The Morbid and Sultry Tales of Genevieve Clare (8 page)

The wind had picked up. When he’d driven through town, he watched the kids in flowing capes and masks held tight to them with their one free hand, the other held by an adult, gripping the bounty they’d collected from trick-or-treating.

He assumed that Gen would have gone out. He knew the exact day he lost his mom and his dad, but he never did anything different, with the exception of buying a nicer bottle of whiskey. He was right next to the house, but his heart sank when not a single light was on within the old Victorian at Eden Hills. Across to the cemetery, the outlines of headstones in the shadows, a candle flickered through red glass. He was glad for the wind. The noise it created drowned his footfalls as leaves crunched beneath him.

And there, at the graves of her family, she poured three glasses of whiskey and began to sing happy birthday to herself. God, how his heart ached for her. Her birthday. The week of their funeral, no one ever mentioned it. He somehow knew this was how she spent all her holidays, the exact same way he spent his. Invitations would be extended to her from everyone in town, he was sure of it. He watched for at least two hours as she talked to them, wiped her face, and drank herself toward slumber. Finally, she set the bottle to the side, laid a kiss on her fingertips then touched them to each of their graves.

When he knew she was up in her attic bedroom, and the candle had finally burnt itself out, Ahren went to the graves and made a promise he hoped like hell he’d be able to keep.

“I’ll take care of her.”

When he first began to sit with his parents and drink, he, too, would lay glasses and pour them whiskey. But one time, when he’d fallen asleep in the cemetery only to wake to the sound of sprinklers, he saw that those glasses were still full. It was a pain he couldn’t bear. He knew they weren’t coming back, and even if they did, how in the fuck was a ghost meant to drink? The fact that they couldn’t, never would again share a drink with him, especially his dad, just opened that wound over and over again. From that day on, he stopped bringing the glasses.

So he crouched down and lifted the first glass. “Granny Clare,” and drank it down. Then to the second, “Mrs. Clare.” And last, “Robert, we’ll get it right this time.” And with that last drink, he prayed that Gen would discover those glasses empty, and, for a brief moment, the hole he knew was inside of her, too, wouldn’t ache quite so much. 

“You be careful.” This was my cab driver, Jimmy Hazzard.

“I will, as always. Thanks Jimmy. I’ll see ya soon.”

I was dressed in my work attire, the same exact outfit I’d worn to my parents’ and Gran’s funeral. The only things that had changed over the years were my footwear and sunglasses. Oh, and a kickass little brooch.

I approached the service with a black clutch tucked under my arm while I dabbed my eyes with a handkerchief. If I had to summon tears, they were never far away and could be called to duty in an instant. I was pleased to see my timing was perfect. The priest was saying goodbye to an older woman…the deceased’s mother. When she was far enough away, I looked for a clear path to my destination: left, right, left, watch for the lowering device. I’d tripped on those nylon straps twice and thought it was only a matter of time before I went head first into an open grave.

The widow—Cathy—was really putting on a show. If a funeral was a game of poker, I would win every single hand. Funerals had “tells.” I knew when someone was faking their grief. I knew if the deceased was well-liked. And I knew, without a doubt, that the woman wearing a hat large enough to rival sombreros the world over was not going to miss her husband at all. She was also glaring at her stepdaughters who were sitting on the opposite side of the coffin. They were smiling in my direction.

I started out slow, with a soft sob. Then I dragged one leather-gloved finger along the length of the casket. I leaned down to smell the red roses in the arrangement, exposing the top of my back-seamed stockings. And, as I lifted my head and pursued the crowd, I saw that the widow Cathy was staring daggers into me.

Excellent.

She moved to my side, all eyes on the two of us, and demanded, “Who are you?”

I took a dramatic, shaky breath and replied wistfully, “He was a wonderful man, wasn’t he?”

“I asked, who are you?” Her patience was not just slipping, it was gone.

“He was so, so special.” I leaned down and put my head to the coffin and let out a moan. “And such a great lover.”

