Lucky Stiff (26 page)

Hurley does a quick visual inspection, and then he settles into the driver’s seat and sniffs the air. “Not bad,” he says.

“I used some heavy-duty industrial stuff.”

He starts the engine and says, “I’ll pick you up at seven forty-five. Warmth and sunshine, here we come.” He closes the door, backs out, and takes off.

I’m feeling pretty upbeat for the drive home, so I throw some Beach Boys into the CD player to help me get in the mood. I’ve got just enough time before Hurley picks me up to take us to the airport to stop in and get my hair done. It’s a visit long overdue, judging from Izzy’s recent comment that I had bigger roots than the old oak tree in his front yard.

My current hairdresser, Barbara Moyer, is a bit outside the norm in that her main job is doing hair and makeup on dead people, and her salon is located in the basement of the Keller Funeral Home. She does some occasional side work on the living to help make ends meet, but it can be a little disconcerting because she only works on people who are supine. Like an artist who must have a certain light in order to envision a painting, Barbara must have a flat subject in order to envision her masterpiece. And she’s very good, so as long as you don’t mind having a dead person waiting in the wings as the next client, or the smell of formaldehyde hanging in the air, which to me isn’t much worse than some of the color concoctions or permanent solutions regular salons use.

Today Barbara has two clients in her basement salon, one living and one dead, though it’s hard for me to tell which is which at first. That’s because the living one is an elderly woman with pasty, wrinkled skin, who is lying in perfect repose on one of Barbara’s tables, hands atop one another just below her chest.

When Barbara sees me, she waves me in. “Hi, Mattie. Take a seat,” she says, pointing to a chair against the wall. “I’m almost done with Irene.”

When I hear the name, I realize who her other customer is. It’s Irene Keller, the owner of the funeral home. Not long ago, I sort of fixed her up with a friend of mine, Bjorn Adamson, who, like Irene, is older than dirt. Like a character in a zombie movie, Irene opens her eyes and slowly turns her head to look at me. It’s a bit creepy, because even with her eyes open, Irene doesn’t look all that alive.

“Well, Ms. Winston,” she says as Barbara puts some finishing touches on her hair with a curling iron. “Fancy meeting you again.”

“Hello, Irene.”

She eyes me from head to toe and clucks her tongue. “Have you got hepatitis or something?” she says.

“I’ve been using a tanning booth. I’m heading to Florida tonight and wanted to get some base color.”

“Tan, schman,” she says. “You should take better care of your skin if you want it to last your entire lifetime. If you’re lucky, you’ll end up with a creamy complexion like mine when you’re older.”

Not much of a sales pitch when you consider that Irene’s face has so many wrinkles, it looks like a wad of crumpled paper; and her skin is so transparent that she’s like a walking, talking anatomy class. And don’t even get me started on her liver spots. Then again, last I knew, Irene had a boyfriend, which is more than I can claim. Granted, her boyfriend pees through a tube and forgets who and where he is several times a day, but I guess at Irene’s age one can’t afford to be too picky.

“How are things with you and Bjorn?” I ask her, hoping to change the subject.

“We’re getting married next week,” Irene says, beaming.

“Really? Well, congratulations.” Considering that the two of them met only a few weeks ago, this seems a bit rushed, but then time isn’t really on their side.

Barbara helps Irene sit up and gives her a mirror so she can check out the front view while Barbara works on the back. It proves to be a bit of a challenge, since Irene’s hair is pretty thin. Barbara spends most of her time trying to cover the bald spots.

Irene surveys herself in the mirror and pats at the wattle hanging beneath her chin with the back of her hand. “I’m thinking of going braless for the wedding,” she says, making Barbara and me both gape.

“Why?” Barbara asks, showing she’s braver than I am.

“Well, watch,” Irene says. She sets the mirror down, reaches under her blouse, and finagles around until her breasts suddenly drop several inches. “See?” she says. “The weight of my boobs hanging loose pulls all my skin down and minimizes this crap under my neck.”

“I think you should wear a bra,” I say.

“Whatever,” she says, hoisting the girls back into place. “Have you picked out your funeral ensemble yet?” she asks me. “You know, it’s never too early to arrange for your final sleep, and you want to make a good, lasting impression.”

“Actually, I have,” I tell her. “Barbara helped me pick out my coffin and lining during my first visit here.” This is true, and it was an enlightening experience. Also, a bit disturbing when I realized that I might look better dead than alive. “I went with the mahogany.”

