”

“I noticed it was small, but…”

“So, do you think you just switched a couple of deliveries? We’ve had quite a few clients in the last three days alone.”

“No way, Ed. The only other clothing delivered yesterday was a pink dress.” Anastasia knew she sounded defensive; she wasn’t used to having her work challenged. She paused a few seconds, calmed herself. “It wouldn’t be the first time a grieving family got a little confused.” Or tried to take their anger out on the mortuary staff, Anastasia thought. But that usually happened when the deceased met an especially tragic end or was “too young to die,” as they said. As if anyone was old enough to die.

Anastasia heard the click of Ed’s tongue against his teeth. “Want to know what I really think?” Ed asked. “I think Last Lights is pulling these stunts.”

Anastasia studied Eleanor Powell on a poster across the room. Black shorts, white tuxedo-style shirt, black vest. She itemized the outfit in her head as if she were dressing a client.

“How? How could they get in? Much as I’d like to be off the hook, Ed, I can’t see a guy like McLaughlin stooping to childish pranks.”

“They’ll do anything, Stas. They want Curren’s badly. First, our van goes to the wrong hospital for the Meyers girl’s removal, and now this? All of a sudden we’re getting sloppy? I don’t think so.” Ed gave a typical why me sigh. “Well, however it happened, do you think you could go over and re-dress Johnny? I’m personally going to the house to pick up his suit, and, you know, grovel and waive a couple of fees.”

why me“It’s ten o’clock on Saturday night, Ed.” As if I were busy.

“Marty’s out of town, isn’t he? Come on. I’ve got this hot little…”

Anastasia laughed. “I don’t want to hear it.” Good thing she liked her boss. Anastasia carried the phone to Marty’s CD player, ending “London Bridge is Falling Down” as she pushed the button. “I’m on my way.”

Anastasia parked her black late-model BMW in Curren’s small lot and entered by a back door. It wasn’t the first time Anastasia was alone in a funeral home late at night, but it always gave her a creepy feeling. She locked the door behind her immediately and turned on all the lights as she passed their switches.

Anastasia stopped first in Parlor B to see how Johnny was dressed, as if by some magic the yellow shirt had transformed itself into the old man’s real clothes. No such luck. Looking at him, she wondered how she ever thought Johnny looked right in the bright shirt and ill-fitting jacket. She’d been so proud of the great shave she’d given the former barber, she’d obviously been lax with the rest of the presentation.

The sounds and smells were different in the parlor rooms, where she rarely lingered. Somehow, Anastasia preferred the prep room odors of formaldehyde and various outgases to the heavy perfumes of the visiting parlors. The cool bay breezes freshened the air outside, but in Curren’s the air conditioner ran all night, year round. Without the background music piped in during the day, the noise of the compressor came through clearly, kicking on and off at intervals of a few minutes.

Anastasia gave a resigned sigh before diving into her work. Johnny Warner had been a big, heavy man, so Anastasia decided to leave him in his casket while she reclothed him. She considered re-dressing Johnny in the parlor, but it was too risky. There could be leaks onto the white satin lining, or spots that might need patching. She might as well be near her sink and tools so she could protect the casket before she changed Johnny’s clothes and be ready to deal with any problems that could occur with his body when she did it. She’d have to load the church truck into the elevator with Johnny on board and take it downstairs to the prep room.

After this twenty-minute exercise, she was ready to right the fashion wrong. She found a clear plastic suit bag hanging on the coat rack. The note pinned to it read, “WARNER CLOTHES–DO NOT USE IF SEAL IS BROKEN. HA HA.” More Ed Curren humor.

She lined the casket edges with cloth towels and pulled off the mystery clothes. She slit the new shirt and jacket up the back and folded the garments around Johnny’s torso, tucking the extra fabric loosely along the sides of the casket so he wouldn’t seem to be bursting out of his clothes. A final touch-up on Johnny’s face and Anastasia was finished.

Day’s work done, she thought ruefully, and it’s barely midnight. Anastasia made her way back upstairs with Johnny in his casket, shutting off the lights, leaving only small halogen nightlights in her wake. She flicked off the last switch and pulled open the back exit door.

A man stood on the threshold, one hand on the door, as if he’d been just about to enter. Ordinarily she’d have been frightened, but not tonight.

“Hey, hey, Rainbow, it’s just me,” said Raymond Franklin. Sonny, to his friends.

SonnyTonight she was simply annoyed.

Against her better judgment and promises to herself, Anastasia agreed to have a coffee with Sonny.

“How often am I in town?” he’d asked, then answered: “Once every couple of years. It won’t kill you.”

At least she’d held her ground on meeting at an all-night diner on Euclid Avenue, not in her Rockridge home as he’d suggested. He followed her Bimmer on his 1970 purple Triumph 500, the motorcycle they’d ridden across the country in her other life. Sonny was a genius at keeping it running. He’d bought it used and broken and expertly made successful adjustments with a couple of soda can pull tabs.

Even with his scraggly red-gray facial hair and an old Grateful Dead sweatshirt hanging off his bony frame, Sonny looked handsome as ever. And as irresponsible. “I’m a little short,” he whispered after they’d ordered lattes—decaf in deference to the hour. “Do you think you could pick up this tab?”

Anastasia folded her arms across her chest and sighed. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

He pointed to the case in front of the barista’s counter. “I could use one of those sandwiches too, if you don’t mind.” He patted his stomach. “I skipped lunch.”

Which was twelve hours ago, she noted. Nodding, she held back several sarcastic remarks that came to mind. Isn’t there a special welfare system for aging flower children? Or Gee, I wish we were still married so I could pay your way all the time. How quickly Sonny brought out the worst in her.

Isn’t there a special welfare system for aging flower children? Gee, I wish we were still married so I could pay your way all the time. “Thanks. You look great, Rainbow.”

“Absolutely no one calls me that anymore, Sonny. So what if we were born in the seventies? They’re over. Even the twentieth century is over.”

“Because you’ve lost touch with the good guys. You’re a big-time businesswoman now.”

“I’m an embalmer, not some tycoon. I provide a service to grieving families.” Why did she always go on the defensive with her ex?

Sonny leaned into her, his breath mouthwash sweet. Anastasia wondered what he was covering up.

“Right. And gas station attendants provide a service to needy drivers, who drive big cars, which keeps us dependent on foreign oil, which makes it necessary for young men to go to war.”

Now what? Should she correct him—men and women—or take apart his string of fallacious reasoning. This was too much like their brief marriage.

and women“Sonny, is there something you want out of this little visit? Other than a free meal while you’re passing through?”

Sonny shook his head and gave her a look of disappointment. “Don’t you remember when we had the dream, Rainbow? How we swore we’d never join the establishment, never be like our parents? I’ll bet you have cute little end tables with matching lamps next to a couch from Pottery Barn.”

Where to start? “First, it’s none of your business what my furniture is like. Second, we were kids, Sonny. Those parents that we didn’t want to be like were paying our tuition and our rent.”

“Oh, Rainbow…”

“You know what?” Anastasia downed her coffee and stood to leave. “We’ve had this conversation.” She turned quickly and left the diner.

She drove home clutching the wheel of her Bimmer. She knew lots of people like Sonny. Berkeley had more than its share of people who still wore tie-dye. Usually she accepted them for what they were. But Sonny could get to her. Was it because she thought he had a point?