Page 1 of Mourner for Hire
ONE
VADA
The sweatfrom my fingertips soaks into the black ink of the funeral program in my hands.
Jeremiah Elling.
He told me once that if laughter really was the best medicine, he should’ve been cured by now. I let myself smile, just for a second, remembering the man who hired me. He had a good soul. May he rest in peace. And may I get on with what he paid me for.
The church is silent except for stifled cries and sniffling while the organist adjusts her sheet music. I strategically tap my foot against the parquet floors. Thetap-tapechoes in the awkward silence, amplifying the sounds of my purposeful fidgeting. The heads of at least five sympathetic vultures sitting in the pews around me swivel in my direction.
Their eyes land on me just as I intended. I walk into every funeral with a checklist—it’s my job to have a plan and execute it accordingly.
Draw attention to yourself.
Trust me,he said.That church is tight-knit enough that they’ll recognize an outsider instantly.
I tap my foot a little louder, making the couple down the pew shoot daggers at me with their eyes.How rude! How inappropriate!
Yes, exactly. Every part of my plan is falling into place.
The new widow clears her throat and wipes her cheeks—funny since there are no tears on her face. She apologizes into the microphone on stage loud enough to make the speakers squeak and the congregation plug their ears and gasp.
The thunderous notes of the organ begin to play, and the widow takes a moment to compose herself.
I clear my throat and the couple next to me turns their heads again. The woman in the pair whispers something I’m certain is along the lines of, “Who even is she?”
Yes, who even am I?
I am many things. I am stale church cookies and bitter coffee in the church foyer at a funeral. I am a mystery on the hill next to a headstone, a black veil, a broken urn, and a rose on a casket. I am an untold story from beyond the grave and a distraction for the living. I am the final word and a promise kept. I am hushed whispers over a crowd, a delicate secret revealed, and the final nail in the coffin. I am whatever I’m asked to be.
My name is Vada Daughtry, and I am a mourner for hire.
Today, my job is to attend the funeral of Jeremiah Elling. He passed away after a five-year battle with ALS. He was hilarious with bright brown eyes and an obnoxiously positive attitude that would have been annoying if he didn’t seem so genuine.
Jeremiah Elling hired me when he started losing fine motor function. His words slurred, sentences coming in fragments, each one an effort. I could tell it took everything in him to speak. So much so that it seemed painful, which is a shame because I wanted to hear everything he had to say. He was married for fourteen years to the love of his life and fathered two children.
At least on paper.
He long suspected his wife—the very woman choking back dry tears and telling the organ player to give her a few moremoments to collect herself before she begins to sing—was having an affair with the pastor of their church, and his two wonderful children are biologically Pastor Edwin Robertson’s. The smug bastard is admiring the widow fondly from the pulpit that is off to the right of the stage.
Share the rumor with the people next to you. Gossip spreads fast in church congregations.
Despite her glares and mild irritation at my tapping, the woman beside me seems genuinely distraught. She dabs at her eyes with the back of her hand, fumbling with an empty tissue packet. I slip a folded tissue from my pocketbook onto the pew between us, careful not to make eye contact. She takes it without a word. Good. I’m not here to comfort. I’m here to disrupt…
I lean into the couple still glaring at me on my other side.
“Did you hear? She was unfaithful,” I murmur, slipping into my church-girl hush.
The woman narrows her eyes on me. Her mouth twitches, and her eyes drift to the left—an easy tell of a lie.
