Page 2 of Melancholia

Not that there’s much competition, when this town has a population of maybe six hundred and at least half of them are over fifty.

“Now, who do we have here?” He reaches out for the sheet, then glances at me. “You don’t mind me intruding, do you? I’m not here to judge your work, Nell. Pinky swear.” For some reason, he crosses himself, instead of making any kind of motion with his little finger.

But it’s endearing, in the scattered old person kind of way. Cecil is the town’s father figure, I’ve decided. Even to those older than him. He can’t seem to help himself, and is always the most supportive, least judgmental person to absently amble the streets of our faded downtown.

“Not that he has much to compete against for you, does he?” Mary asks, leaning against his shoulder. “We all know your father was⁠—”

“Mary Shively,” I say, watching as he pulls the sheet back from the middle-aged blonde woman with a large birthmark on her cheek. “Forty-seven. Died of an overdose, found in her house by her ex-husband.” Not that those details matter much to us, but I can’t help but say it anyway. “She was from…” I scan my mind, trying to remember what town she was sent from without having to look at the clipboard Cecil’s holding.

“Cave Creek,” Cecil supplies, after glancing down at the information in his hand. “Just off Smisker Road. Shame. She was so young.” He frowns at the body, while Mary rolls her eyes beside him. To me, forty-seven isn’t so young, but I’m not going to argue.

“Maybe I lived a full life worth twice my years.” She reaches up to scratch at the birthmark. “How would he know if it’s a shame or not?” She leans over with him, staring down at her own face that’s slack in death on the table. “Well, that is a shame. I look sort of stupid down there, don’t I?”

Go away, I will mentally. It’s hard to focus on Cecil tonight, with Mary right there as a constant distraction in my head. Just go away until he leaves.

But Mary only smirks at me and walks away, taking her sweet ass time in heading down the hallway that leads back to the cooler and incinerator. “You talk like she was that much younger than you,” I say finally, tearing my eyes away from my unwanted guest. “What are you this year? Fifty-four?”

“Fifty-six,” Cecil corrects, looking at me with a grateful grin. “Though I appreciate you knocking a few years off.” He goes to the desk and sets down the clipboard again, before walking back over to respectfully tug the sheet up over Mary’s face.

“Before I leave⁠—”

Here it is.

The rambling about his trip. The things he’s told me over and over for the past week that he, of course, wants to repeat one more time. Because this is Cecil, and reassurance is his favorite thing in the world, even if it’s unneeded.

A stab of guilt goes through me at my moment of annoyance, and I give him my full attention while leaning against the wall next to the windowed hallway that leads back to the front desk. “You’ll be gone for a week,” I repeat like a parrot, smiling and keeping my tone light. “You’ve spoken with Havenfield out of Philly. They’ll take most of the work load while you’re gone, so I shouldn’t be left with much. If I need anything, your cell number is in my phone, and also taped to the wall over the printer.” I glance to the side of the room where there are rows of PostIts, though most of them are reminders to Cecil and have nothing to do with me.

“Don’t feed the incinerator after midnight,” I go on, making a little joke that I know will have him grinning. I’m right, and he doesn’t fight the smile that spreads over his lips.

“Otherwise you’ll have a very unfriendly gremlin on your hands,” he agrees with a chuckle, raking a hand through his grey hair that’s made silver by the harsh lights of the embalming room. Thunder rumbles outside again, and from the corner of my eye, I see Mary press her face to the wall like it’s a window.

Clearly, if my guest is doing weird shit like that, I must be tired. Usually they act a bit more normal, a bit more believable, even. But this is…not.

“Maybe if you slept like a normal person⁠—”

“Nell?” I realize at the sound of my name that Cecil has been talking to me, and it’s only his tone of concern that makes me glance back his way.

“Hmm?” Forcing an apologetic smile onto my face, I push off of the wall and go to the printer, checking to make sure that there’s paper in it, even though I know already there is. “Sorry. Got distracted by the storm.” Luckily for me, thunder rumbles once more, distantly. If we get anything tonight, I doubt it’ll be much. Though from what I’ve read on my phone, tomorrow is when the storms are really supposed to start.

It’s unseasonable for August, at least in my opinion. But I’m not from the area, so maybe my opinion isn’t the most knowledgeable on the subject.

“Do you usually get this much rain here in August?” I ask, working to sound normal and simply curious. It’s pretty easy to distract Cecil from topics I’d like to avoid, and he’s already shaking his head, looking mildly perplexed.

“Not the norm,” he assures me. “This year’s just a weird one, I suppose.” He rakes his fingers through his hair again and glances at the clock. Clearly, someone is anxious to go. “I think that’s all. Like I said, you shouldn’t have much work this week. And you can always call me. I can come back early, if⁠—”

“I doubt a plague will ravage the town in your absence.” My smile softens the words, though my tone remains dryly humorous. I’m grateful Cecil doesn’t care about formality here at the mortuary. Otherwise, this would be a much less enjoyable and comfortable job.

He chuckles at my words and moves to his desk to sort through his collection of pens. “I’m just an old worrywart,” he admits. “Pay me no mind. And don’t get nervous. If you need her, Adele can come over. She already told me⁠—”

Cecil’s lecture, it turns out, could not be denied, only delayed. For twenty minutes he talks, going off on tangents, eventually segueing into some story about the nephew he’s going to see for a few days before attending his wedding.

At last, however, I can tell he has nothing else to say. He hovers, glancing down at the body, clearly itching to help. But he’s supposed to be leaving on his drive within the next couple hours, which I only learned thanks to eavesdropping on his conversation with Adele.

But it pays to know things.

“Listening where you aren’t wanted is a nasty habit,” Mary remarks, her voice carrying from the hallway. “Some might call it a trauma response, with how much you⁠—”

“Stop it,” I whisper, just as Cecil makes it halfway down the hallway back to the lobby. He stops and looks at me.