The woman who hired me didn’t want to slander her ex-husband’s reputation. Not really. But she wanted her girls to feel a sense of justice. They never went into great detail, but I could tell when someone was an evil bitch, and this woman wasn’t grieving over her dead husband; she was worried about sharing the insurance money with his children.

“I don’t see how you could know,” she snapped. “I’ve been with John for seven years. He would never, ever sleep around on me, and certainly not with someone like you!”

Game on.

Round one: Condescension and pity.

“Oh,” I said softly. “You poor thing, you never had a clue.”

Rachel, her two girls, and their aunt stood, along with everyone else, because when a chick fight was about to break out, you needed to get in quick to see all the action. I’d never had a physical altercation in my life. I had been chased quite a few times. And I was hit in the head with a pump which I suppose if you wanted to get technical was a physical altercation. That was why I always tried to ensure I had a clear exit route. I could run a marathon in heels, but most women couldn’t, which gave me the advantage of a quick getaway.

Round two: Sow the seed of doubt.

“I didn’t even know he was ill,” I said in a croaky voice. “Of course, we never did much talking.”

Seething. Visibly.

Round three: Death blow and exit.

I had yet to scream like a banshee, but I was certainly fulfilling the humiliate-the-widow part of my contract. The banshee would come into play when Cathy the Claw grabbed her closest weapon – the spray of roses – and thrashed my face with them. I was trying to find my exit route and, at the same time, protect my hat. I knew Rocky could repair anything, but that wasn’t the point. Gran’s vintage pillbox had seen a lot of mileage and was still in perfect shape. As I pushed myself away from her, she used the casket as leverage, and everyone gasped when it slipped to the side. If the casket popped open, I probably would not get paid. I had to get out of there, but since I knew Cathy was a faker, and she was still trying to get at me, I turned around and yelled, “He said that, next to his first wife, I was the best he ever had, bitch.” This was not normal behavior for me, and I wasn’t sure what took over. It wasn’t as if I made a point of getting into it with grieving widows. But I just knew, deep down, that this woman had done something to those girls, and whatever it was had gone unpunished.

The daughters were now standing up in their plastic chairs. I had yelled, pissed off and embarrassed the widow. Now, I really had to get out of there. But her hand, meant for my hat, raked long, red fingernails across my cheek. Everyone gasped again as I held my face, blood dripping down my jaw and neck. Rachel and her girls swooped in to comfort me as her daughter, Emma, said, “You should be ashamed of yourself, Cathy.” She wasn’t though, she was defiant.

“Oh, shut up, you little bitch. Your dad always took your lying, conniving side.” Then she whispered, and I heard it as well as my client, their mother. “But I took care of that, didn’t I?”

It was then, with a crowd gathered around us, the priest standing behind the widow Cathy, my client stepped forward and allowed the girls and their aunt to pull me to the back.

I said quickly to the one called Emma, “I’m sorry you lost your dad.”

“We lost him as soon as she got him. But thanks, and thanks for today. Everyone’ll know what they always suspected, that she’s a psychopathic bitch.” Then she smiled at me.

“I better go before she rips me to shreds. Take care, hon.”

And just as I quickly walked away from the edge of the crowd, I turned to witness my client, Rachel, slap Cathy right across the face, with the crowd clearly standing behind her.

Behind the crematory sat my waiting cab. Jimmy would now drive me to my car, which I always left at Denny’s. The waitresses knew me, and I’d made a deal with the manager: let me leave my car there and I’d always have pie. Or a waffle. Maybe a hot fudge sundae if the mood hit me.

“Damn girl. What happened this time?” Just because I hadn’t been struck before didn’t mean I hadn’t been attacked. I was once hired by “the other woman” and my presence as the other other-woman caused the widow to chase me, screaming across the vast expanse of manicured lawn and flat grave markers. I dared to look behind me to see that she had fallen, surrounded by friends and family. Throughout my “performance” that day, the eyes on me were filled with silent hate. The actual mistress wanted to attend his funeral, but no one knew who she was, and she wanted to keep it that way.

