The Undertaker's Daughter (Ilka #1)(30)

Ilka froze. Seeing them lying there felt like a punch to the gut. Loneliness and solidarity. Together they had left the world behind. She felt Artie’s eyes on her, aware that he was giving her a minute. The sight must also have hit him hard.

She nodded and joined him as he squatted down to turn McKenna over. Standing over the body, Ilka realized her anxiety had disappeared. Sure, it stank in there, and he was bloated, his skin was gray, but she’d thought it would be worse.

They carried the stretcher over and pulled the wheels up so it lay on the floor beside him. “You take hold of his legs; I’ll grab his shoulders,” Artie said. He was on his knees, ready to go.

Ilka leaned down and gripped the back of his knees.

“Get a good hold on him; he’ll be middle-heavy when we lift him,” Artie said. He counted to three. “Kneel down and lift with your legs. Tighten your stomach muscles; careful with your back.”

Ilka concentrated on lifting and moving him slowly, not looking at him until he was on the stretcher. The skin on the left side of his face was missing. The exposed muscle was dark, but in one spot his cheekbone was visible.

“Might be insects,” Artie said as they strapped the body down. “We’ll come back for the dog.”

Ilka nodded. She felt so sad it had taken so long to discover Ed McKenna was dead. That no one had missed him. Except his dog. They carried him slowly down the steps, Artie in front, Ilka leaning over a bit to level out the stretcher. The couple had returned to their apartment, but now they came out. “What about everything up there?” the man asked.

Artie shrugged and said they would have to contact the police, to hear if he had any relatives.

“He does; Ed has a daughter,” the woman said from behind her husband.

“But you haven’t contacted her?”

The couple looked at each other before shaking their heads. “Matter of fact, we haven’t. We should have, of course we should, but coming home and finding him like this, it shocked us. We called the police at once.”

“We don’t have her number, either,” the man added. “She lives somewhere over in upstate New York, but I don’t know where.”

“Most likely the police have found her; she’s probably on her way. Or she’ll show up in the morning.” Artie was reassuring them; Ilka was very surprised he’d shaken off the drinking and sex and was acting as if he’d just been sitting around, waiting to be called to take care of Ed McKenna. “We’ll also speak with his family. They may want him buried closer to them.”

He pushed the stretcher into the car and told Ilka to get in, that he would get the dog.

She nodded. Though it hadn’t been as bad as she had feared, she was relieved to not have to go back up there. She watched him come down with the dog, which he’d packed in a sheet. He slammed the rear door.

“Okay, we’ll drive back and get him and the dog taken care of, and then I’d appreciate you driving me home. You mind if I roll down the window and smoke a cigarette?”

She shook her head and held her fingers out toward him in a V.

He looked questioningly at her; then he tapped an extra cigarette out of the pack. They smoked in silence as Ilka drove back to the funeral home. After she tossed the butt out the window, she held her hand out, asking for another.

She couldn’t stop thinking about McKenna and the dog. The loneliness. She chain-smoked three of Artie’s cigarettes before reaching the funeral home.





12



Ilka dropped Artie off and finally arrived home just before midnight.

She left the engine running as she got out and punched in the code to open the garage door. The cat appeared and snaked around her legs as she walked back. Gently she pushed the cat away, got in behind the wheel, and maneuvered the big, klutzy vehicle into the garage. The cat was right there when she shut off the engine and stepped out.

“Okay, okay,” she muttered as she closed the garage door and yawned. She called the cat to follow her through the garage and into the passageway. Then she went into the kitchen for the rest of the grilled fish.

She made small talk to herself as she walked; she knew she would fall asleep if she didn’t keep moving. Mumbling helped her cope with the deep stillness of the funeral home. And the darkness.

She laid the fish on a small plate and opened the door to the carport just outside. “Dinnertime, kitty,” she called. The cat hopped up on its hind legs before she could set the plate down. “You’re a hungry little thing, aren’t you?”

She shook her head at herself and let the cat do what cats do. She walked upstairs. The sacks full of her father’s clothes and shoes were gone; Sister Eileen must have taken them. Ilka liked the idea of his clothes having a new life somewhere else, worn by people unaware that the dark suits had been a funeral home director’s uniform.

The burritos on the desk were still unopened, but she was too tired to care about food.



Ilka had also been too exhausted to pull the curtains before collapsing on the bed. It was still dark outside when she woke up. She lay there listening, disoriented and unsure of what had woken her. A thud from something falling. Or was it a door slammed shut? She concentrated as she lay staring up into the dark, trying to isolate the sound, but now everything was silent. She’d just closed her eyes when she heard it again. And again. Had she forgotten to close the door after feeding the cat?