In Fifth Grade, DeeDee and Suzanne and I had an on-again, off-again friendship, in the triangular way of young girls. We slept over at one another's houses, compared body hair, played Monopoly. Suzanne and I both lived on Sixth Avenue, she in the red-brick-jutting-out disaster apartments, and I half a block past there in an old stone house. DeeDee lived way down on Warren, but most often she'd come home with one of us. We passed Green's Mortuary on the way, scuffing the toes of our Buster Browns in the vain hope we'd get new shoes, and get to pick them out this time. Some days the time dragged like suede on cement, and needing something to do, we dared each other to go in and touch the dead bodies.
First we'd check the funeral home parking lot; if it was empty, as it most often was, we opened the door slowly to avoid jingling the sleigh bells on the handle, and ducked in. Just getting in the front door made our hearts jump into our mouths, flooding adrenaline into our bodies like being alone in the house late at night and hearing a noise, or walking home from a scary movie when the wind skitters a plastic lid across the pavement.
None of us ever did it. Mostly we hovered in the anteroom whispering frantically, looking at the register of visitors to the corpse of the day. What would it feel like? Did they really sew the eyelids shut? What if I touched one and it sat up and looked back at me? The thought sent a twitch down my neck. It couldn't happen. They were dead. Weren't they? But I had heard stories about people who were supposed to be dead but weren't after all…
One afternoon DeeDee and Suzanne weren't with me. It could have been during the time neither of them were friends with me. Sometimes DeeDee and I were mad at Suzanne. Sometimes Suzanne and I planned on beating up DeeDee. Then they were both mad at me. Whether that is the reason why I was alone this one day I don't know, but I went in to conquer my fear, earn my bragging rights. I made it through the hallway, past the empty office and the register. I walked all the way up the aisle past a dozen somber wooden pews in the twilit viewing room. I could barely hear classical music, sounding like it came through a string and a soup can.
The dead lady lay in the center of the room in a pink-skirted shiny wood coffin. I looked in at her, cushioned like an egg in puffed pink satin lining. She was old. Or had been. Her hair curled in wispy blue tufts around her forehead, and just below, I could see the line of pancake. Her eyes were closed, her cheeks heavily spotted with rouge, and prim pink lipstick sealed her lips. Heart thumping, I took a step closer. Any closer and I'd be in with her. My right hand tensed, ready for my big move. Could I do it? Where? Maybe on her hand. Her hands were folded just above the closed half of the coffin. They were bony, brown-spotted, thin-skinned. I could see the booger-y blue veins underneath. I saw those hands grabbing me and choking the life out of me the instant I reached in. I put my hand down. I looked at her eyelids, bending down so I could peer up and under. No sign of stitching. Maybe I could just touch her dress. It was old and yellow, organza with lace high at the throat and frills on the cuff. You can't chicken out all the way. Yes. That's what I'll do.
I hadn't noticed the two people coming in behind me and when I did all of the sudden I had to go to the bathroom. Bad. A man came up close on my left and asked me, what was I doing there? I had prepared myself mentally for the possibility of running out of the building screaming with the undead in hot pursuit, but not for this. He looked upset, and I could see the writing on the wall. Either I was going to think of something fast, or I was going to get it when I got home.
I looked down at my shoes. "Sometimes people die with nobody to love them so I come in here and pray for them." He softened, face crinkling and tears tugging out of the corners of his eyes. She was his mother. He said I was beautiful and pressed some money in my hand. I bought Hershey Milk Chocolate with Almonds, a Apple Jolly Rancher stick, and Lemonheads. The wages of sin is a dollar.