Page 51 of Mourner for Hire
My excitement builds as I start piling up furniture and tearing up carpet in a frenzy. It’s dusty and chaotic. My tear marks are uneven, and I wish I had a box cutter to cut the seams to make it easier to roll, but I keep going.
By the time it’s up, I’m sweaty, dirty, and hunting in the shed on the back of the cottage for a hammer to pull up the warped carpet strips.
Still in my T-shirt and slippers, I start piling the carpet, tackstrips, and forty-year-old linoleum in a pile out front. I make a note on the whiteboard to call and order a dumpster.
I tore the place apart in a matter of hours, but I can feel the tide of something pretty arriving.
This place is going to be gorgeous.
To celebrate, I decide to shower and throw on a sundress and head down to the festival. I deserve a drink.
SEVENTEEN
DOMINIC
“Dominic,it’s so good to see you out and about!” Marylou remarks as I pour her a pale ale from the draft in the beer garden.
“It’s the annual Apple Festival, Marylou. You know I wouldn’t miss it,” I say with a smile, sliding the mug over the plywood bar top.
She smiles at me with her bright red lips that match the red headband in her gray hair. “Your mama would be proud. You know she loved this festival.”
“I do know that.” I nod and fill another glass for her husband, Bernie. He’s all overalls and flannels.
“Now, Marylou, don’t go fishing to make the boy cry now,” he says.
“I’m not fishing. I’m just saying she’d be proud. She loved her boy, even if?—”
Bernie hushes her, and her cheeks flame.
I clear my throat loudly and slide Bernie the beer. “It’s all right. You know how Mom was always plotting.”
Marylou hoots out a laugh. “She sure did! You remember when she dated the owner of Al’s Market just to tell him she preferred The Mix Salsa to Pace and he switched out the entire store just so she could always have access to the salsa she liked.”
“Or when she ran for city council just to steal votes from Bob so her friend, Angelica, would win,” Bernie adds.
I sort of laugh, but it’s more of a breath through my nose. “She was weird that way.”
“The best kind of weird.”
“She loved life like no one I knew,” Marylou says and smiles softly. She reaches out and squeezes my arm, tears in her eyes.
“She did,” I respond, though I’m halfway annoyed.
That’s when I see her walking into the festival in a rust-colored sundress and a smile on her face that makes me feel crazy.
If she’s just here to work and fulfill my mother’s wishes, then why is shehere? This is a town tradition. This is for port locals. This is not for the devil passing through in a sundress.
“Oh, have you met your mom’s friend yet?” Marylou beams. “She has roots here, but I suppose she doesn’t consider herself from here. Gosh, that was so long ago. Wasn’t it, Bernie? Her mama was sweet as pie, but that daddy of hers was a dirty old bastard—stole her away from this life.”
“Friends come and go. They weren’t all that important,” I say shortly, though the wheels in my mind are turning incessantly.
Her brow twists, and her cherry-colored lips purse. “Oh, honey, you can tell yourself that. But don’t you let it bother you like this. She’s good people. I think having someone here to physically sort through the grief will be helpful.”
My jaw tightens at her babbling. I do my best not to respond, but Marylou doesn’t stop talking until she’s finished, no matter what kind of social cues she receives.
“You know no one tells you that: that the stuff our loved ones leave behind can feel like they’ve died all over again with each piece of clothing you sort through.” She hums thoughtfully, and I nearly crack a tooth the longer she speaks, I’m clenching so hard. “It might be nice to have someone more unattached help you. Think about it. She’s a professional.”
“She’s not a professional. She’s a fraud,” I snap.
