Embrace the Grim Reaper (3 page)

Eric grinned. “I love my crew.”

“I can see why.”

“Now.” Eric clapped his hands together. “You and I can set out the bread.” He opened a cupboard and pulled out a dozen baskets. “Line these with those linen napkins over there. You can use that counter.”

Casey washed her hands at the large metal sink, then took the baskets and set them in a row, flapping open the white squares of fabric. Eric followed, removing sliced bread from plastic bags and filling the baskets.

“Homemade bread?” Casey asked.

“Day old, from the bakery down the street. Or two days old. Still good. Better than store-bought. Plus, it’s free. You want to cover the bread with the extra napkins?”

She did, and they carried them out to place them on the tables, along with economy-sized tubs of margarine.

Movement at the front caught her eye, and Casey saw faces at the glass of the door. “Guests?”

Eric turned. “Yup. It’s almost five. Why don’t you let them in?”

She went to open the door and stood back as a family of five eased past her, the three young children studying her with an uncomfortable intensity. Casey took another step back. The parents glided by without a glance, their eyes on the floor. Casey peeked out the door, but seeing no one else, shut it and went back to the kitchen, passing the family, who’d seated themselves at the far end of the first table.

Eric stood beside the open refrigerator door in the kitchen. “Here.” He took out a tub of peaches and set them next to some spotted bananas on the counter. “Cut these up and arrange them on these trays.”

“How—”

“Doesn’t matter. Just in slices. You can divide the bananas into quarters, maybe. Leave them in the peels.”

“Where are you going?”

“To greet the folks. They’re used to seeing me. I like to at least say hello.”

“They didn’t say anything to me.”

“No.” He smiled sadly. “They wouldn’t. It’s been…” He stopped.

“What?”

“Oh. Difficult.”

“With them losing their jobs?”

“Sure. Yes. That’s been really hard.”

There was more, Casey could read it in the tightness of his jaw. But Eric wasn’t saying anything else.

Casey watched him go, the stiffness of his shoulders the only other clue of his discomfort. Of some kind of pain.

This town is not unfamiliar to me. Death’s face hovered before Casey’s
.

“Eric!”

He stopped in the doorway, his face turned back toward her, eyes wary. “Yeah?”

“Oh. It’s nothing. Never mind.” Yes, Eric, Death told me a few minutes ago that…

He continued on.

The dining room soon filled, and Casey stayed busy helping Loretta serve the beef and vegetable soup (low on both beef and vegetables), mopping up a glass of spilled milk, and refilling the bread baskets, until the bread was gone. There was even dessert—day old cookies and brownies from the bakery, along with the remainder of a birthday cake. Casey wondered if the bakers got some kind of a tax break with all of their donations, or if they gave out of the goodness of their hearts. Perhaps both.

The guests ranged in age from an infant, still at his mother’s breast, to a man so old he needed help guiding his spoon to his mouth. There must have been sixty-five people around the tables, but from the noise level Casey would have guessed fewer. The lack of volume disturbed her, as if these people had no energy left to do anything but fill their stomachs. Had this room sounded like this a year ago? Or before last Christmas? A sudden cry rent the air, and Casey swallowed the lump in her throat as the young mother paused in her own eating to hold her baby over her shoulder and pat his back.

Eric came to stand beside Casey, an empty bread basket under his arm.

“It’s nice of his daughter to help him eat,” Casey said, indicating the old man, and the woman beside him.

“Oh, she’s not his daughter. He doesn’t have any family around. She’s his neighbor. Brings him along with her every day. Or the days he feels good enough, anyway.”

“Where’s his family?”

His face tightened. “Left at Christmas, when Karl kicked them out.”

“Karl? Who’s Karl?”

“What?” Eric blinked. “Oh, Karl Willems. He’s the CEO of HomeMaker. Made the final decision to move HomeMaker out of the country.”

Families were beginning to clear out now, bobbing their heads and mumbling thanks to Eric as they left. Casey watched him do his best to make eye contact with them, even hunkering down to talk with the kids, one of whom hit him on the head with one of Johnny’s carefully wrapped silverware bundles. The mother, horrified, snatched her child from the floor and hustled out the door. Eric saw the last of the guests out and locked the door before heading back toward the kitchen, rubbing his head.

Casey grinned. “Need an ice pack?”

“I’m going to have to ask Johnny to double-wrap the children’s forks and spoons. Come on, let’s see what he’s up to.”

They found him standing beside Loretta at the sink, a dishtowel in his hand as he lectured her about silverware and the best way to clean it. Together the two of them had already made quite a dent in the washing. Reassured that things were in hand, Eric led Casey back out to the dining room, where they cleared the tables, wiped down the tablecloths, and began picking up trash.

