Honey, Put On That Party Dress

Another little nothing piece from Fiction Workshop.

Norm often wondered if the faint – or sometimes violent – twitches in a corpse's limbs were merely a ghost playing pranks on the living. Postmortem could be somewhat amusing if one was left alone with a body for a time. Most people would have found this a disturbing thought, but for the county's only mortician and funeral home owner, it was a recurring one. For the past minute or so – the mortuary’s only clock had stopped working nearly two days ago – Mary Jane's fingers had been curling into her upturned palm and uncurling again, as if beckoning him from across the room. They had been childhood playmates, living within a few houses of each other. She had been the only girl who wouldn't cry when pushed into the mud and, in fact, was usually the one doing the pushing. She always preferred "Janey" but never minded that Norm was the only one to call her "Mary J" – the only one.

 

When they were twelve, they shared their first almost kiss. It had been in Johnny Lempky's basement at his thirteenth birthday party, and someone had suggested they play spin the bottle. When Mary Jane's turn came, she had boldly cupped the bottle and turned it to face Norm without ever spinning it. His ears had turned an embarrassing shade of red before both began to lean forward towards the center of the bewildered and giggling circle. They had hesitated for a moment, Mary Jane's bright green eyes staring into his bland hazels. Had they not paused, they might have been able to have a few seconds of contact before Johnny's mother came to check on them and put an immediate stop to the game.

 

"You kids shouldn't be worrying about that kind of stuff yet," she had scolded, and Norm was left wondering what she meant by "that kind of stuff." A kiss was just a kiss, right? Later that week at the school social he found out just how wrong he had been. Mary Jane had asked him to go with her – as friends, of course – and he had agreed on the condition that if they danced together, they could have only one slow dance. After she had given him an awkward, pre-teen peck on the lips, however, they had lingered on the dance floor much longer than he had intended to – or noticed, for that matter.

 

Their second kiss had been at Mary Jane's sweet sixteen. Her father had forbidden her to date until she was "of age," as he put it, and Norm had waited as patiently as possible, having been able to date since fifteen. Not that he had, mind you. He was only interested in one girl. He had given her a box small enough to fit in the palm of her hand, held together with a blue ribbon – her favorite color – and she had smiled shyly. It was the only time he had ever seen her cheeks turn pink. Inside, wrapped in white tissue paper, was a ring, the band thick and the oval-shaped stone a myriad of colors. A mood ring – the official ring of young couples. That was the test. If she put it on her right ring finger, it meant she only wanted to be friends, but she if she placed it on her left – which she did – it meant they were boyfriend and girlfriend, "till death – or a hotter and richer someone – do us part." And there in front of her party guests – and her father's twitching eye – she kissed him, causing a Cheshire cat smile to break out on his face and remain there the rest of the day.

 

They had dated for the better part of a year, through July and August and to the end of their junior year of high school. That was when her father had been offered a job in another state, and Norm found himself waving to a large U-Haul truck before the end of the summer, left with the memory of their last dance at Junior Prom. She'd promised to write. She didn't. He had attempted to date in college, finding very few women – or men – that even remotely compared to the memory of his beloved Mary J.

 

And so he remained alone. It was just as well, he supposed. Most husbands, when returning home from work, would sit at the dinner table and discuss their day. Norm couldn't do that, at least not without causing someone to lose their appetite. He didn't have satisfied customers; only the faint, watery smiles of the deceased's loved ones as they passed him in the funeral home. He didn't have success stories; only the satisfaction of being able to put another tragedy to rest. He didn't have colleagues; only decaying corpses to keep him company. Granted, they were good listeners, but they never held up their end of the conversation well.

 

Mary Jane returned to her small hometown in a body bag as the victim of a hit and run, accompanied by her husband and their three-year-old daughter. She had moved on, something that Norm had never been able to do himself. She had forgotten him completely, but he couldn't blame her. Not for that. After all, she had been his first kiss, his first dance, his first everything. And she probably never even knew. Why she wanted to be buried here was anyone's guess. The memories, perhaps, or the fact that much of her family had plots in the local cemetery. Norm, himself, didn't want to be buried. He planned on being cremated and scattered anywhere but here, his reasoning being the same – memories and family.

 

Finally standing, he stretched, popping his shoulder blades and a few joints in his spine. Cursing the mortuary clock that probably hadn't been replaced since the early 1900's, he pushed back the sleeve of his blue scrubs to reveal a cheap, digital watch he had gotten years ago from someone who didn't matter for some holiday that he didn't care to remember. Her body had been there for nearly three hours, and he hadn't even touched her yet – couldn’t bring himself to. Her husband would be there in a couple of hours to make arrangements – find a casket, pick the outfit she was to be buried in, determine how many people would be attending the wake and the funeral. The paramedics had been kind enough to remove her from the bag. She wore a flimsy paper gown, having already been embalmed at the mortuary in the other town, the one with her perfect life. Norm wasn't at all sure if he would have been able to do the embalming himself, but he pondered the idea further as he approached the body, lazily examining her slender form. He carefully opened her eyes, wishing to catch at least a fleeting glance of his past.

 

"Such a shame," he murmured with a disappointed sigh as all that stared back at him was a dull green, surrounded by thick, dark lashes. They had been so full of life once – two smiling orbs that reflected the world straight into his soul. He brushed a stray hair from her cheek as his gaze shifted to her pale lips, and leaning in close, he wondered if they were still as full and soft as he remembered.

Reviews

[hhoosh]

This is pretty fantastic for being what it is.

Not sure I have anything to offer as a critique. Everything seemed very strong and exact in this piece, and sensitivity is obviously a strong-suit of yours. Just to say so, a particular line that I liked was;
"He didn't have satisfied customers; only the faint, watery smiles of the deceased's loved ones as they passed him in the funeral home"

Just sat well with me, that line. Particularly the subtle way you chose to describe grieving persons.

Just very cool, and am very glad I had the urge to search "honey" and come across this.