Caskets And Catastrophe

ONE

“No one ever fell in love gracefully.” 

― Connie Brockway, The Bridal Season

ONE

My Uncle Jerome has been a licensed mortician for the past twenty-six years. He is a member of a funeral service education board here in Connecticut. I live with him, since he is childless and a long-time widower. Back when Aunt Lucy was still alive, they would treat me as their own child, but they never arranged whatever is needed for me to be adopted. Considering it's quite too late since I already turned nineteen, it doesn't bother me that much. Uncle Jerome is my mother's older brother. Both of my parents are dead. Uncle Jerome said that they were both killed in a famous plane crash in Florida, when I was just three months old. Yes, I long for a mother and a father at times, but Uncle Jerome and my late Aunt Lucy, who died eight years ago because of a brain tumor, never failed to make me feel like I have a family.

I am the one who manages our other business, which is, selling caskets. "Haymon Caskets" is what it is labeled. I am an amateur cosmetologist for the dead, and I also assist Uncle Jerome sometimes as he does his mortuary rites. He gets a huge amount of salary from his job, and he would give me my extra income for my amateur work as well. Yes, it is acceptable to think that we have a knack of interest for the dead. 

To be completely honest, I am still scared of corpses, despite of seeing them almost everyday of my life. Whenever I would do their makeup, I would wear a crucifix necklace with me. Yep, I am an actual chicken. But just last month, Uncle Jerome complimented that I'm somewhat getting better, and I was relieved to hear that. I just graduated high school last year, and I am still saving up for my college funds. Uncle Jerome insists that he would pay my tuition, but I resist every time he offers. I don't want to be a burden. Besides, I already have a good income. So, by God's grace and by my hard work, I'm hoping I can finally attend college next year.

“It's dinner time. Come on, Vienna!” I hear Uncle Jerome call from the living room. I shut down my laptop, get up from my bed and walk downstairs.

“What's for dinner?” I ask, peeking at the bowl he is working on.

“It's, uh. . .” Uncle Jerome clears his throat and scratches his head.

I grin. “What is it?” I press on, my smile getting even wider.

“Uh. . . I forgot the name.” Uncle Jerome admits.

I narrow my eyes. “It's just chicken curry, Uncle!”

“Wha—?” Uncle Jerome stares from me to the bowl he's holding, and laughs.

“I'm turning old,” he mutters, and I laugh. I reach up to flick his forehead.

“You're so short,” Uncle Jerome teases. I fake a glare.

“It's not my fault! And besides, you're like six foot three or something.”

“Six foot four.” Uncle Jerome corrects, laughing throatily.

“See!” I retort childishly. It's not my fault I'm just five foot one. Blame the genes!

We eat Uncle Jerome's chicken curry dish while watching a basketball game on television. His cooking isn't that bad, though the colour isn't that presentable to look at. If you know what I mean.

“Vienna, I have a huge favor to ask of you." Uncle Jerome says in a serious tone. Uh oh. I don't trust "a huge favor" very much.

"What is it, Uncle?"

Uncle Jerome looks me in the eyes very seriously, and I gulp. This isn't going to be fun.

"What is it? Don't make me nervous!" I say, frowning. I'm scared of what that favor might be. Uncle Jerome rarely asks for favors.