Page 38 of The Dearly Departed

Then he jumped out of the cab and slammed the door shut behind him, leaving me to sit in the silence, thinking about her. Remembering what had happened on that night years ago, just to grasp through the recesses of my mind for the faded image of her face.

Alone.

CHAPTER SIX

Age Thirty-Three

Robert Martin had been a Walmart security guard for thirty years before his death at sixty-three.

A widow-maker heart attack had taken him out in less than thirty seconds, but Robert hadn't left behind a wife to make a widow.

No spouse. No partner. No family to speak of.

The guy hadn't even left behind a cat to feast upon his rotting corpse before the superintendent at his apartment complex finally called the cops after multiple complaints from neighbors about a nauseating smell.

Hell, preparing his body now almost seemed like a waste of my time when there would be nobody around to attend the service. But a part of this job was to show everyone the same amount of respect and dignity, no matter how ridiculous it might seem, so that was what I did.

There was no viewing, so there'd be no point in getting poor old Robert all cosmetically dolled up, but his superintendent had dug out a halfway-decent-looking button-down and pants to bury him in.

And flip-flops.

Apart from the loafers he’d been wearing—and ruined with an assortment of bodily fluids—at the time of his death, flip-flops were all he owned in terms of footwear, which seemed like an interesting choice, considering how brutal Massachusetts winters often were. But then again, I wasn’t sure Robert had been the type of guy to go out much at all, let alone in the dead of winter.

Looking down at his corpse now, decked out in a wrinkled shirt and pants and busted-up flip-flops, I felt guilty for not providing him with something a little … nicer. But from what I knew about the man, which wasn’t much, Robert hadn’t seemed like the kind of guy to care about his looks, whether to a party or the afterlife, but I dressed him all the same.

"I'm more of a suit guy myself," I muttered to him, as I did with all the clients who ended up on my table. "Funny, because about twenty years ago, you wouldn't have caught me dead in one."

I pressed my lips shut and glanced toward his expressionless face. "Sorry. Phrasing."

I looked down at his collar, in desperate need of an iron, and thought it needed a little extra something. So, without a second thought, I undid my own tie, and as I did, I spoke. "Leonard had to convince me to try wearing a suit. I protested, of course. I was not going down without a fight. But, man, the moment I had that jacket and tie on …" I shook my head as I sat back in my rolling stool, sighing wistfully toward the basement ceiling and every one of the bright fluorescent lights. "Something changed in me that day, I think. It was like … a piece of who I was always meant to be just slipped into place."

With a glance toward his face again, I said, "You know what I'm saying?"

The dead never answered, and Robert wasn't about to be an exception to the rule. But that was what I liked most about the clientele I dealt with around here. I could talk to them. I could be honest. I could spill my guts to them under strict confidence—and who the hell were they going to tell?

"Maybe," I continued, slipping the black tie around Robert’s cold, stiff neck, "it simply came down to the fact that I never had nice things before Leonard took us in. Wearing these suits draws a line in the sand, dividing who I was from who I am today … hmm …" I was just about to make the first loop when I paused and glanced toward his closed eyelids, stitched in place. "You know, I’ve never thought of it like that before, but it makes a lot of sense actually. When I dress like this, I can be someone I was never allowed to be before. Here, I'm Abraham Llewellyn, nephew of Leonard. Successful. Smart. Worth something. But when I'm not …" My gaze narrowed as Robert’s sunken, gray face faded from view to clear the path for the dismal places I'd once called home. "I'm just Abraham Crowley, and we both know there's nothing good about that guy."

But Robert Martin had no idea about Abraham Crowley.

He never would.

With the tie on, I pushed off the preparation table to roll backward, across the room and toward the sink. I pulled my black latex gloves off, dropped them in the trash, and scrubbed my hands until they were sufficiently clean. Then I stood, rolled my black sleeves down from my elbows, and buttoned my cuffs as I looked down at Robert's lifeless, clothed form, looking just a bit nicer than before in a tie that had once belonged to me.

"It's lunchtime," I announced. "I'll be back to finish up in a bit."

Without another word, I grabbed my jacket from the hook beside the door, draped it over my arm, and left the room, closing it off behind me before heading up the stairs to the funeral home's main floor.

Ike, Shawn, and Leonard were already seated at our table, in the apartment we'd shared for just shy of twenty years, with ham, turkey, and American cheese sandwiches laid out before them. A sandwich was left on the table in front of my empty chair, and with a grateful nod toward Leonard—who rarely left the chore of making food up to us—I took my seat.

"Looks good," I complimented, tucking a napkin into the collar of my button-down and smoothing it over the crisp black shirt and the vest I wore over it.

“The fuck happened to your tie?” Ike asked, mouth full of food.

I glanced at him, not wanting to get into it—he’d never understand—but luckily, I didn’t have to as Leonard nodded while lifting a half of his sandwich to his mouth.

"The bread was about to go bad. I figured I might as well use it up. After we eat, I'm going to head out to grab some groceries, so if there's anything the three of you want—"

"You don't have to buy our food," Shawn protested, as he always did.