“I do.”
“Fine,” Holden cleared his throat. “Now, there’s the matter of wages.” He extracted a folded piece of paper from his breast pocket and offered it to Eileen. “I’m not sure what your previous package looked like…”
Eileen held back a smile. Many black women in the 1980s didn’t have packages unless they were wrapped in brown paper and smelled like lamb. Wages were just enough that they didn’t have to choose between feeding themselves and a beloved cat.
“…but I believe this to be fair. And I’ll reimburse you for travel.”
She pursed her lips. “It won’t make me a Rockefeller, but it’s fair,” she replied before she took it and tucked it into her bra.
Holden raised an eyebrow, thought better of replying and gestured to the stacks behind her. “Start with the filing; then we’ll get to the other things. I’m stepping out now, but I’ll be back soon.”
She stacked the papers into a pile before pulling a small brush and cloth out of her handbag to dust the typewriter and wipe the desk. Holden furrowed his brow, wondering why she carried her own cleaning supplies but said nothing.
He had opened the door to leave when he heard her say, “Last night you made it seem like I’d be embalming corpses by the dozen. Or was that to frighten me?” He stopped in his tracks as he gauged her question. She had looked up, but her hand kept a steady rhythm as she cleaned. Her eyes were alight with mirth.
Holden pursed his lips. “Well…corpses are in no hurry, so we needn’t rush. These stuffy papers are bothering my sinuses.” The bell on the door jingled as Holden pulled it closed, keeping time with his footsteps as he stomped off.
* * *
“GOD, HE’S UPTIGHT,” she muttered. Her new employer was broad-shouldered and clean-cut, his tailored suits not yet shiny from years of being overstarched like some elderly business men she’d come across before. He had dark brown skin, striking features and beautiful teeth. Eileen suspected he’d be handsome if he’d smile and pull the stick out of his ass once in a while. She sighed as she properly took in her surroundings for the first time.
The office and its contents were old fashioned and had the washed-out pallor of a black and white film that had been colourized. Holden’s desk was clinically neat; only a black leather book and two pens rested on the polished wood. “Looks about right,” she observed. Eileen’s desk wasn’t so fortunate. A wall of receipts and letters stared back at her from every square inch of the desktop. Eileen realized with a sinking stomach that Holden didn’t plan to train her. She was a woman, after all, so he assumed she understood office procedures. The truth was that she had started cleaning to buy time.
She turned to the grey filing cabinet next to the desk and pulled open the drawers. Her forehead crumpled. There were two files: Bills and Funerals. The shabby folders had faded from butter yellow to a grimy off-white and were stuffed to the gills with unsorted receipts and invoices. Clearly, her predecessors didn’t understand office procedures either. She sighed and sat down to work.
By the time lunch rolled around, she had labelled twenty-seven manila folders and filed away half of a stack of paper, hoping that she was doing it right. As she worked, she kept hearing the muffled sound of furniture being moved around in the room behind her. Figuring that no harm could come from giving herself a tour of the place, Eileen pushed herself away from the desk. Behind Holden’s station was a yellow door where the kitchenette/lunchroom resided. Closer to her desk were two doors; a frosted glass one with gold lettering declaring it to be the Prep Room and a varnished oak door on the right. She thought it wise to leave the Prep Room for another day; she wasn’t sure what surprises she’d find in there. She pushed the door to the right.
The large square space was cold and ringed with stacks of wooden folding chairs that leaned against the chestnut wainscoting. A man who resembled a daddy-long-legs was humming We’ve Only Just Begun as he polished the panelled walls with something in a yellow jar that smelled like citrus. He looked like a dark-skinned hippie with his tie-dyed shirt and zealously patterned pants.
“Good morning. I’m Eileen. Are you Clifford?”
He spun around, flecks of polish flying from the rag onto the wainscoting. “Ah, yes, yes. De boss man tell me a new girl starting.” He wiped his hands down the front of his pants as he studied her for a moment; the orange streaks blended into the pattern seamlessly. You prettier than the last two though,” Clifford said, as though it was important she knew that.
Eileen blushed and laughed. “Thank you. You’re very kind.”
He scratched his face, leaving a shiny stain beneath his handlebar moustache. “I did a little concerned, to be honest. I even tell he to get glasses because I thought he couldn’t see that they didn’t doing a good job either.” He squinted at Eileen as though trying to find competence etched in the lines of her face. He nodded, satisfied. “You more serious than them.”
Eileen grinned, her eyes afire with amusement. Clifford had a knack for saying things in a way that wasn’t offensive, each sentence sounding like an observation that only just crossed his mind. She liked him.
She extended a hand to Clifford. “Nice to meet you.” She glanced at the jar by his feet. “That smells nice.”
He beamed, his face alight with pride. “Yeah, I does make it myself. I learn this at my grandfather knee, Lord rest his soul. Davis Senior put he in the ground and I polish up the casket myself with this same oil right here.”
He cocked his head to
