Page 1 of Mourner for Hire

ONE

VADA

The sweat from my fingertips soaks into the black ink of the funeral program in my hands.

Jeremiah Elling.

He told me once that if laughter really was the best medicine, he should’ve been cured by now. I let myself smile, just for a second, remembering the man who hired me. He had a good soul. May he rest in peace. And may I get on with what he paid me for.

The church is silent except for stifled cries and sniffling while the organist adjusts her sheet music.

I strategically tap my foot against the parquet floors.

The tap-tap echoes in the awkward silence, amplifying the sounds of my purposeful fidgeting.

The heads of at least five sympathetic vultures sitting in the pews around me swivel in my direction.

Their eyes land on me just as I intended. I walk into every funeral with a checklist—it’s my job to have a plan and execute it accordingly.

Draw attention to yourself.

Trust me, he said. That church is tight-knit enough that they’ll recognize an outsider instantly .

I tap my foot a little louder, making the couple down the pew shoot daggers at me with their eyes. How rude! How inappropriate!

Yes, exactly. Every part of my plan is falling into place.

The new widow clears her throat and wipes her cheeks—funny since there are no tears on her face. She apologizes into the microphone on stage loud enough to make the speakers squeak and the congregation plug their ears and gasp.

The thunderous notes of the organ begin to play, and the widow takes a moment to compose herself.

I clear my throat and the couple next to me turns their heads again. The woman in the pair whispers something I’m certain is along the lines of, “Who even is she?”

Yes, who even am I?

I am many things. I am stale church cookies and bitter coffee in the church foyer at a funeral.

I am a mystery on the hill next to a headstone, a black veil, a broken urn, and a rose on a casket.

I am an untold story from beyond the grave and a distraction for the living.

I am the final word and a promise kept. I am hushed whispers over a crowd, a delicate secret revealed, and the final nail in the coffin. I am whatever I’m asked to be.

My name is Vada Daughtry, and I am a mourner for hire.

Today, my job is to attend the funeral of Jeremiah Elling. He passed away after a five-year battle with ALS. He was hilarious with bright brown eyes and an obnoxiously positive attitude that would have been annoying if he didn’t seem so genuine.

Jeremiah Elling hired me when he started losing fine motor function.

His words slurred, sentences coming in fragments, each one an effort.

I could tell it took everything in him to speak.

So much so that it seemed painful, which is a shame because I wanted to hear everything he had to say.

He was married for fourteen years to the love of his life and fathered two children.

At least on paper.

He long suspected his wife—the very woman choking back dry tears and telling the organ player to give her a few more moments to collect herself before she begins to sing—was having an affair with the pastor of their church, and his two wonderful children are biologically Pastor Edwin Robertson’s.

The smug bastard is admiring the widow fondly from the pulpit that is off to the right of the stage.

Share the rumor with the people next to you. Gossip spreads fast in church congregations.

Despite her glares and mild irritation at my tapping, the woman beside me seems genuinely distraught.

She dabs at her eyes with the back of her hand, fumbling with an empty tissue packet.

I slip a folded tissue from my pocketbook onto the pew between us, careful not to make eye contact.

She takes it without a word. Good. I’m not here to comfort. I’m here to disrupt…

I lean into the couple still glaring at me on my other side.

“Did you hear? She was unfaithful,” I murmur, slipping into my church-girl hush.

The woman narrows her eyes on me. Her mouth twitches, and her eyes drift to the left—an easy tell of a lie.

“Mrs. Elling? There’s no way.”

The man’s hushed whisper isn’t hushed enough, and the row behind us seems to have their interest piqued because a young woman leans forward and says, “I always thought Pastor Ed was too fond of her. I’d be dropping off the church’s tithing report before I left the church office, and she’d be in there ‘discussing the choir and the hymn list for service the next Sunday.’” She rolls her eyes.

I smirk. I chose my seat well.

“No, no. Hope would never!” the woman next to me whisper-shouts.

Someone hushes her, and “On Eagle’s Wings” continues to blare through the sanctuary.

When the grieving widow finally finishes the endless hymn, Pastor Ed rises and meets her on the stage. The microphone is turned off, there’s a soft hug of condolence, and Mrs. Elling finds her place in the front row.

Pastor Ed opens in prayer and begins reading a never-ending eulogy. Even the more emotional attendants in the congregation seem to grow restless.

“Jeremiah was a good man. He worked hard and loved his family fiercely. He did God, the church, and this world an honor.” He inhales sharply and descends the steps of the stage, closer and closer to Mrs. Elling.

I search his hands for a folded flag or an overlooked memento I may have forgotten in my notes when discussing the details of this procession with Jeremiah.

But I see nothing. He moves closer to Jeremiah’s widow, hand in his pocket.

Curiosity gets the better of me and I crane my neck to see what he’s doing.

“He had the kind of personality that made you feel like you would never be alone,” the pastor continues. “And I don’t think he would ever want you to be alone, Hope.”

The pastor drops on a knee.

My eyes bulge. Wait, is he about to…

The congregation collectively inhales, withholding outrage.

“Will you marry me?”

A whimper, a nod, and she’s in his arms. I’ve never been married, but even at the tender age of twenty-nine, I know this proposal is shameless at best and heartless at worst.

Even still, a slow clap descends over the crowd. And with it, I understand Jeremiah’s third request.

After I draw attention to myself in subtle ways, spread the rumor, and then, when the time is right, I am to stand up and say, “Jeremiah just turned in his grave!”

Every head turns to face me as I utter the words. Some smiling, though most are shocked. My gaze stays trained on Hope Elling.

“Ushers, please remove the disruption,” Pastor Ed says .

But the two men don’t even reach me before I slip out of the pew on the outside of the sanctuary. My job is done.

I wink at Jeremiah’s brother—executor of his will—and he offers a nod, slipping his phone from his pocket. As I make my escape past the stained glass windows, through the heavy wooden doors, and down the rain-slicked steps, my phone vibrates.

I tear off my mourning veil and toss it onto the passenger seat before slipping into my car. As I peel out of the parking lot, my phone vibrates again. I glance at the screen.

Thank you.

Transfer initiated.

I whisper a thank you to Jeremiah and then an apology.

It doesn’t matter if he’s dead or alive, whether or not you believe in Heaven or Hell.

The immorality of the pastor proposing to the widow who is still fresh with death is unconscionable.

She was at his bedside in the hospital not even a week ago—I’m sure the hospital stench is still fresh in her nostrils and his medications still litter the counters of her home.

One thousand dollars is not a lot of money, depending on who’s holding the cash, but I’m willing to bet it’s a small price for Jeremiah to pay to plague his widow with guilt until it’s her turn to lie down in a coffin.

Death is a bitch, but it pays the bills.

My right foot turns to lead the second I hit the freeway. I let out a laugh at the absurdity of the entire situation, turn up the radio, and then head southwest for my two-hour drive.

I have another pre-death meeting to attend.