Page 73 of The Dead Romantics

She hesitated.

“Why would I lie to you? If he didn’t look like him, I’d tell you.”

“He doesn’t look too... Tony Soprano?”

“He lovedSix Feet Under—”

“Florence!” Then, after a beat, “Those aren’t even the same shows!”

I rolled my eyes. “Dad looks great. Trust me, you’re good at what you do. Better than Dad, even.”

That, at least, made her a little calmer. “I can never be better than Dad,” she said and crossed her arms tightly over her chest again. She shifted her weight between one foot and the other, staring down at our father. I never could have done what she did. I couldn’t even look at Dad for very long before I burst into tears, so I decided to leavethatspectacle for tomorrow.

I’d already cried more times than I could count this week—if I kept this up, I’d die of dehydration myself.

Instead, I bumped my shoulder with Alice’s. “C’mon,” I prodded gently, “you’re done. Dad looks great. Pop him back in the fridge and go watch some anime or something.”

She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling. “Dad used to say that. ‘Oh, just let me pop ’em back in the fridge! I’ll meet you up top’—god, Florence, I miss him.”

“I do, too.”

I waited for her to return Dad to one of the freezers before we climbed the steps together. Alice locked the basement behind us, and somehow I managed to convince Carver to take her to dinner. They invited me, but I wasn’t really hungry.

I made an excuse. “I’ve got work, sorry.” And it was only a half lie. “The obit won’t write itself.”

“It’s not supposed to be a book, Florence,” Alice said.

I gave her a polite smile. “It’s hard to find words sometimes.”

“If you need help...”

“No, I’m fine.”

And suddenly, the comradery we had in the basement melted and she rolled her eyes. “Whatever, just don’t be late on it,” she said, and went to go fetch Karen, Seaburn, and Mom from the kitchen. They decided—loudly—to go to Olive Garden. My family was a lot of weird things, but sometimes they were just predictable. And that was nice.

Carver put on his coat and began to button it up slowly. “You two okay? You and Al?”

“She didn’t snap my head off this time,” I replied. “Well, at least not until the end there.”

“Maybe after all of this, you two should have a talk.”

“Carver...”

He gave me a look. “Listen to your middlest brother for once.”

And the voice of reason. Somehow. The longer I stayed in Mairmont, the deeper the town burrowed into my skin. It was too small and too comfortable and too steeped in everything I loved about Dad. And my family. And why I left. It hurt just being here.

I said, “I will.”

He held up his hand, pinkie out. “Promise?”

“Promise,” I replied, hooking his pinkie, and he left with Alice and Karen and Seaburn out the door.

Mom lingered for a moment, slipping into her ancient faux mink coat. With it on she reminded me of Morticia Addams and Cruella de Vil and soft winter evenings in the funeral home, closing the curtains and turning out the lights. “Are you sure you don’t want to come eat, Florence?”

“The endless salad and breadsticksaretempting,” I replied. “How did the last two funerals go?”

“Without a hitch. Now all we have is the big one, and I think we’ll close for the rest of the week after that. Give us some time.”

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