The Chapel Wars (4 page)

“What do you mean? People come in, they get married, we make money. Does it work differently for you guys?” I couldn’t believe how calm my voice sounded.

“It’s the make-money part that you aren’t too good at. It’s going to be fun to see that place nosedive under new ownership. Who’s in charge now, that secretary of his or your dad?”

“None of your business.”

“That’s where you’re wrong. This is all business. And I’m watching. Remember that.”

“Whatever.” I wanted to follow that up with “suck it,” but I kept it classy.

“We’ll see you in the parking lot, darling.” He snapped the glasses in half and tossed them into the casket. “Rest in peace, Jimmy.”

I was panting, but I didn’t hear it until Victor and his scent left the room. I was going to … I was going to run after Cranston and tackle him to the floor. Go blind fury, taking full advantage of the don’t-hit-a-girl rule.

Before I had a chance to attack, Dax stepped in front of me. “Hey. Hey. Don’t go after him. It’s not going to help.”

“It’ll help his face when I punch it.”

“Seriously, just stay here with me for a second. He’s a mean drunk. Let him cool off. Breathe.”

I seethed at the now-empty doorway. “Those were his favorite sunglasses.”

“Poppy gets a mind to destroy property sometimes. Can I pay for them?”

I blinked at Dax. “It doesn’t matter, I guess. My grandpa is dead either way.”

“Right.” He scratched his close-cropped hair like a dog with a behind-the-ear itch. “Look, I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Yeah. Me too.” I was sorry that he was witnessing my loss too. My loss and my anger and my awkwardness. So I went back to the anger. “Your grandpa is a prick.”

“He can be.” He shrugged. His left shoulder rose higher than his right. “I’ve heard some stories about your grandpa too.”

“Don’t lump my grandpa into the same category as that man.”

“Your grandpa filed four different lawsuits against mine for nothing.”

“I never heard that,” I said.

“Just because you didn’t hear about it doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.”

I stuttered. “W-well … Victor probably deserved it.”

“Probably not, but that’s how it was with our grandfathers. They weren’t at their best around each other. Everyone has some prick in him.”

“My grandpa is right in front of you!” I pointed toward the casket, like Grandpa would have my back. “Don’t speak ill of the dead.”

“Right. Forget I said anything. …” His voice skidded away. Maybe I could tape the glasses back together. It’s not like Grandpa needed them to block the sun underground.

“Well, anyway,” I said.

“Yeah. Anyway.”

He didn’t leave. He just stood there, all moody expression and toned arms. Not that the arms had anything to do with his expression.

“Listen.” Dax hesitated before launching into a ramble. “Do you
really
think the dead can hear us? Are they sitting there now, hanging on our every word, worried what the living think about them? Then the longer you live, the more people around you die, and you have all these ghosts judging your every move. Pee in the shower, your great-aunt Mildred knows about it. It’s creepy thinkin’, right?”

“I don’t think the … the deceased listen to everything that we say,” I said. Who was this kid? “Maybe they just tune in for special events. Like at graduation or when someone says, ‘Your great-aunt Mildred is smiling down on you.’ ”

“Sure.” He rubbed at his jaw, which had enough stubble that I couldn’t tell how old he was. Eighteen? Nineteen? Older. Older than me. “But if we’re going to enlist in the life-after-death camp, then we should go my-own-private-paradise with it. Great-Aunt Mildred doesn’t have time to see the messy birth of her great-great-niece. She doesn’t care if you thought she was sweet or mean. The lady is busy. She’s up there munching on Kit Kats with a lesser-known president and knitting sweaters out of clouds.”

“A cloud sweater,” I repeated.

“Cable-knit.”

“But if the person who passed away can’t hear us,” I reasoned,
“then why are we here? God must have invented funerals so the dead people could watch them. Otherwise, it’s just a room full of people trying to convince themselves that they cared enough about the dead person, or that the dead person had cared about them. It’s a joke.”

He looked at me then, for the first time, right in the eye. It’s not like I usually made a lot of eye contact with strangers—not salesclerks or people passing on the street, certainly not men/boys with eyes the color of cloudless sky. “I’m sorry I was joking. It doesn’t make this a joke. Whatever you’re feeling … that’s not a joke. I just know sometimes … it helps. Maybe not right now.” He puffed out a breath. “Did I go too far with the cloud sweater? You should be alone now, right?”