“The mahogany is a nice choice,” Irene says, “but we have a whole new line of inventory available that you might want to check out. There’s this company that makes very unique, personalized eternal beds.”

Eternal beds?
That’s why I don’t like funeral homes; they all speak in “euphemese.”

“Some lady had one made for her son that looks like a skateboard,” Irene goes on, “and an AT&T exec had one made that looks like a cell phone.”

“I’ll bet the roaming charges are a bitch,” I say, but no one laughs. I try to think of a personalized coffin for myself, but all I can come up with is one that looks like a giant Ben & Jerry’s container.

Ever the businesswoman, Irene hits me up with a new pitch. “What about a plot? Have you purchased one yet? We have some nice ones up on the hill, overlooking the river. They offer a stunning forever view.”

Her absurd funeral speak makes me laugh. “I don’t think the view will matter much,” I tell her. “It will be hard to see from six feet under.”

“It’s not all about you,” Irene says. “You want your visitors to have a peaceful, serene place when they drop by for a visit. And who knows? Personally, I believe in reincarnation, but until our spirits get reassigned, I believe they hover over our burial place.” She picks up her mirror and starts examining her face again. “I’m hoping to come back as a man,” she says with a sigh, perusing her upper lip. “At least then I can
choose
to grow a mustache.”

“I can bleach that, if you want,” Barbara offers.

Irene considers this and then says, “Nah, that’s okay. Bjorn can’t see it anyway. His eyesight’s not so good.” She sets the mirror aside and looks at me. “I can make you a sweet deal on a plot if you buy now.”

“Thanks, but I’m not ready yet.”

Irene shrugs and says, “Suit yourself. But don’t come bitching to me when you find out you have to spend your forever nap in view of the landfill.”

Barbara announces Irene finished and helps her off the table. “You let me know if you change your mind,” Irene says to me as she leaves.

Barbara pats the table and I get up and climb onto it, lying down in my own perfect repose. As Barbara’s prepping my color application, I stare at the ceiling and think about Irene’s spirit theory. “Do you believe in reincarnation?” I ask Barbara.

“I don’t know. Some days I do. It’s an interesting concept and a fun mind exercise when you try to figure out who, or what, you want to come back as.”

I think about this for a second and the first thing that pops into my head is Hurley’s jeans. Coming back as those would be a small slice of heaven. But I don’t suppose an inanimate object is an option, so I think some more. “If we are reincarnated as animals, I think I’d like to come back as something symbolic and majestic, like an eagle. But with my luck, I’d probably end up as a dung beetle.”

Barbara laughs. “I like to think that people who abuse animals come back as an animal that is then abused,” she says.

“Ah, divine retribution,” I say. “Like Sarah Palin coming back as a wolf, or Michael Vick coming back as a pit bull.”

Our conversation continues as Barbara works her miracle on my hair. She’s whip smart and a witty conversationalist, and our discussion touches on religion, philosophy, science, and death. By the time I’m done and look in the mirror, I’m starting to think reincarnation is entirely possible. Barbara has given my appearance a new life, and I bestow her with the nickname “the Reincarnator.” With a Schwarzenegger-like “I’ll be back,” I head home, knowing that I’m about to spend a couple of days with Hurley in paradise looking my absolute best—as long as I keep my clothes on.

When I get home, I finish my packing and then head over to Izzy’s house to talk to Dom, who has agreed to take care of Hoover and Rubbish while I’m gone. I go over Rubbish’s food plan with him, and then start on Hoover’s food and potty routines. Dom stops me short.

“Don’t worry about Hoover. I plan to keep him over here while you’re gone.”

“Are you sure Izzy will be okay with that?”

Dom dismisses my concern with a wave of his hand. “Izzy pretends not to like animals, but I caught him sneaking Hoover some table snacks a couple of times, and he even petted him once.” He pauses, frowns, and then adds, “Though I will have to make sure Hoover sleeps on the floor this time. When we took him to Iowa over Thanksgiving, he not only got into bed with us, he pushed Izzy right out onto the floor.”

I grimace. “Sorry about that,” I say. “That’s my fault. I let him sleep in my bed with me all the time.”

“You might want to rethink that,” Dom says. “Just because you now have that bed all to yourself doesn’t mean it will always be that way. Some guys might not like the idea of sharing your bed with a dog.”