“He made promises,” she’d told me. “He said he would leave her a thousand times.” Obviously, that never happened. The wife had suspected and threatened suicide if he left. “She trapped him with her silly threats.”

Even though I didn’t judge, after that experience, I tried to stay clear of ever taking on “the other woman” as a client.

I opened my larger bag I kept in the cab and pulled out a mirrored compact and tissues. “Jesus. She really got those suckers in there. I hope it doesn’t scar.”

“I thought chicks liked scars,” he mused.

“They like them on guys. On a woman, it looks like I was attacked by a mountain lion.”

“Or an angry wife,” he commented pointedly. As we drove in silence to the top of the cemetery, Jimmy laid some wisdom on me. He knew he had all of half an hour for these chats, and he never missed the opportunity. “Gen-girl?”

I smiled warmly at hearing his words. It wasn’t just the sweet nickname he’d given me, it was the way he said it. And it killed me, just a little bit, when he did, because Jimmy reminded me so much of my dad. Not in looks; dad was fair with clean-cut looks and dark brown hair. Jimmy had a beard and handlebar moustache he waxed with great pride.

“I’ve been driving you here for how long now?”

“A few years?” I guessed.

“Five. Five years. You know all about my wife. You know about my son. What I wanna know is somethin’ about you. Starting with, why you do this job?”

He stopped the car at the edge of the slope and turned to look at me in the back seat. I put away my mirror, settled my sunglasses on my damaged face, and took the two boxed bouquets of pink and yellow roses from the seat beside me.

Then I silently exited the car.

I walked across the grass, far from the other side of the cemetery where I’d just been. The fog was rolling across The City, just beginning to cover the Golden Gate Bridge in front of me, Mt. Tam behind me. It was incredibly beautiful. “You picked a great spot, Adam.” I set his box of yellow roses down first. “Hi, Aine. I got you pink this time. I was going to do a harvest theme, but the florist was in a big rush today. Anyway, how’s the afterlife? Good, I hope.” My conversations with my own family went a lot like this. “Listen, I know it’s not my place, I have no right to ask, but I hope you’re looking after him.” I laid a kiss to each of their markers, my stockinged knees in the grass. “See you next time I’m in the area.” I was just getting ready to go when I felt a breeze pick up. “Trying to tell me something?” I asked through a small giggle. “I miss him. Every day,” I whispered. I stood there for a moment, taking in my surroundings one final time. “We’ll chat more soon. Bye.”

When I was back in the cab, Jimmy drove us in silence on the way to Denny’s. When we were there, I asked, “Jimmy, what do you have planned now?”

“Nothin’. I don’t call back in when I do a job for you. I wait, read, talk to my kid in Texas if he’s free.”

“Would you like to join me for pie and coffee?”

He slid the taxi into the space next to mine, parked the car, and smiled. “I’d love some pie, Gen-girl.”

Jimmy ordered a full breakfast, and the smell of fried food hit me in my central hunger region. So, I ordered scrambled eggs, bacon, and a waffle.

That didn’t mean there wasn’t room for pie.

“I love watchin’ a woman eat real food,” he said with humor in his voice.

“I love pie,” I returned. “In fact, cake is my absolute favorite, but the cake here…eh… not so great. I have a wonderful bakery near me, and I always bring cake to my clients.” This was it, I was going to tell Jimmy exactly what I do and why I do it. Mostly because he was the first person to really ask.

“Gen-girl, I didn’t mean to get personal with you before. I don’t expect you to tell me your business. I was just trying to tell you, I’m here to listen if you need an ear.”

I sipped my coffee and delighted in the fact our waitress was attentive with her refill duties. Then, Jimmy “Hazz” Hazzard became my friend.

“I lost my family on my birthday. Ten years ago. My parents and my grandmother. They were coming to pick me up and take me out to dinner and were rear-ended. Granny died on impact, neck snapped. Mom and Dad were both ejected from the car through the windshield. They think she was dead before she hit the pavement, but Dad was alive long enough for me to say goodbye. They were all I had.” I took a breath, trying to control the tears that were sitting right there in my throat.