“Alone with a dead relative? No. The only thing worse than the funeral is a viewing. It doesn’t make anyone feel better.”

“My advice?” His voice went quiet. “The only thing that is going to make you feel better is time. And even that doesn’t help much.”

I lowered my voice too, the words almost too hopeful to utter. “But it does get better?”

“Better is a strong word.” He swallowed. “But you’re fixing to be okay. Soon.”

I had never seen this boy in my life. I had no idea how he knew so much about death. The only thing I knew about him was that his poppy was Satan. Yet he’d invented a great-aunt Mildred to prove a philosophical point. His reassurance was better than anything my friends or family had said to me so far.
It was like he’d sliced this tiny slit through the curtain of death that had been hanging over my heart.

It would have been the perfect time to tell Dax about the strange letter, but there was a loud crash in the hallway. We hurried outside. Victor was waving his cane around at my dad, who weaved under it and pummeled into Victor’s chest. My mom screamed and James jumped in and starting clawing Victor’s arm. Lenore even got a kick or two in there.

“Not again.” Dax lunged forward and pulled Victor back. I stood in the doorway, too stunned to move.

“Poppy! Stop it! Go get in the car.”

“I’m taking your chapel down!” Saliva dripped from the corners of Victor’s mouth. “Just wait, you won’t last a year.” His comb-over was no longer combed over but flopped in front of his sweating forehead.

“Scum!” Dad jammed his finger at Victor’s chest. “You can’t touch us. Our chapel is fine.”

“Jim Nolan hasn’t been
fine
in years. You think I don’t know? Do you have any idea who I know, what I can do?”

Now the funeral director tried to get in on it. “Gentlemen, if you would please—”

“We were just going.” Dax veered his grandpa to the door. He stopped in front of my mom and offered a weak smile. “Ma’am … our condolences.”

“Nolans are garbage!” Victor hollered, and Dax pushed him outside. Dax glanced back at me and mouthed “
Sorry
” before the door closed. His mouth was … it was beautiful.

The guests tutted behind us. Mom grabbed me in a squeeze. “Who was that you were talking to?”

“Dax. His grandson.”

“What a terrible family.”

“No, he was trying to be nice.”

Dad wiped blood off his mouth. “I can’t believe he smashed Dad’s picture like that. What a lunatic. I’m taking legal measures this time—it’s a funeral. Who does that?”

I wandered away from the chaos, back to my grandpa’s casket. With all the cleanup, I probably had time now to get new glasses or tape his old ones. He deserved glasses, and I deserved to know what was going on. “Okay, if you really are sitting on a cloud, listening, please tell me, why am I delivering a letter to that really cute Cranston? Why give me all of this? Seriously, what were you thinking?”

Grandpa Jim didn’t answer. But even dead, he was telling me something. I just didn’t know what.

We still had to work that night, so Donna, Dad, Minister Dan, and I headed back to the office. This particular ceremony had been booked out for six months, and the couple was flying in from England, so we couldn’t cancel, funeral or not.

Our golden-hued reception area was still warm and welcoming despite Grandpa’s absence. Chairs were arranged in a conversational circle around the stiff-backed brocade couch, with a screen on the coffee table so that Mom could break down package options.

The couple before us tonight was, blessedly, of a forever nature. Scientifically, forever. Oh, and romantically, I guess. After each ceremony, I wrote down details into different categories, details like dress style, body language, duration of dating, age, groom’s shoe size … you know, just the typical stuff you notice at a wedding. Then I plugged that into a formula I created that
estimated within 2 percent the marriage success rate of each couple. Of course, I’d only been tracking for five years, so I’d have to wait decades to see who would survive, but I kept up with our couples, and most of those with percentages under 20 were already divorced.

Not that I
wanted
them to get divorced, mind you, but it’s a great feeling knowing I was right.

Charlie and Emma Dean, though, these two had it. They held hands without groping, they laughed at each other without laughing
at
each other. They’d only walked into the building ten minutes ago and already I’d given them a 79 percent. If they nailed the vows, they were well on their way to their golden anniversary.

Donna wore her work bun and work smile. “Do you have any more questions?”

