Bury Me When I'm Dead by Cheryl A Head Page B

the account information.”
    â€œI can give you that now,” Grant said, before ending the call.
    He turned his chair and elevated his feet on the windowsill, revisiting the entire conversation with Smith. Nothing illegal, just passing on information he might pick up around town. He could do that. Talk to some of the guys he knew from the gym, have lunch at the City Club a few times and put out some feelers. Karen might even have insider information. She was always talking about the people she met at the courthouse and the judges she knew. He was giddy with excitement. “Five hundred dollars now, ten thousand dollars later. Man, this can give me the cash I need to get out of the dead-people business.”
    â€œWas you talking to yourself, Grant?”
    He spun around to find Grace staring into space in front of his desk. “Damn, Grace. You scared me. Stop sneaking around, will you? Didn’t I tell you to always knock before you come in?”
    Grace stepped back and looked as if she might cry. She pulled her sweater tight around her, fastening her eyes on the floor.
    â€œI’m sorry, Grant. I forgot.” She swayed in place and let out a tiny groan.
    Grant shifted in his seat, ran his hand through the thinning hair at his crown and tried to squash his irritation. “What is it? What is it you want?”
    â€œIt’s three o’clock. You said to tell you.”
    â€œOkay, Grace. Okay, thank you. I’m going down to the prep room. We’re expecting a delivery from the morgue at three-fifteen. At five o’clock we’ll close up and I’ll drive you home.”
    â€œSo we can go to supper, Grant?”
    â€œThat’s right.”
    â€œI’m going to have chicken fingers and hash browns,” Grace said with anticipation.
    â€œI know. That sounds good.”
    Grace exited the office in a single pirouette and tip-toe motion. Grant grabbed his suit jacket from the back of his chair, opened the closet and stepped in. He removed his slacks and dress shirt, carefully fastening the shirt’s top button and adjusting the arms on the hanger. He hung his tie across the shirt and dropped his cufflinks in the breast pocket of the coat.
    He slipped into blue scrubs and sneakers and enjoyed his image in the mirror, then glanced at the wall safe at the back of the closet. His father had always been stingy with his affection, especially with his wife and son. When he was a boy, his mother had eased his jealousy by telling him his father was an important man who had to give his attention to his business, and to his daughter, who needed him more. But when he’d graduated mortuary school and become a full partner in Freeman Funeral Home, Grant decided to find his own answers to his father’s continued distance and secretiveness.
    He had full access to every part of the business except the wall safe, and when he asked about its contents, his father dismissed his question with a mention of memorabilia from the early days of the business. “Nothing of significance, son. Besides, I lost the combination long ago,” his father had said. It had cost Grant four hundred dollars out of his own pocket—no receipt for his father to find—to have a locksmith open the safe. His father’s deceit of almost forty years was verified in letters, photographs, receipts for travel and hotel rooms, and other mementos.
    Grant glanced at the safe again, remembering his mother sitting home alone, on days and nights that would fill a calendar, as his father contrived work appointments. He thought about his own decision to give up his dreams of becoming a doctor, to take up his father’s career—just to please him. His father had emptied the safe two months ago, and Grant had emptied himself of loyalty. His father’s shortfall of affection no longer mattered. All he wanted was to be free of the burden and moniker of “the Third” that kept him lifeless,