Marcia believed she was merely acknowledging a fact of her existence, no more or less important than the fact that she had two feet. She felt no special tingle of vanity. She had grown accustomed to living with the knowledge.
She did little to enhance her good looks. She disdained makeup. Her black hair was long and straight, parted simply in the middle, and she wore whatever seemed comfortable. Nora Curtis, who never failed to pass along unkindly remarks, and who normally bedizened herself like the Queen of the Gypsies from a creaky old operetta, said that Marcia’s neighbors slightingly referred to her as “the local beatnik.”
It didn’t matter. After all she’d been through in her life, the opinions of her neighbors didn’t mean much. Security was the only thing that really mattered: security for herself and her children.
The telephone interrupted her thoughts.
“Banner, Mrs. Creighton.”
“This is Joe Reilly again. Can I give you that obit, please, without talking to that other guy?”
If she kept her unthinking promise to Ron, she would only prolong her stay. She lowered her voice and said, “Sure, I guess. Only…well, I’m kind of curious about it myself now.”
“Being a funeral director isn’t easy, Mrs. Creighton. Some people don’t realize there are some things you just don’t make jokes about. Not that I mind; nothing bothers me, I’ve heard it all. I got all that nonsense out of my system when I was studying for my profession. But to the people, the bereaved relatives, nothing could be crueler than having fun at their expense. Do you follow me? I’ve got to protect their feelings and maintain what you might call the proper image of my profession. A story like that, you put it in the newspaper, it might be good for a laugh to some sick people, but it’s going to cause grief elsewhere, and minimizing grief, well, that’s what my life’s work is all about. Do you follow me?”
“Well, yes, but I don’t know what the…Ah.… incident was that you’re referring to.”
“There wasn’t any incident. One of my assistants, a young fellow just out of school…maybe he was drinking, I don’t know. I hope not. I’m a fair man; I’ve given him another chance. What bothers me is he told somebody about it and it got back to your friend there. This is all off the record, isn’t it?”
Marcia restrained her exasperation. He hadn’t told her a thing, on or off the record. Maybe Ron Green would get around to telling her. It didn’t matter. Time was passing, and she wanted to finish up and go home.
“Of course,” she said. “I’ll take the obit now.”
It was after ten when Marcia had finished her story about the Planning Board. She put her copy in Higgins’s in basket and returned to her desk to straighten it up. Ron Green was sitting on the edge of her desk. He was apparently in a mood to talk now.
“Let’s go have a drink,” he said.
She was mildly surprised, and that made her delay a refusal that should have been automatic. “Thanks, but I have to get home. I’m late already.”
“Don’t you ever relax?”
It was an odd question, since she had so recently been wondering the same thing about him. “Of course,” she said a little stiffly. “But I don’t drink.”
“And you don’t smoke and you don’t swear. That’s what fascinates me about you. Did anybody ever tell you that you look like a witch?”
“No.”
“I don’t mean the Wicked Witch of the West, with the crooked nose and all, I mean a cute Hollywood version of a witch. Black hair and high cheekbones and hollow eyes. And a widow’s peak. You could bewitch me anytime.”
“I just want to go home to my husband and my kiddies, Ron. You’ll have to find somebody else to bewitch you.”
“That’s always the story,” he sighed.
He was flustering her. She didn’t find him at all attractive, but it had been a long time since any man had turned such determined, concentrated attention on her. Coming from Ron Green, it was doubly surprising, as if the water cooler had made a pass at her.
She tried to change the subject. “What were you bugging Joe Reilly about? That sounded kind of interesting, what I heard of it.”
“I figured a witch would be interested. Maybe you’ve got some competition in town. Unless you’re responsible. Have you been going around raising the dead lately?”
“Are you going to answer my question, or are you just going to keep being silly?” she said firmly. She slung her bag to her shoulder, making it clear she planned to leave.
“I couldn’t check it out. What we’d be doing if we printed it, we’d just be making this guy at the funeral home look like an asshole, that’s all.”
She tried not to betray her feelings at his choice of words. If she did, his language would get even worse.
“Anyway,” he continued, “the way I heard it, this assistant was working alone there last night at Reilly’s. He had drained all the blood out of a stiff and was getting set to pump it full of formaldehyde when it got up to take a stroll. It was a guy who’d been in an auto accident, and he wasn’t much to look at, so I guess it was what you would call unnerving. So the stiff gets to the door, maybe ten feet away, and then collapses. The guy who saw it, just a kid actually, he shits his pants and goes running for a cop. The cop sees the corpse laying by the door, but of course he doesn’t see how it got there, and what’s he going to do, arrest it? So he helps the kid dump it on the table and stays there holding his hand while he finishes the work. That’s all there is to it.”
Fascinated against her will, Marcia had sat down at her desk again. “Are they sure he was dead?” she asked.
“Oh, hell, yes. If he wasn’t dead from the accident, he was dead by the time the undertaker pumped him out. But there was no question about it, because the ME said the steering column got him right in the heart. I was just talking to the Medical Examiner and he said he’s heard of some pretty bizarre muscular spasms some time after death, but this takes the cake. He didn’t come right out and say it was impossible, though. I think it’s a cute story. But now the assistant won’t talk, and the cop don’t know nothing, and Reilly says he’ll sue us if we print it. Fuck it. Tomorrow a man will bite a dog, mark my words. How about that drink?”
“Thanks again, but no again. I have to get home.”
“Listen, kiddo,” he called after her as she walked to the door. “Some day Robert Redford is going to play me in the movies, and if he asked you for a drink, you’d go. So why not grab the real thing while you got the chance?”
CHAPTER THREE
As Marcia walked across the darkened parking lot behind the Banner, she was annoyed to discover that Ron Green’s story had done unpleasant things to her nerves. She found herself listening for footsteps and straining her eyes to penetrate the more suspicious-looking shadows.
She told herself firmly that she was too old to be scared by silly ghost stories. Besides, she’d once had a real ghost in her own house, and she’d lived through that ordeal without becoming demoralized. Compared to that, Ron’s story was insignificant, a mere medical anomaly. It was more
