Going to the Chapel by Janet Tronstad Read Free Book Online

weathered brass plates with the raised lettering that said Hollywood & Vine Mortuary.
    As I said, I didn’t know it was a mortuary until Mr. Z, that’s the owner, came over in the lobby and asked if he can help me. He’s about seventy years old and he was dressed in a black suit. His face was so sorrowful I wondered what kind of weddings they had here.
    Well, that started our interview. Me with my surprise showing and him just talking away as if it’s every day someone walks in wearing a pink suit and asking to work with the dead—well, at first, we got real tangled and he thought I only wanted to workwith the married dead people. He must have thought I was some kind of strange guru or something. I told him that wasn’t the case, but I was still at a loss to explain why I was hesitating.
    “It’s not that I have anything against any of the dead people.” I finally just blurted it out in the middle of him telling me about the hours the staff work. I mean I pride myself on being open-minded. I like all kinds of people. Besides, I know what it’s like to have someone think they’re better than you because of something you can’t help and I wouldn’t wish that on anyone. So I don’t worry about skin color or marital status or religious preference. I’m supportive of handicapped people. I must admit, though, that the dead thing gives me pause.
    That’s where we are now in the interview. Me stuck with nothing to say and Mr. Z looking at me.
    “Don’t worry about the dead people,” Mr. Z finally says with a wave of the hand. I notice he’s wearing a big diamond ring. I’m glad to see he’s not all black suit, but I’m a little taken aback. I look around, hoping he’s not going to say something loud and offensive about dead people. Men with flashy jewelry sometimes do things like that. He doesn’t. Which makes me realize I don’t even personally know any men who wear flashy jewelry so I must have a prejudice against men who wear flashy jewelry—which is not good. Something tells me this job isn’t the place to have prejudices of any kind.
    Mr. Z just keeps going on. “Dead people are easy to work with—it’s the families that will give you problems.” I almost laugh, but then I realize he’s not joking so I sort of choke instead. He’s looking at me now as if I’m a juvenile delinquent. “You have any family?”
    I think about my mother, but we don’t really live together so I figure there’s no need to list her. “I have an aunt—Aunt Inga. But I don’t need to worry about my family. You see, I—”
    Mr. Z isn’t listening. “I remember when it seemed like everyone had big families. Now, we see smaller and smaller funerals every day. The relatives just don’t come. And, young girls like you—they live thousands of miles away from their families.”
    He looks at me as though I’d just run away from home in addition to being a delinquent.
    “I’m twenty-three.”
    He doesn’t look impressed. “And where is this Aunt Inga of yours?”
    “She lives in Blythe.”
    He looks at me as if I’m trying to be clever and that there’s really no such town except in my mind.
    “You know, Blythe—it’s on the 10 freeway just this side of the Arizona border—a couple of hundred miles from here.”
    He still looks skeptical, but nods his head and calls for the receptionist to come over.
    “This is Miss Billings.” He introduces her to me. “She’ll measure you for your suit.”
    This is it? Doesn’t he even ask if I’ll take the job? “Oh, I don’t need a suit.” One of us needs to speak up. “You see if I decide to take the job, it’ll only be temporary until…”
    Until what? Until I can figure out what do with my life?
    I get ready to say something, but Mr. Z doesn’t give me enough time. He just grunts and turns to MissBillings. “Measure her anyway. You never know when she’ll get a part that calls for a black suit.”
    Miss Billings giggles. She has steel-gray hair pulled