The Unexpected Visitor

You can’t look at the dead and see only a cadaver, Wren explained during dinner.

As she spoke, Mick scrambled to make sense of her. This soft and dainty soul once screamed in a heavy metal band and surfed in mosh pits above sweaty living bodies. And while grossly opinionated about nearly everything, she returns from her passionate tangents just in time to giggle at herself for having gone on them. And then, of course, there is the unapologetic way swear words clip at the soft lull in her voice, a siren’s song to his ears.

Yes, Mick has been awestruck by the endless, beautiful contradictions—until now. Wren, he now knows, is a realtor turned funeral director who assists in collecting dead bodies at all hours of the night.

I’m so sorry to spring this on you, Mick, but I need to go. That nightcap will have to wait.

Their date ended abruptly then, and Mick watched the light drain from her gaze as they sat in his car silently and then again when he turned his face from hers at the front door. But he had to let it all sink in. Let the antonyms clash with the synonyms and digest in his gut.

This was not how Mick’s third dates usually went.

Hours later, he sank back into his lounger and closed his eyes. Behind them, he still saw Wren’s green eyes watering with the warmth of her words. The whisky made his skin tingle at the thought of them.

These bodies housed real people with dreams and goals. They have histories worth preserving. You see, I have to continue the undertaker’s work, not for the living but for the dead. So they can say their goodbyes.

She had bravely lain it out, her whole vulnerable self, in the fallen hues of mood lighting. She may be different (a little quirky), but at forty years old, how many people can confidently say they are living their life’s purpose, even if it is as peculiar as helping the dead rest in peace?

Mick made a decision. He would not spend this evening alone with his thoughts, writing off the one person he ever truly connected with. And so, for the third time that day, Mick set off down the narrow, winding road that followed the sea. Night draped over the landscape in a dark cloak, and his high beams sliced through it like a machete through thickets.

As he approached the old Victorian home, flash lightning lit its harsh edges, revealing it in a different light. Beyond the addition of a funeral home that bulged from its side, there were vibrant trims and delicate arches, a quaint wraparound porch, and steep, praying peaks. With the touch of a handyman, he thought, it could reclaim that regal, dignified presence it must have once had.

Mick parked under the billowing willow that stood tall against the shadows. The walk the door was a long one. What would he say, and how to say it right? Although late, he hoped she would find the gesture chivalric and his words romantic, but he couldn’t be sure.

Standing in the golden spotlight of a mounted lantern, he studied the oversized brass knocker. The face of an indifferent gargoyle stared back. Dared him with its poker face. He wondered if he should use it when Wren flung open the door, calling out for “Tiny,” a ball of white and melon fur that whizzed past him into the house.

Mick opened his mouth the speak, but when the first droplets of rain hit his nose, he forgot everything he practiced on the drive over.

“I’m sorry,” he went with. After a few moments, Wren spoke.

“Sometimes, I think I’m the only one who likes it here.” She squeezed the cotton sleeves on either arm, shivering. “Tiny is a nervous wreck, and Oscar, well, he never wanted to leave New York. He misses our old house. He hides in his room upstairs and only comes down for mealtimes.”

Mick took in a deep breath and cocked his head. He wanted to laugh, but he knew how inappropriate that would be. She spoke as though responding to his apology, as though nothing had ever been wrong.

“Would you,” he tried hesitantly, “like to go inside?”

“Oh, yes. Of course,” Wren said, leading Mick into a small sitting room off the entrance. He admired the lights that waltzed among crystals in a delicate chandelier he walked beneath. “Make yourself comfortable. I have to wrap things up with uh, work, but you can help yourself to a drink on the bar cart by the window—”

“And then you’ll join me for that nightcap after all,” he said, smiling. Relief washed over Wren’s face. She moved over to him, lay a hand on his arm, and then kissed his cheek softly.

“Yes.”

Alone, Mick sat on the velvet, burgundy sofa with two fingers worth of stiff whisky in a glass. No wonder Wren loved this place. The bright red rug with its Middle Eastern flair, an old piano, a slick marble fireplace, dark paneling, and the golden bar cart— it was a portal into the eighteen hundreds. The old man died and left all his exquisite antiques behind, but who knows where he acquired those. The owners before him, and those before them?

