“Now who’s shameless?” he teases, twisting the doorknob. “Pick ya up at noon.”
“Don’t be late!”
As soon as he’s gone, I have the urge to call him back—not that I can act on it, seeing how I have less than a minute to switch myself back into work mode.
“Ms. Daigle?”
“In here,” I call out to the feminine shadow hovering just outside my door.
A woman who can’t be much older than I am peeks her head into my office. She’s a little mousy, with layered, shoulder-length hair and the same red-rimmed eyes I encounter on a regular basis. “Come on in,” I say, waving her inside. “Please, have a seat.”
An older version of her slips in right after.
“Both of you,” I add, directing them to the two chairs across from mine.
“I’m Maria,” the younger of the two offers, “and this is my mom, Vicky.”
The grieving widow lifts one finger in greeting while blowing snot into a hanky.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you both,” I say, offering them a box of tissue. “I’m very sorry it had to be under such awful circumstances.”
“Thank you,” Maria says, cringing when her mother sets her bag down and it barks.
“Mom,” she grits, nearly expiring from mortification.
“It’s fine,” I assure her. I rise from my seat, peering over the top of my desk to seem more welcoming. “Who do we have here?” I ask when not one, but two little Yorkshire terriers climb up onto her lap.
“Lucy and Ricky,” Mrs. Boudreaux says. “Harold was so fond of his puppies.” She pauses to dab at her face. “He took them everywhere.”
“That’s lovely.”
“I couldn’t leave them behind.”
“Of course not,” I say. “They are more than welcome.”
That comment earns me my first wobbly smile from the woman.
It’s not uncommon for the bereaved to latch onto something that makes them feel closer to a lost loved one. They’ll wear their clothes or drive their cars. Serve all of their favorite foods during the reception. We once had a father insist to having his son’s dirt bike beside the casket. This is the first time we’ve had a client bring along a pet, or two rather, to schedule funeral arrangements, but we are in the habit of making whatever allowances possible to make this painful process a little more bearable.
“Well, they are precious,” I say, smiling huge while sending up a silent prayer that they don’t relieve themselves in my office.
“Yes.” She twirls the tail of the smaller one between her fingers. “They are.”
“So,” I say, determined to move things along as quickly and efficiently as possible, “it is my understanding we’re to have a traditional viewing and burial?”
Maria nods while Vicky fawns over her companions, not seeming to be paying one iota of attention.
“Well, then. Why don’t we head over to the casket room so you can make a selection? Afterward, we can come back here to go over the financials and finalize plans.”
In no time at all, the women settle on a mid-priced pine casket. It’s sturdy and masculine and what they both feel he’d choose for himself.
We are back in my office in record time, and I’m counting my blessings that so far, our tiny guests have left no souvenirs.
“I have a request,” Vicky says, just as we’re beginning to wrap things up.
The command in her tone catches me off guard, but I’m honestly relieved that she’s finally coming out of the fog she’s been in and partaking in this meeting. “Name it.” I give her my most sincere smile. “We will do whatever possible to make it happen.”
“Harold—he wanted to be buried with his babies.” She runs a hand lovingly over Lucy’s head, then adjusts the bows on her ears.
“The dogs,” Maria quickly clarifies. “She doesn’t mean actual babies.”
Like that somehow makes this request any more acceptable.
My eyes volley between the two of them and then focus on the little purse puppies cuddled together in Vicky’s lap. I can taste the bile rising in the back of my throat—climbing higher and higher with every second that ticks by. I’m not even sure what I’m waiting for…the hook, maybe? There’s no way they are serious.
They can’t be.
Once the silence becomes unbearably uncomfortable, I have little choice but to accept that this is in fact not a joke and that these women are completely deranged.
I don’t care that my father is in the back embalming this man as we speak. If they decide to take their business elsewhere, so be it. Daddy will just have to work it out. I refuse to entertain this for even a moment longer.
“I’m sorry,” I say, choking on disgust. “There’s no way I can go along with this.”
“But you just sai—” Harold’s widow starts.
The tips of my ears are as hot as Hades. “I know what I said, but I cannot allow you to murder those poor puppies.”
Maria snorts before losing herself to a fit of hysterical laughter. She’s folded over, hooting like a complete loon.
I feel like I’ve just transported to an alternate universe. What the hell is wrong with these people? I understand grief—probably better than most. But this…never in my wildest dreams did I imagine such a request.
“I don’t see how you could possibly find any of this funny.” I’m literally seconds away from calling the authorities on Lucy and Ricky’s behalf. Horrified doesn’t come close to defining what I feel.
“Not these puppies,” Maria finally squeaks out. “They’re already dead.”
“Oh, thank God.” My body literally deflates as I collapse into my seat with relief. I reach for a stack of paper from my desk and start fanning myself with it.
“We’re not monsters,” Vicky snaps, clearly offended. The eyes she has aimed at me reflect the derision I felt just moments ago.
“I’m very sorry, Mrs. Boudreaux. I misunderstood.”
The woman sneers before stuffing her pets back into their bag. “I’ll be right back.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Don’t mind her,” Maria tells me, sensing my discomfort. “It was an honest mistake, and quite hilarious. God, I needed that laugh, today of all days. Thank you.”
I nod and try to force a smile while still staring after the angry woman. “I feel awful.”
“Don’t,” Maria says. “She’s been completely out of sorts.”
“That’s understandable.”
Maria and I make small talk while awaiting her mother’s return. I assume she’s gone out for a breather or even a cigarette. Maybe to let the puppies have a potty break. I am not at all prepared for what happens when she comes back into the room, though I thought I’d seen just about everything by now.
“This is Wilma and Fred.”
I turn toward the door to find Vicky lugging two taxidermied Malteses—one tucked beneath each arm.
“I see,” I say, trying like hell to conceal the tremor in my voice.
“We’d like to place them next to the casket at the viewing and then bury them with my husband.”