“There’s plenty of time to worry about that,” I say with a sigh. “I don’t have any prospects on the horizon.” Though I utter this with great nonchalance, my feelings on the subject are strong ones. On the one hand, I’m desperate to share some warmth, tenderness, and intimacy with someone, to satisfy both my emotional and my physical needs. But the person I most want to do that with is Hurley, and he is off-limits. So that means hooking up with someone new, someone who doesn’t know me, someone who’s never seen me naked before. Breaking in a new lover is never an easy task, and I’m not sure if I’m up for it.

“When is Hurley picking you up?” Dom asks. “I’ve got a pot roast on and it’ll be ready in half an hour.”

“Thanks, but I don’t have time. I’ll just grab a snack at the airport.”

Dom tells me to have fun, but not too much—a reference to the night before, no doubt—and bids me adieu.

Hurley shows up on time. After a brief mutual admiration session with Hoover, he loads my suitcase into the car. By the time we’re on the road, I’m feeling more excited than I have in months. Two days in paradise with Hurley! Can life get any better than this? But I’m also worried. The radio is filled with warnings for the coming storm, which is now arriving. Big, fat snowflakes are beginning to fall and the temperature outside has dropped dramatically. I’m cursing Mother Nature under my breath, praying that she holds back her full fury until after our plane takes off.

Hurley and I pass the time chatting about everything from the current political environment to the glacier-carved geography we’re driving past. The only thing we don’t discuss is work-related stuff. It’s as if we have an understanding—a silent but mutual agreement to leave work behind us from this point on. There are periods of silence, too, unmarked by the awkwardness that can sometimes result from such pauses. To me, it’s indicative of the level of comfort Hurley and I share with one another.

By the time we reach the airport, there is already an inch of snow on the ground. We park in the short-term lot and haul our luggage into the terminal, where we are relieved to see that our flight is still scheduled to leave on time. We get into line to check our bags and inch our way through the serpentine rope alleys, like cattle going to market. As each move brings us closer to the ticket desk, the silly-assed grin on my face grows bigger. Then, just as we reach the head of the line, I hear a familiar female voice behind us say, “Hurley! Mattie! Fancy meeting you guys here.”

I turn around and see Candy Kane standing in line a few people behind us, a suitcase at her feet.

“Are you guys going to the forensics conference in Daytona Beach?” she asks.

“We are,” Hurley says.

“Well, isn’t that fabulous!” she says. “So am I!”

And suddenly I want to order a special casket in the shape of a fire truck.

Chapter 23

Though I’m determined not to show it, I’m mad enough to spit nails. I can’t believe Candy has intruded on my time away with Hurley; and to make matters worse, she and Hurley chum up as soon as our bags are checked. They decide to hit up the airport bar for a drink while we’re waiting. No one bothers to ask me what I want to do, so I tag along behind the two of them, like a fifth wheel.

When we arrive at the bar, Candy deftly maneuvers into place to take the stool on Hurley’s left—damn, these tiny people are quick on their feet. Since there is a man on Hurley’s right, I’m forced to sit next to Candy, who promptly turns her back to me to face Hurley, leaving my thoughts as dark as the sky outside. Hurley orders a beer and Candy goes for a screwdriver. Since I swore off booze for life when I got out of bed this morning, I opt for a wimpy club soda with lime.

For the next hour, I sit, watching, listening, and mentally fuming as Candy chitchats with Hurley about her family, her job, the weather, and other stupid stuff. Granted, it’s the same stupid stuff I was so happy to chat about with Hurley earlier, but their easy camaraderie annoys me. I mean, they just met a few days ago! How is it Candy already has the same level of comfort it took me weeks to achieve with Hurley? I suffer through it by telling myself that once we’re on the plane, I’ll be the one seated next to Hurley and Candy will be somewhere else.... I’m thinking the wing might work.

When we finally board, Candy once again proves her dexterity by positioning herself between Hurley and me. She makes no effort, whatsoever, to look at the seat assignment on her boarding pass, leaving me to suspect she’s going to try to edge in on my seat. Sure enough, when Hurley reaches our row, he settles into the window seat. I wait behind Candy, expecting her to move on. Instead, she turns to me and says, “Hey, Mattie, would you mind terribly if we traded seats? I’d like to finish my conversation with Steve.”