Along with #63, dedicated to "Jimmy Don't" McA.

March, 2008

Friends Help You Move.
Real Friends Help You Move Bodies.

Friends "do things" for friends.

"You've got a van. Could you help me move?"
"Are you busy the first week of March? Can you housesit for me?"
"I'm getting married next August, I swear the bridesmaid's dress isn't as bad as the last time!"
"Uh, could you loan me five hundred bucks? Just until I can get to the ATM? And—could you pick me up at the police station?"
"I'm at work, I can't leave and I'm starving. If you fly, I'll buy!"

"Oh, god, will you come visit my mother-in-law with me?"

I blinked. "Pardon?"

When I first bought Papyrus from Tim and Phil, I inherited one part-time employee (all I needed—and all I could afford): Beth-Rose Pearce, home ec teacher, collector of Dark Shadows memorabilia, New York Times crossword puzzle aficionado and a treasure trove for recipes of every stripe. She only stayed for another year (she needed the extra cash to pay for a kickass kitchen remodel) but remained a loyal customer from there on out.

She's also a widow. Her husband, Tad, died a couple of years ago, and until he passed away his mother was the bane of his existence. She was the queen of passive-aggressive manipulation, subtle backstabbing and flat-out fibs; Beth-Rose worked her ass off for over 40 years keeping peace in the nation until her monster-in-law said the wrong thing at the wrong time and Tad "sawed off her corner of the table" as my grandfather would have put it. This time he wasn't going to roll over and apologize (again) when he was the injured party (again), though he knew that Beth-Rose would keep in minimal contact out of self-preservation. Beth-Rose continued to sign both their names to cards and gift tags (not that they got anything in return)… and then Tad woke up one morning saying he felt like he had been drowning all night. She badgered him into going to the doctor… but the damage was already too extensive. Congestive heart failure. Pick an organ, pick a system, it was starting to fail. They did what they could, kept him alive another month, but at the end it was comfort care.

Beth-Rose was in a silent panic. Mommy Dearest had held tight to her snit fit, refusing to admit she was way out of line. She had been in a care facility for several years; nothing terminal, just a lot of chronic problems and the inability to care for herself, and was sometimes as mentally shaky as my own mother-in-law. As much of a biotch as she had been, Beth-Rose was worried that telling her Tad was dead—and she could therefore never make peace with him—might be the end of things. And she just wouldn't risk that. So, after talking things over with her sister-in-law, Phoebe, they decided to use a little subterfuge. The staff was told to keep Tad's death under wraps, and Beth-Rose continued to carefully include his name on cards and letters.

I had met Mrs. Grinnell once. Once was enough. More than enough. If she had come into the store again, I would have pointed to the "we reserve the right to refuse service to anyone" sign and kicked her out. Happily. "I thought Feebs usually went with you as bodyguard."

Beth-Rose nodded. "She's in the hospital." I gasped. "No, no, it's fine," she hastily reassured me. "Her doctor realized she hadn't had this test in over five years, that test in more than ten, and a whole slew of things she had never had done. So she's camped out for the next few days, getting everything tested from hairline to toenails."

"Joy." Still, better than visiting Mommy Dearest. I knew better than to ask if either of Beth's kids would go; once they were at the age where they could see that how grandma treated their dad made her lavish gifts suspect of being bribes (they were, they were), they spent as little time in her presence as possible. They'd only go out if they could dope her oatmeal. And Phoebe had heard, "Just wait, someday you'll have children of your own and you'll appreciate me because they'll be JUST like YOU!" too many times and never even married because of it. (So she claimed. I think it was because she enjoyed being the crazy cat lady of the block too much.)

"It's her birthday next week," Beth-Rose sighed. "I'm bringing her an Agatha Christie omnibus—though the nurses say everything she reads is a 'new' book."

"Yeah. Victoria 'meets' new neighbors all the rime. Sure," I said, resisting the temptation to sigh. "When?"

"Tomorrow?" she asked hopefully. "Soonest started, soonest done?"

"Fine by me." I'd see if Ducky had any knockout drops in his bag. For Mrs. Grinnell… or for us. Either way would be good.

/ / /

My smile was frozen to my face.

Twenty minutes. It felt like twenty hours, twenty days. No matter how Beth-Rose tried to gently distract her mother-in-law, all she wanted to do was dish dirt on everyone: the staff, her daughter, the grandchildren who never came to visit (No, really?), her succession of roommates (can't imagine why nobody wants to stay with her)… but all said in the sweetest of tones. Of one nurse: "She's such a nice girl, if only she didn't wear so much makeup, it makes her look like a streetwalker." Of me: "I don't remember you being so plump. But it makes your face so round and pretty, dear."

Beth-Rose was clearly ready to go, but trying to stay long enough that she wouldn't stir up the Wrath of Khan—Connie, I mean. She nodded a lot, said, "Mm-hmm" in the appropriate places and I knew she was looking forward to a good stiff drink when she got home. It was after 5pm somewhere in the universe.

I saw a puzzled look flicker across her eyes. "I'm sorry Connie," she said carefully. (Mrs. Grinnell had made it clear that only her son and daughter were to call her Mom. It took a decade before she let Beth-Rose call her "Connie.") "I didn't hear that clearly?"

"I knew you weren't listening," she said piteously. (I made a mental note to do something special with Victoria that weekend. Something. Anything. Anything she wanted.) "I wanted to know if it was a nice funeral."

She missed the 'ruh-roh, Shaggy' look I shot Beth-Rose. "Funeral?" Beth repeated.

"Thaddius's funeral," she sighed dolefully.

Oh, Shaggy, we're in deep voodoo doodoo, aren't we?

"Well…" Beth-Rose hedged. (There hadn't been a funeral. Tad considered them 'barbaric' and opted to have his body donated to a med school, followed by a cremation. No funeral; a crowd of us had a wake, got merrily drunk and told 'remember the time' stories until the wee hours.) "It was very nice," she lied.

"Did they read the twenty-third psalm? It was his favorite." (It was her favorite. Tad was an agnostic-sliding-to-atheist.) Beth-Rose nodded. "And did they sing 'Amazing Grace?'" Another nod. (Close enough. It was somewhere on the CD of bagpipe music playing in the background.)

After several minutes of nudging, Beth-Rose figured out that Mommy Dearest had known for a while that Tad was gone; someone on the staff had let it slip. (Or maybe told her flat out when they got tired of her Queen Bee act, just to rattle her cage.)

"It's sad," she sighed, when Beth-Rose asked her how she felt. "I would have liked to be there… but I can't leave here easily, and nobody wants to drive me anywhere." (Got it in one guess.) "And children should never die before their parents. But it's a good thing. Now he's with Jesus and his Aunt Emily and Uncle Jerome and his Daddy…" She sighed again, and I actually felt a little sorry for her. Her gaze fell on Beth-Rose and her eyes lit up to about 500 watts like she'd gotten a sudden message from the beyond. "You can be with him very soon if you want!"

We didn't drive over 20 mph the whole way back.