“Whoops,” Eric said, glancing at the clock. “I gotta go. Have something at seven, and I’ve got ten minutes to get there.”

Casey saw with surprise that time had, indeed, flown by. “I’ll finish up here.”

“You don’t have to. I usually do it the next day, like you helped with earlier.”

“I don’t mind. Really.” It’s not like she had anywhere to go.

“Oh. Well, all right. Thanks.” He jogged to the kitchen and came back out with a duffel bag slung over his shoulder. He paused at the front door, his hand on the latch. “Thanks for helping tonight. It was…fun.”

Casey regarded him. “You’re welcome. Thanks for letting me be a part of it.”

“Loretta can open the staff room for you to get your bag when you’re ready.” He looked out the front door, then back again. “If you’re around tomorrow…”

“I’ll try to come back. If I’m still in town.”

“Okay. Good.” He gave her another one of his blinding smiles, although this time Casey could see the events of the past two hours reflected in his eyes. “See you around, then, Casey Smith.”

She nodded. “Mr. Jones.”

And he was gone.

Chapter Four

The door locked behind Casey with a snap, and she stood on the sidewalk, her backpack resting on the ground beside her.

When Casey had finished cleaning the dining room, Loretta (Hallelujah! Praise God!) had insisted on feeding her before letting her leave. Casey didn’t argue. There was just enough leftover soup for the three of them, and even a little fruit. Johnny cheerfully slurped his way through his bowl after bestowing Casey with a set of silverware. She had thanked him solemnly, and he sat next to her so closely she couldn’t move her left arm.

“Birthday cake for the nice lady,” Johnny said when she was done, handing her a corner piece with a wilted icing flower.

“Thank you. Who’s birthday was it? One of the children?”

“Oh, no, baby,” Loretta said. “It was Eric’s, the dear boy.”

“And how old is he?”

Johnny pursed his lips, and Loretta stared at Casey’s cake. “Somewhere in his twenties. Or is he thirty now? He didn’t want to make a big deal out of it, but he’s such a precious child of God we didn’t want to miss it. Thank you Jesus!”

Casey ate her cake, but didn’t ask any more questions.

Now she stood outside after retrieving her bag from the locker room, and for the second time in one day she had a full belly. The air in the darkening evening had chilled, and Casey pulled a jacket from her pack, zipping it up to her chin. She looked back into the building, but the lights were off, and everything was quiet.

Time to find somewhere for the night.

She heaved her bag onto her back and started down the sidewalk. She should’ve asked the others where to stay, and wondered why she didn’t. Forgot. Or didn’t want to sound needy. Whichever it was, she was paying for it now as she cast an eye toward the starless sky. She hoped it wasn’t about to rain again.

A few blocks down the street she found an enclosed—and apparently unused—bus stop, and she stepped in to look at the map on the wall. An X designated where she stood, but no names, other than streets, gave her any information of which colored square might be a hotel. Giving up on that, she perused the information sheets taped to the wall. Advertisements for baby-sitting, with phone number tabs to pull off, an announcement of a church fish fry for the previous Friday, and a schedule of the local high school’s fall sports. There was also a call for garage sale items to benefit the family of a woman named Ellen Schneider, who “left us before her time.”

Casey sucked in her breath as she read the fine print below the announcement. Ellen, a resident of the town, had died suddenly the week before, leaving her two school-age children parentless, with no father in the picture. No details about her death. No explanations. Casey gritted her teeth. Death must’ve been especially bored. A young single mother? Sudden death? Casey’s breath came fast and hard, and she pulled her eyes from the poster, concentrating on her heartbeat. a-One. a-Two. a-Three.

She forced herself to look beyond the garage sale notice, and continued past a homemade sign depicting a lost cat named Snowball, to yet one more faded announcement, this time for play auditions, held almost two weeks earlier. Twelfth Night. A rather strange choice for a dying town. But then, maybe they needed all the humor they could get.

The paper fluttered in the breeze, two of the four corners ripped from the tape, and Casey held it down to read it. Open try-outs, it said. Anyone interested was to come by the Albion Theater one of the two nights. Rehearsals would begin the next week. Which would be last week, Casey thought. She found the theater on the map, its address plainly stated on the announcement. She looked at the sky. Wasn’t raining yet. And maybe they were rehearsing. It would give her something to do other than camp out in a hotel room, watching cable and being angry with Death.

It wasn’t hard to find the Albion. In fact, she’d already passed it when she first got to town, only she’d thought it was a movie theater. It probably had been, in its earlier days. Posters covered the front windows, with photos of past productions displayed prominently. The Foreigner, Little Women, Cheaper by the Dozen. Casey swallowed. Looked away. Found the front door, and went in.