With this thought in mind, Mick’s eyes flit to the portrait of a pale young woman with tight brown curls and pursed lips. He strolled over to it, drink in hand. This moment would be perfect, he thought, if he had a rolled cigar and classical music wafting in the background.

“Are these your things?” Mick asked the painted woman. “Has any time passed for you?”

He glanced down at the narrow wooden table with its curvy legs. On it, a small brown package had been torn apart at the bottom. Curiosity got the best of him, and he set down his drink to peek inside.

“That’s not yours,” Mick heard from behind him. He turned: a tall, teenage boy leaned against the widened doorframe of the room. Unlike Wren’s fair appearance, he had smoky eyes, long lashes, and short black hair gelled into spikes. Mick figured he took after his father. Most boys do.

“You must be Oscar,” Mick said warmly. “I’m Mick, your Mom’s friend.”

“Are you, now?” The kid said, walking over. He appeared anxious, fiddling with the silver ring on his right ring finger. Mick should have known: her son was old enough that he’d never buy the friend explanation. He’d have to be honest.

“Well, I care about her a lot. She’s a good woman with a big heart.”

“Does she know you’re crazy?”

“Excuse me?

“What kind of lunatic talks to a painting?” Oscar asked, eyes glued to it as he spoke. His tone had a mean edge, but he studied the painting as though he cared for an answer.

“She’s not my type. A little too uptight,” Mick finally said. He noticed the corner of the kid’s lip twitch in amusement before recovering its frown.

“But she ages well.”

“It won’t be that easy to scare me away, you know,” Mick said, laughing. Oscar was funny and quick witted. He liked him already. It was clear this move had been hard on him. The kid was angry with his Mom, his situation, with the world. Wren might not have been ready for the two to meet yet, but here they were, side by side, the kid with his feelers out. The little man of the house sized him up.

“Tell me, Mick. If you could choose what they did with your body, would you want her to shoot you up with embalming liquid or send you to a life-sized oven?”

The kid was ramping up his game. Mick hadn’t won him over yet. It was a clever move, bringing up the embalming thing. He didn’t know Wren did that, and it’s likely Oscar knew that.

Maybe she’d been saving that for date number four.

“Must be hard to wrap your head around all this. And to tell you the truth, it’s hard for me too. I only found out a few hours ago,” Mick admitted. He looked over at the boy staring down at his own feet, playing with that silver ring on his finger. He rubbed a shaky thumb over the raised image of a snake.

“You have no idea what it’s like.”

“You’re right, I don’t, but I might someday.”

“Are you telling me you would actually live here with her? Willingly?” Oscar asked, raising his voice. “As soon as I can, I’m getting out of here.”

“If you look past the whole dead body thing, it might not be so bad,” Mick shrugged. “This house is pretty damn gorgeous, and your Mom is amazing too. You know, she sees this job as a calling. She wants to help the dead say their goodbyes, whatever that means. Maybe, if you give it a chance, you’ll see it that way too.”

Mick realized he was doing a great job of convincing himself to give this a go. If he and Wren became serious, he knew he’d have to move in and help with the funeral home. In some capacity, anyway.

“I guess I could stick around for a little while.”

“I plan on sticking around, too,” Mick said.

He heard a floorboard creak behind him, and turned to spot Wren standing there with a smirk plastered on her face. A furry little dog by her feet.

“I can go and come back if you’re not done rehearsing.”

“What do you mean?” Mick asked, grabbing hold of his glass. The table shook a bit, and a silver ring rolled out of the brown package he had wondered about. Startled, he jumped and whirled around.

No one stood where Oscar had.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to embarrass you, Mick. It’s just, I caught you pretending the woman in the painting was me, and I’m truly happy to hear you’ll stick around,” Wren said. Blushing, she tucked a stray curl behind her ear and smiled coyly.

“Where did, uh, where did Oscar go?” He asked hesitantly.

“Oh, silly me. Let me introduce you to Oscar, my labradoodle. He finally ventured down to keep me company while I worked,” Wren said in a sweet, child-like voice.

Wren’s words went out of focus, and a chill arrived with the memory of the kid’s last words to him.

I guess I could stick around for a little while.

Mick stood, staring at the ring. A silver snake coiled around it, missing the finger it belonged to.

The package had "personal effects" scribed in black permanent marker.