Page 13 of Mourner for Hire

NINE

DOMINIC

“I’ll take a Vada, and he’ll have a Billie.”

I grit my teeth and force a smile at Marylou as she orders for herself and her husband.

She drums her fingers on the bar while she waits, her mascara clumped and her plump cheeks still pink and raw from crying at the funeral.

Seeing her dressed in black is odd since she’s known for her brightly colored headbands and pink apron.

But alas, her bakery attire isn’t deemed acceptable for attending a funeral, though I don’t think Mom would have minded.

Opening the bar after my mother’s funeral was planned for two reasons: one, business has been epically slow, and it provided a free venue to cap off the burial, and two, I knew manning the bar would keep my hands busy.

And if I could keep my hands busy, I could keep my anxiety and emotions in check.

But then there’s that damn drink.

The Billie was my most popular cocktail until I came up with the Vada. I left it up on the menu after that night, and it quickly grew in popularity. Mom commented on it once, telling me she liked the name.

By the time I sat down and saw Vada’s name in her will, she—it—had already become a crowd favorite. I renamed it to the Witch once, but that didn’t go over well and created enough confusion for me to switch it back.

I grit my teeth at Marylou and her husband, offering them a tight smile and muddling the shit out of the mint and brown sugar.

“Don’t kill the mint, Dunner. Damn,” my best friend, Eli, says on the other side of the bar.

“Don’t worry, I won’t.” I finish making the drink, and I’m met with another hug and condolence from Ella, my neighbor growing up.

Connor, a self-proclaimed reformed douchebag, comes up to me next.

We played football together in high school, but that was the limit of our friendship.

Not for any particular reason—he’s nice enough.

But there is some behavior of his that leads me to believe his douchebaggery isn’t entirely reformed.

I mean, he wears socks with sandals, and he still gets blond highlights.

Even still, I accept the sympathy and give him a slap of appreciation on his back.

Knowing what to say to someone who lost a parent is never easy.

Many times, all I need is the acknowledgment that they cared and they loved her, too.

I could do without the Hallmark cards and bouquets of lilies that make me sneeze and my throat itch.

I push through the crowd, receiving hugs and broken sentences of sympathy from my mom’s friends, my teachers growing up, even her lawyer and “special friend,” Sully.

“We’re meeting Tuesday,” I declare as he turns to leave.

He hesitates, his expression freezing momentarily because he fully understands what I’m suggesting.

“I’m here for anything you need, Dunner.”

With that, he tips his fedora and escapes the bar.

As the crowd dwindles, I find my eyelids growing heavy with exhausted grief. While I’m thankful for every person in this town coming to honor my mother, I’m ready to just be with my core people. Eli and Joelle and their daughter, Lucy, who’s playing on the pinball machine by herself .

I wipe down the mahogany wood, and Joelle leans closer like she’s conspiring to reveal secrets even though the bar is empty except for us. “That was her, wasn’t it?”

“Who?” I ask.

“The lady you were yelling at before we all left to come here.” Her eyes widen, and her head bobs with enough force to make her blond curls bounce.

She and her husband are opposite in almost every way, and I’m not just speaking about their complexion or her blond curls in contrast to his jet-black hair.

Even their demeanors are different. She’s like if bubble gum were a person, and Eli is like a salted pretzel—predictable and salty with a twisted sense of humor.

“I wasn’t yelling at her,” I defend myself.

“Yes, you were. You were towering over her—she was cowering behind that tree. The poor thing,” Joelle argues while Eli leans back in his chair, arms crossed and smirking at me because I know he sees right through me.

“No, she was handling herself just fine. And you should have heard the words she was saying back. She’s just a fraud that was caught.”

“Oh, shut up, Dunner,” Eli chimes in with an eye roll. “How did you expect her to know who your mom is?”

Anger slides up the veins in my neck. “Because she was in my mother’s will, for Christ’s sake. There had to be paperwork she signed. Names?—”

“That’s not how wills work,” Joelle adds.

“My mom had to have told her about me,” I finish with an angry breath.

“So let’s say your mom did tell her your name. But did you tell her your real name?”

Joelle already knows the answer to this. She stares at me with a sly expression, like a big sister who caught her little brother stealing cookies out of the cookie jar.

