Don't Hate the Player...Hate the Game(10)

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked.

“You know.”

I raised my eyebrows. “Um, no I don’t, so why don’t you give me a hint or something.”

She sighed. “I know I’m not part of the in-crowd or one of Jake’s usual conquests. And I’m sure you don’t know how it’s possible for someone like Jake to have given someone like me the time of day, but he did. He was always a sweet and perfect gentleman to me.”

I thought about the way she’d been crying at Jake’s house. She’d really cared about him. “I’m sorry. I really don’t think that, I promise. Jake was…complicated. Even our friendship was complicated sometimes,” I said.

Maddie looked at me in surprise. “Yeah, I guess he was a little complicated,” she agreed, softly.

She didn’t say anything else, and thankfully, we pulled into the parking lot of Whitfield Funeral Home.

When we got to the door, I balked. The last time I’d been there was when my grandfather had died. Suddenly, my mind tripped out, and I was flooded with memories. I was afraid the moment I opened that door, I would smell the sickening sweet aroma of funeral flowers. Worst of all, I would see my grandfather’s chalky dead face the way it had looked the last time I’d seen him in the casket.

Maddie turned back to me in confusion. “Are you okay?” she asked.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” I muttered.

Her face flooded with concern. She reached out and touched my arm. “Oh, I’m sorry. If I’d known you had some sorta phobia about funeral homes, you could’ve waited in the car.”

Okay, I didn’t the like the way she was able to see through me so well. There were only two women in the world who could do that, my mom and my Grammy. I quickly got a hold of myself. “I don’t have a phobia, Dr. Phil.”

Maddie raised her eyebrows. “Well, by the look on your face and your tone, one could only assume you have some sort of fear. If you do, it’s perfectly fine because-”

“Don’t you know what they say about making assumptions?”

“Um no.”

“It makes an ass out of you and me!” I snapped.

By the look on her face, I knew I’d gone too far. I sighed. “Look, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that-”

She interrupted me by holding out her hand. “Pay up.”

“Excuse me?”

“I have this thing about people cussing in my presence. It’s disrespectful, and I think it reflects on one’s lack of vocabulary. So I’ve started this thing called a ‘Cuss Can’. You cuss around me, and you have to put a quarter in the can. All the proceeds go to the mission work at my dad’s church.”

My jaw dropped. “You’re shitting me, right?”

“Now you owe me fifty cents.”

I stared at her in disbelief. I didn’t know who the hell she thought she was standing before me demanding money simply for cussing. What planet was she on?

“Listen Miss Priss, I’m not paying you a damn thing.”

Maddie didn’t miss a beat. “Seventy-five.”

When I still stood there gaping at her, she simply cocked her head. “Not man enough to pay up?”

For reasons unknown to me, I reached in my back pocket and pulled out a dollar bill. “Now let’s just get something straight. Nobody tells me what I can or can’t do, you got that?”

She eyed the one dollar bill and then looked back at me. “Need change?” she asked, clearly fighting back her laughter.

“Keep it,” I grumbled.

We were interrupted by Mr. Whitfield opening the door. “Can I help you?”

Maddie smiled. “Yes Mr. Whitfield, my father wanted me to drop off his sermon for tomorrow, and we also need to drop off some personal effects of Jake Nelson’s.”

Mr. Whitfield returned Maddie’s smile and opened the door for us. “Please come right on in.”

The funeral home was silent. Dead silent in fact. The last few times I’d been there I guess they’d been at capacity with relatives and friends hanging all over the place. The hallways were dark and empty. “Where’s the other family?” I whispered to Maddie.

Before she could answer, Mr. Whitfield answered for her. “Mr. St. Clare’s family isn’t doing visitation. Just simply a funeral tomorrow, which I think will be better in the long run. I imagine we will be at full capacity at the visitation tomorrow evening with all of Jake’s friends and family.”

I nodded. He ushered us into his office. “Please have a seat.”

Maddie and I sat down in the leather studded chairs in front of his desk. “Now let me see. Why don’t I take care of Mr. St. Clare’s eulogy first?” He held out his hand, and Maddie handed him the envelope.

As he was shuffling through some paperwork, one of his workers strolled into the office with a white box in his hands. “Hey Bill, I got a call to head over to Memorial Hospital. Some tractor trailer jackknifed—looks like we’re getting two from the accident,” he said.

Mr. Whitfield glanced up from his paperwork. “All right, Ed. I’ll expect you back later then.”

“Oh, by the way, Paul just got back from the crematorium. Here’s the Nelson kid.” Ed plopped the box down on the edge of the desk and then headed out of the room.