“Can you take a picture of our rings?” Emma asked. “Something with the bouquet, or on top of lace would be nice.”

“It was my mum’s,” Charlie explained. “And she’ll massacre us all if we don’t do a picture.”

Dad laughed. “You have me and this chapel to yourselves tonight. We can do any picture you want.”

“Brilliant.” Charlie stuck his wallet into his back pocket. “Mind if we clean up first?”

“Of course,” Donna said. “I’ll show Emma to the bridal room. The bathroom is on the right.”

Charlie left but poked his head right out. “The loo has gold urinals.”

Emma beamed at her fiancé. “Only the finest for you, love.”

I wanted to bundle the Dean family into my pocket and pluck them out from time to time just to listen to their accented banter. I loved accents, like Dax’s southern drawl. He’d obviously lived somewhere else long enough to develop that accent, so maybe that geographical distance meant he wasn’t close to his poppy. Maybe he didn’t even like his grandpa. We could sit around and hate the man together.

“Do you have a moment?” Donna led me into the photo studio. Dad was switching out backgrounds.

“Dad? Can you leave?” I asked.

Dad harrumphed. “I still can’t believe Cranston pulled that at the funeral. I have half a mind to march over there now.”

It was the fifth time he’d made a similar threat. As kind as both of my parents were, they had a blind spot when it came to Victor Cranston. “Don’t leave the chapel, just the room. Please.”

“Fine.” Dad dropped the curtain. “Make it quick, boss.”

“So how are you doing?” I asked once Dad left.

“Two of my alpacas, Milton and Clarabelle, were depressed today. I shouldn’t have broken the news about Jim. He always brought them treats.”

I filed away the alpaca comment to share with James later. He was obsessed with Donna’s alpaca obsession. “But how are you?”

“I’m a mess.” Donna didn’t look like a mess. She looked exactly the same every time I saw her: a different colored suit for each day of the week (Saturday: lavender—seasons and funerals be
damned), nude tights, cloggish shoes, and hair too aggressively blond to be natural.

“I’m sorry. I know you and Grandpa were … whatever you were.”

“We dated on and off for nine years. Let’s call a spade a spade.”

Gross. We all knew there was something more between Donna and Grandpa, but no one ever came out and said it. Probably because the idea was disgusting—he had to be twenty years older than she was. And he was her boss. And he was my
grandfather
. “Sorry. Right.”

“And while we are speaking frankly, let’s discuss the chapel.”

“Are you … are you okay? That it went to me?”

“You’re seventeen. No one is okay with it.”

I sucked in a breath. “Oh.”

“It’s nothing personal to you. Look at the facts. You’re still in school, you have other obligations, you lack life experience, independent contractors aren’t going to take us seriously, you are now essentially your parents’ boss, and—”

“I get it.”

Donna puckered her lips. “But it doesn’t matter how I
feel
about it, because you legally and lawfully are in charge. What matters now is that I would like to keep my job.”

I laughed softly. “Donna. You still have a job. I’m not changing anything.”

“Well. You need to change
something
.” Donna leaned in closer. “I looked at the books for the chapel. It’s bad.”

My stomach dropped. Part of me would rather talk about
her relationship with Grandpa. “I know. Grandpa explained things in his letter.”

Donna frowned. “I’ve been talking to the bank. There’s debt. Lots of it. Jim owes about seventy thousand dollars; we have eleven thousand in cash, but he was behind on the last two months’ payments. We’re not going to come up with that kind of money before the balloon payment is due in March, but the financial guy I talked to said we could probably pay some of the debt and refinance if we can show the bank we’re profitable under new ownership.”

“What are you two talking about?” Dad popped his head back into the room. “I thought you were talking women stuff, but this sounds like business.”

“Were you spying?” I asked.

“Yes.” Dad ran his hand through his hair. I’d seen many happy-with-their-husband brides blush when my dad did that hair thing. “Did Cranston do something else?”

Donna gave my elbow a squeeze. Sixth Cranston comment. One-track mind.

Donna told Dad about the loan. His bloodshot eyes reddened to demonic. We shouldn’t be having this conversation now, not the day of the funeral, not with Charlie and Emma outside, waiting for the happiest moment of their lives.