The lobby was dark, with only emergency lights illuminating the open space. Benches lined the walls, and a display stand held an unfinished board showing a few of the play’s cast. A stack of loose photos lay on the floor, waiting for positioning on the sign. Community production, Casey thought, the visible headshots just missing the mark of professionals.

Voices seeped through the double doors from what Casey imagined was the theater space. She stood with her ear against the crack, listening for a moment before easing one side open and slipping in.

The musty smell hit her, almost a physical assault, and she closed her eyes, memories cascading through her mind as she stood in the aisle, her hands grasping one of the seats. The voices of the actors drifted over her, underscored by the quiet hum of the house lights, and slowly she regained her equilibrium. Opening her eyes, she slipped into the back row and lowered herself into one of the lumpy seats. Dust motes floated in the light from the instruments hanging on the catwalk, and the distant actors now stood quiet, looking down at the director, a silhouette in the front row.

Casey let the sounds, the smells, and the lights wash over her as she traveled back. Back to life before Omar. Before now. Her muscles tightened in response to her thoughts, remembering the feel of the stage, the thrill of a full house.

The sharp voice of the director snapped her out of her memories, and she broke out in an instant sweat. The director clearly wasn’t happy with what he’d seen. His words, plainly heard from where she sat, were clipped and harsh, and the actors stood hunchbacked as they listened.

“I am at a loss,” the director said. “I know we are without one of our leading ladies. I know Becca here is filling in, but…” He held his hands up, as in supplication. “Is this really the best you can do?”

Casey sat up in her seat, squinting toward the front of the theater. Was someone sitting with the director? Was there a stage manager, taking down blocking, answering the calls for ‘Line’?” Trying to keep the director from actually killing his cast members? No one that she could see. She sank back in her chair to take a closer look at the actors.

And allowed a small smile.

I have something at seven, Eric had said
.

He stood on stage beside the female lead, rubbing a hand through his hair as the director spoke. He looked much younger under the house lights than he had at the soup kitchen, where the pain of his constituents was etched into his face. Now his sandy hair shadowed his eyes, and his face was revealed as a smooth white blur. Casey rested her elbows on the arms of the chair, her hands dangling over her stomach as she watched Eric resume his place by a reclining lawn chair, obviously a rehearsal prop.

“Okay,” the man in the front row said. “Page twenty-three. Viola’s scene with Feste, Toby, and Andrew. See if we can’t generate something interesting. Come on, people. Go.”

Casey winced as the woman began speaking. Not exactly Equity quality. But then, the director had said she was filling in, and Shakespeare wasn’t the easiest for anybody, let alone someone in a tiny Midwestern town who’d probably never seen a union production of anything, let alone Twelfth Night. The other two actors in the scene offered their lines, a duet of not enough inflection and way too much, but they were young, maybe not even out of high school, and actually better than the woman. Soon it was Eric’s turn, and Casey held her breath, wishing she’d left before hearing him, as she’d liked him and wanted to be able to think of him without remembering badly done Shakespeare. But it was too late, and she gritted her teeth, waiting.

As he spoke she sat up straighter. Eric was not only leagues above the others, but equal to the actors she’d worked with in Seattle, Cleveland, and Chicago. She looked around, feeling as if she were on one of those dreadful reality shows, someone waiting in the wings to surprise her with a sudden flash of a camera.

But it was no joke.

Listening with growing surprise and wonder at Eric’s quality of acting, she shook her head. Who would’ve thought, here in…what was the town called? Clymer? And really, what on earth was someone with his talent doing in a community production?

Shocked, Casey remained in her seat, not even minding the slaughtering of the language going on around Eric. It was worth it, just hearing him open his mouth. She wondered what the director was thinking. Was he irritated because the others couldn’t possibly act to Eric’s standard? Was he another talented man, like Eric, who was for some incomprehensible reason here in this tiny town doing community theater? Or was he one of those all-too-common folks who think they know a lot more about theater than they actually do?

The scene played out, and the actors looked toward the director. Casey watched Eric, but his expression revealed nothing. Not anxiety, not hope. Not even much interest. Casey checked out the others, only to see the lack of emotion repeated. The only actor really listening as the director ranted was the younger man playing Sir Toby, his eyes rapt on the director’s face.

“Enough for tonight,” the director said with a jerk of his hand. “Go home. Go over your blocking. Learn your lines, for God’s sake. Do something.” He stood, shoved his notebook into a bag, and before Casey had a chance to react he was striding down the aisle toward her seat. There was nowhere to hide, and the director stopped by her chair, lifting his hands toward the ceiling.

“It’s about time,” he said. “I thought you’d never get here.”