Page 55 of Now to Forever (Life on the Ledge Duet #2)

Thirty-Nine

“You’re looking . . .” I assess Wanda’s clothes clinging to her body like neon plastic wrap, leaving nothing to the imagination as she wheels a casket into the cremation room. “Bold.”

She fluffs her hair, smiling wide. “Bold and the beautiful, just like my favorite soaps.”

I laugh under my breath and turn my attention to the woman in the casket. Alida Boudreaux is Black and in her early sixties with perfect skin that glows against the shine of the gold dress she’s in. Even though I know she’s dead, it’s as though her full lips are smiling.

“Wanda.” She looks at me. “You ever confront your ex-husband?”

“Psh!” She cuts her hand through the air.

“Got me nothing but a black eye when we were married if that’s what you mean.

After though . . .” Her voice trails off as she chews the inside of her lip.

“After, we were in a room and the lawyers stepped out. For whatever reason, they left us alone. He looked at me, just like I’m looking at you right here, and he said, ‘I loved you the only way I knew how, Wanda.’ ” Her eyebrows hitch high on her head.

“I rolled my eyes at the time, but now”—she shrugs one shoulder—“now I think maybe I get it. Not that it excuses it. Don’t change how I feel about the situation or him, but .

. . broken people break people if they don’t get their shit fixed.

” She blows a bubble. “Even though I tried to kill him, part of me hopes he figures it out. Hunts his demons down and destroys ’em so he can move forward.

” She pauses as if replaying her words for accuracy.

“Of course, the rest of me hopes someone ties him to the train tracks like a penny, and he gets flattened right out of existence.” She giggles.

Despite how morbid it is, I chuckle as I adjust the volume of the music—a Zydeco band whose rich sounds of saxophones shift the atmosphere of the whole building to that of a bar during Mardi Gras.

“Looks like the family’s arriving, honey.” Wanda nods toward the window looking into the witnessing room where people have started to file through the front door—a shocking amount—all dressed in bright colors and large hats, same dark skin as Alida’s.

“Let’s send her off, then,” I say as I hang the clipboard on the hook.

The door to the witnessing room bumps against someone as I open it, forcing me to wedge my body between a sliver of opening.

The room is packed with people. Some crying, some laughing, emotions amplifying when they see my outfit, a cartoon fleur-de-lis playing an accordion on a T-shirt under a bright purple blazer.

When Alida’s favorite song “Tee Nah Nah” starts to play through the speakers, their shouts and cries reach a crescendo.

“Would y’all like to see her before we start?” I ask.

It’s always a crapshoot of what people prefer.

Some want to say goodbye, others opt to stay in the witnessing room and simply watch.

In almost perfect unison, their yeses come as a collective holler.

I barely get the door fully open before they push their way by me to where her body rests in the simple cardboard casket.

There have never been so many people in the room.

Alida’s daughter stops beside me as we watch the horde of people surround her mother. “Who are all these people?” I whisper, several of the women dabbing their eyes with hankies.

Her daughter, Flavie, probably mid-twenties, smiles.

“A sister. Brother. Friends from church. That’s my brother and his wife.

” She points to a younger couple holding a baby.

“That guy over there is our mailman, and I’m pretty sure more than the mailman.

” She laughs, but it’s watery. “We moved here from New Orleans when I was a baby. Whole family did. Just up and left the swamp for the mountains.”

She and I stand quietly at the perimeter as the rest of them form a horseshoe shape around Alida, hands connecting.

“She must have been a hell of a woman,” I say.

“Get over here, Flavie,” a woman calls over her shoulder, contagious smile on her face.

Flavie raises a finger to them, looking at me. “In some ways yes. But”—she shrugs—“we’re human. She was a pain in the ass. Drank too much liquor. Lost her temper too easily. A straight shooter ’til we bled.” She laughs softly.

“How so?”

“She told us hard truths. Constantly. Sometimes it was harsh.” She cocks a brow.

“Dress too short to church for her liking?” She scoffs.

“She’d tell us in front of God and everyone that Jesus wouldn’t be impressed by a leggy whore with no shame.

” She chuckles . “But she never lied. Never held back. Told us when she messed up as much as she told us when we did. We did something to piss her off?” She smirks.

“She let us know on the spot, no matter where we were. And then it was over. Never threw it in our face or played games. She showed her cards, for better or worse. That’s how she loved us—hard and with honesty. Wasn’t always pretty, but it was true.”

One of the women starts to hum, the rest following until the smooth sound becomes louder than the speakers.

“She spanked us but made us biscuits.” She shrugs. “Did a lot wrong but did a lot right too. In the end, the light finds a way to outshine the dark.”

Flavie squeezes between two people and locks her hands with theirs and the first lyrics, sung in unison, follow.

Amazing grace . . .how sweet the sound.

They continue on, every lyric of the familiar hymn sung with the execution of a well-trained choir in front of a machine made to turn bodies to ash. The strength of their voices never wavers despite the emotion that fills their faces.

. . . that saved . . . a wretch . . . like me .

They continue through the whole song, and it’s as deafening as it is beautiful. Impossible to look away from. Singing every word like it matters. Like Alida can hear them wherever she’s gone off to.

The earth shall soon . . . dissolve like snow . . .

Wanda and Dondi, who usually stay in the back until it’s time to roll the body in, peek their heads around the corner. Wanda’s eyes meet mine: They’re wet. When I bring a hand to my face, mine are too.

The song ends, but an echo of the words stay. Like the lyrics merge with the air and imbed themselves into the walls. Wanda works the machine, rolling the box holding Alida in to be cremated. I sniff, looking at all of her friends and family. Imperfect people loving imperfect people.

“Would one of y’all like to push the button or would you like us to do it?” I ask.

Flavie puts her hand on the red button and looks at the rest of them, rivers of tears covering her cheeks. Like a secret language, they move toward her, hands piling on top of one another like a team in a football huddle.

“Bye, Mama,” she says, a wet smile on her face. “We’ll miss your mouth and your wisdom.”

Together, they push, and the loud hum of the machine fills the air.

For the first time in my two decades of working in this building, I’m jealous of the woman burning to ashes in a box.