The Queen of Sleepy Eye by Patti Hill Read Free Book Online

her purely structural bra. “Besides the reposing room,” she said,“this is the most important room in the house. You must keep the caskets shiny bright. Not one speck of dust or a single fingerprint must mar the finishes. You’ll need to become familiar with the special cleaners kept in the maintenance closet. We keep the economy caskets in the attic. There’s no need to climb up there today. The caskets are wrapped in plastic. Buying the caskets in bulk increases my margin, but the families don’t need to know that. In a small market maximizing margin is important.”
    I shook off the image of a small market for dead people—a storefront with a black wreath on the door and a sales banner taped to the window—and reentered the conversation in time to hear Mom say, “Amy loves to clean.”
    At times like this I wished I’d been blessed with a tribe of siblings. I would say, “Excuse me, Mother, you’re thinking of Jane or Laurie or Debbie or that little miscreant, Danny.” I must have groaned because Mom shot me a hard look. This was exactly why I was so determined to get to California.
    Mrs. Clancy either missed or ignored our exchange. “To clean the pillow and overlay, I take them outside for a good shake every few days. No one wants to think of their loved ones sleeping with spiders.”
    At the mention of spiders, I expected Mom to back out of the house spewing apologies, and we would be buying bus tickets by the end of the day. Instead, Mom played the part of a competent funeral home caretaker by taking the bedding from Mrs. Clancy and returning it to the casket.
    Mrs. Clancy stepped in front of Mom to smooth the wrinkles out of the pillow and straighten the gathers in the overlay. “Like I said, death doesn’t keep a schedule and doesn’t mind one iota about upsetting your plans, so you must always be ready. Have your choresdone by ten o’clock in the morning seven days a week—earlier, once you get the routine down. I will be here Monday through Friday from 10:00 a.m. to 3:00 p.m. I leave earlier on the days I make a deposit at the bank. At all other times, I expect one of you to be here.”
    Mom cocked her head as if assessing Mrs. Clancy. “You have such beautiful skin, the kind of skin that wins beauty pageants.”
    â€œWell,” Mrs. Clancy said, taking a furtive look at her image in a casket’s finish, “I was Miss Ranch Days back in 1931.”
    â€œI believe you. I was Miss Sleepy Eye the year before Amy was born. I must show you the tiara I wore during my reign.”
    â€œDo tell.”
    â€œWhat do you use to keep your skin looking so lovely?”
    Mrs. Clancy squared her shoulders and stretched her neck. “My mother forbade me to play in the sun. Freckles are for common girls, she used to say. Mother was born to Pittsburgh society. She ingrained the attributes of ladylike behavior in my sisters and me. I’ve never had one freckle on my face, not one. This high country sun is harsh. We—my sisters and I—wore bonnets everywhere we went.”
    Sure enough. Not one freckle polluted Mrs. Clancy’s face, but gray whiskers stood out from her chin like porcupine quills.
    Mom followed Mrs. Clancy toward the front of the house. Whatever I’d imagined about Mr. Darcy and his hunting rifle evaporated the minute I joined Mom and Mrs. Clancy in the front parlor. Converted into a chapel, the red velvet draperies muffled the outside world. Rows of wooden folding chairs filled the darkened room, except for the space before the fireplace where a small podium served as an altar. On the far wall, a niche held the organ.
    I sniffed the air again. Biology lab. Fourth hour. Just before lunch. “Is that formaldehyde I smell?”
    Mrs. Clancy closed her eyes and drew in a breath. “I don’t smell anything.”
    â€œMom, do you smell—?”
    â€œPlease excuse my