“No.” I keep my expression blank.

“Of course not. You never do any time a pretty thing walks into your life. You always keep women at arm’s length and give them your nickname,” she calls me out.

“And hits them with the line, that’s what my friends call me so they’ll say, oh, so we’re friends? ” Eli throws in, adding a female inflection on the last bit, which would be funny if it weren’t so honest.

“Though, many women have a degree in internet searches and figure out exactly what your name is even though you think you’re being charming by telling them it’s Dunner,” Joelle adds.

“Hey, you call me Dunner,” I reason with a small shrug.

“And this one probably didn’t care enough to look you up. And that’s what’s bothering you.” Eli points at me.

I tilt my head slightly. “First of all, don’t slut-shame me. And second of all, no, I’m not mad she didn’t look me up before she left town.”

Eli sips his beer, his eyes becoming slits as he reads me. “Right. You just named a drink after her.”

I throw my hands up. “Hey, we just got through with my mother’s funeral, and I would hope you guys would show me a little more sympathy.”

“Honey, we’ve been showing you sympathy for months, and we still will. But we’re also going to give you a dose of reality. I think she’s going to be coming back to town, and you’re going to have to figure it all out,” Joelle says as their daughter, Lucy, bounds over with a Dr. Pepper.

“Can I have more quarters for the pinball machine?” she asks.

I grab four coins from the quarter jar under the bar. “Have fun, kid. This is the only day you’ll get to enjoy the bar.”

She beams at me and skips through the now-empty bar.

The emotions that run through a person on the day of a loved one’s funeral aren’t normal.

Two hours ago, we were all crying and trying to hold it all together for eulogies and prayers.

Then, everyone left was smiling and laughing, playing games, and toasting my mother.

It’s how she would have wanted it. Now the bar is back to empty while I debrief with the people who matter most to me.

Cry as much as you want, she said. Just make sure you still laugh enough to drown out the tears.

My mother was a complex woman. Full of emotions and strange logic.

Everything she did eventually made sense even if it didn’t add up in the moment.

But she loved well. She wasn’t mysterious or lonely.

She didn’t have secrets as far as I knew, so I don’t understand why she’d even hire someone like Vada, let alone put her in the will to fix up the cottage.

I drag a hand down my face, exhausted from the day, and lean back on the liquor rack behind me. “I just don’t get it. Why would my mom be leaving the cottage to her?”

“What did your mom tell you before she died?” Eli asks.

“She didn’t tell me. Not specifically. She just said I wouldn’t have to worry about the cottage.

That way, I can focus on… other things.” I hesitate over the last two words.

Eli understands exactly what I’m talking about without me having to say anything more.

That’s why we’ve been friends for so long.

“Have you applied?” he asks.

“Yes.” I grind my knuckles against the bar. Realizing this time I have to figure out my life without anything else dictating the path I’m on.

“And?”

When Eli gets like this—short and to the point—I can feel our age gap. He’s three years older than me, and most of the time, I forget. Until he starts acting like a pseudo big brother.

“Just waiting,” I answer, but if I’m honest, whether or not I’m accepted back into any program is the last thing on my mind.

“You’re going to make a great doctor, Dunner,” Joelle says, squeezing my arm. “Your parents would be very proud of you.”

My tale is as old as time: scrawny teenager joins the military to get out of the small town he never left.

He’s on the path towards righteousness, serves his time, leaves the military, and goes to school before tragedy strikes and he’s sent back to his hometown for his father’s funeral only to return permanently when his mother gets sick—to make up for lost time.

The difference is, this time, I’m reluctant to go back and complete my residency.

I’m pushing thirty, and it makes me feel like I’m aging out.

Now I’m just twisted up in this town bar. I don’t regret coming back home. I don’t regret giving up my career in the medical field, because I got the last few years of my mom’s life instead. Precious time that cannot be replaced with careers, money, or degrees that we hang on our walls.

Still, my stomach turns when I realize how much of this story is written on my face or how I carry it on my shoulders that Vada read me like the book she was reading at the bar the night we met. Or met again. Supposedly she’s from here.

Apparently, we knew her and her mom once upon a time. But in life, people come and go. And she has been gone for decades. It doesn’t seem fair that shegets to come back and stake claim on something she doesn’t even remember.