Page 2 of Mourner for Hire
“Mrs. Elling? There’s no way.”
The man’s hushed whisper isn’t hushed enough, and the row behind us seems to have their interest piqued because a young woman leans forward and says, “I always thought Pastor Ed was too fond of her. I’d be dropping off the church’s tithing report before I left the church office, and she’d be in there ‘discussing the choir and the hymn list for service the next Sunday.’” She rolls her eyes.
I smirk. I chose my seat well.
“No, no. Hope would never!” the woman next to me whisper-shouts.
Someone hushes her, and “On Eagle’s Wings”continues to blare through the sanctuary.
When the grieving widow finally finishes the endlesshymn, Pastor Ed rises and meets her on the stage. The microphone is turned off, there’s a soft hug of condolence, and Mrs. Elling finds her place in the front row.
Pastor Ed opens in prayer and begins reading a never-ending eulogy. Even the more emotional attendants in the congregation seem to grow restless.
“Jeremiah was a good man. He worked hard and loved his family fiercely. He did God, the church, and this world an honor.” He inhales sharply and descends the steps of the stage, closer and closer to Mrs. Elling.
I search his hands for a folded flag or an overlooked memento I may have forgotten in my notes when discussing the details of this procession with Jeremiah. But I see nothing. He moves closer to Jeremiah’s widow, hand in his pocket. Curiosity gets the better of me and I crane my neck to see what he’s doing.
“He had the kind of personality that made you feel like you would never be alone,” the pastor continues. “And I don’t think he would ever want you to be alone, Hope.”
The pastor drops on a knee.
My eyes bulge. Wait, is he about to…
The congregation collectively inhales, withholding outrage.
“Will you marry me?”
A whimper, a nod, and she’s in his arms. I’ve never been married, but even at the tender age of twenty-nine, I know this proposal is shameless at best and heartless at worst.
Even still, a slow clap descends over the crowd. And with it, I understand Jeremiah’s third request.
After I draw attention to myself in subtle ways, spread the rumor, and then, when the time is right, I am to stand up and say, “Jeremiah just turned in his grave!”
Every head turns to face me as I utter the words. Some smiling, though most are shocked. My gaze stays trained on Hope Elling.
“Ushers, please remove the disruption,” Pastor Ed says.
But the two men don’t even reach me before I slip out of the pew on the outside of the sanctuary. My job is done.
I wink at Jeremiah’s brother—executor of his will—and he offers a nod, slipping his phone from his pocket. As I make my escape past the stained glass windows, through the heavy wooden doors, and down the rain-slicked steps, my phone vibrates.
I tear off my mourning veil and toss it onto the passenger seat before slipping into my car. As I peel out of the parking lot, my phone vibrates again. I glance at the screen.
Thank you.
Transfer initiated.
I whisper a thank you to Jeremiah and then an apology. It doesn’t matter if he’s dead or alive, whether or not you believe in Heaven or Hell. The immorality of the pastor proposing to the widow who is still fresh with death is unconscionable. She was at his bedside in the hospital not even a week ago—I’m sure the hospital stench is still fresh in her nostrils and his medications still litter the counters of her home.
One thousand dollars is not a lot of money, depending on who’s holding the cash, but I’m willing to bet it’s a small price for Jeremiah to pay to plague his widow with guilt until it’s her turn to lie down in a coffin.
Death is a bitch, but it pays the bills.
My right foot turns to lead the second I hit the freeway. I let out a laugh at the absurdity of the entire situation, turn up the radio, and then head southwest for my two-hour drive.
I have another pre-death meeting to attend.
TWO
