The Dead Romantics (58)

He used to spin those rings when he was anxious—especially the one on his thumb. My eyesight began to blur.

Alice shifted, tapping her foot on the ground. “Well?”

“Well what?”

“Does he look okay?” she burst out. It was only then I noticed the makeup kit on a rolling tray on the other side of her, concealer and eyeshadow and lipstick scattered across it. “Does he look like himself? I got his color right? It’s not too much?”

“He looks—” My voice caught in my throat, cracked at the edges. “Fine.”

Dad looked like I remembered, a too-still snapshot from my memories, and I curled my fingers into tight fists to keep myself from grabbing his shoulders, shaking him—asking him to wake up. It was the kind of prank he’d pull. Pretend to be dead. Then he’d sit up in the casket at his funeral with a “Surprise! I’m retiring!” but . . . that was the kind of happily ever after in my head. The kind that didn’t exist.

Because the longer I looked, the stiller he seemed. Frozen. Unmoving.

Dead.

Alice went on. “He had a lot of bruises from the hospital, but at least the tux jacket covers most of that, and his cheeks are a little sunken but—the wake’s tomorrow and I think he doesn’t look like himself at all so I keep checking the pictures. Is my memory of him already going or—”

“Alice,” I repeated. “He looks like Dad.”

She hesitated.

“Why would I lie to you? If he didn’t look like him, I’d tell you.”

“He doesn’t look too . . . Tony Soprano?”

“He loved Six Feet Under—”

“Florence!” Then, after a beat, “Those aren’t even the same shows!”

I rolled my eyes. “Dad looks great. Trust me, you’re good at what you do. Better than Dad, even.”

That, at least, made her a little calmer. “I can never be better than Dad,” she said and crossed her arms tightly over her chest again. She shifted her weight between one foot and the other, staring down at our father. I never could have done what she did. I couldn’t even look at Dad for very long before I burst into tears, so I decided to leave that spectacle for tomorrow.

I’d already cried more times than I could count this week—if I kept this up, I’d die of dehydration myself.

Instead, I bumped my shoulder with Alice’s. “C’mon,” I prodded gently, “you’re done. Dad looks great. Pop him back in the fridge and go watch some anime or something.”

She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling. “Dad used to say that. ‘Oh, just let me pop ’em back in the fridge! I’ll meet you up top’—god, Florence, I miss him.”

“I do, too.”

I waited for her to return Dad to one of the freezers before we climbed the steps together. Alice locked the basement behind us, and somehow I managed to convince Carver to take her to dinner. They invited me, but I wasn’t really hungry.

I made an excuse. “I’ve got work, sorry.” And it was only a half lie. “The obit won’t write itself.”

“It’s not supposed to be a book, Florence,” Alice said.

I gave her a polite smile. “It’s hard to find words sometimes.”

“If you need help . . .”

“No, I’m fine.”

And suddenly, the comradery we had in the basement melted and she rolled her eyes. “Whatever, just don’t be late on it,” she said, and went to go fetch Karen, Seaburn, and Mom from the kitchen. They decided—loudly—to go to Olive Garden. My family was a lot of weird things, but sometimes they were just predictable. And that was nice.

Carver put on his coat and began to button it up slowly. “You two okay? You and Al?”

“She didn’t snap my head off this time,” I replied. “Well, at least not until the end there.”

“Maybe after all of this, you two should have a talk.”

“Carver . . .”

He gave me a look. “Listen to your middlest brother for once.”

And the voice of reason. Somehow. The longer I stayed in Mairmont, the deeper the town burrowed into my skin. It was too small and too comfortable and too steeped in everything I loved about Dad. And my family. And why I left. It hurt just being here.

I said, “I will.”

He held up his hand, pinkie out. “Promise?”

“Promise,” I replied, hooking his pinkie, and he left with Alice and Karen and Seaburn out the door.

Mom lingered for a moment, slipping into her ancient faux mink coat. With it on she reminded me of Morticia Addams and Cruella de Vil and soft winter evenings in the funeral home, closing the curtains and turning out the lights. “Are you sure you don’t want to come eat, Florence?”

“The endless salad and breadsticks are tempting,” I replied. “How did the last two funerals go?”

“Without a hitch. Now all we have is the big one, and I think we’ll close for the rest of the week after that. Give us some time.”

The Days Gone Funeral Home never closed before. Not for snowstorms, or hurricanes, or floods.

It was fitting it took Dad’s death to shutter the doors for a few days.

“I think that’s a good idea,” I replied. “And thanks, but I sort of want to stay here for a while. I just want to . . . sit. In the quiet.”