Read Online Good Mourning by Elizabeth Meyer - Free Book Online

clear then that there had to be a little, you know, a little more involved than that.”
    Crawford had an unexpected boom in business during the 1980s. “Every day, there were at least a few bodies, if not more,” said Bill. “Young guys, so thin, and the bodies, they just kept coming. It was terrible. I mean, good for business, but that didn’t even matter—it was awful to see. And I was ayoung guy myself, then, and I’m just looking at these bodies, and it seemed so crazy that nobody could help these guys, you know?” He shook his head and lowered his voice. “Nobody could help them.”
    Springsteen’s “Badlands” came on, and neither Bill nor I said anything as he returned his attention to the body on the table, but I wondered if he noticed the all-too-true lyrics as much as I did: “It ain’t no sin to be glad you’re alive.” They reminded me of something my dad would have said. Of course, Dad was more Stones than Springsteen, but I think he would have agreed with the sentiment.

    AFTER WORKING six days straight, I finally had a day off. For a second, I thought I had dozed off in the funeral home; I woke up next to two four-foot-wide floral arrangements that I had taken home from a service the night before. People spent thousands, sometimes tens of thousands, of dollars on roses and orchids and hydrangeas for services, and then every night, we were left to toss them into garbage bags and throw them in the Dumpster out back. It seemed like such a waste, so I started bringing the prettier arrangements home. What? Somebody should enjoy them.
    I was jolted out of my sleepy state by the sound of my phone ringing.
    â€œHello?” I said, trying not to sound as groggy as I felt.
    â€œAlmost ready?” said Gaby. She was working on a seriesof paintings at the time, and so she was available to hang out on a random Tuesday. Although to be fair, a lot of our friends had what you might call “leisurely” schedules.
    I looked at my alarm clock, which I hadn’t set. It was already eleven a.m.
    â€œUh, kind of,” I said.
    â€œYou’re totally still in bed!” said Gaby, laughing. “Get up! Get up, get up, get up! You get to hang out with a living person today! Should we hit up Bergdorf’s?”
    â€œMeh, maybe we just go with the usual,” I said. What I really needed was a new pair of comfortable shoes. Monica may have been a nightmare to work with, but the woman knew how to keep her feet from throbbing—I’d been wearing old-lady flats to work for weeks. I also wanted to pick up another off-the-rack suit or two. I already had three black suits I wouldn’t be caught dead in outside of work hanging next to the Armani gowns in my closet, but adding a few more to the rotation would mean fewer trips to the dry cleaners.
    â€œOkay, okay. Fine. I’m just happy to see you finally,” said Gaby. “I still can’t believe you missed London! I have to show you the pics. You’ll die.”
    I met Gaby on the corner of Madison and Seventy-­Second. It was our usual spot, since I liked to start off any shopping trip with a stroll through Ralph Lauren, where most of the salespeople knew me by name. Plus it was near Via Quadronno, our favorite lunch spot, which had the best cappuccinos in the city. I could see Gaby from a block away—she was dressed in her daytime regulars, which included a baggy tank top, big sunglasses, and pants that most women could barely squeeze their arms into. I always told her that the trade-off for having such a crazy family was that, good Lord, she at least got fabulous genes out of the deal.
    â€œHi, hi, hi!” I said, skipping toward her. Before I’d started working at Crawford, we’d hung out almost every day—now I was lucky to see her once a week.
    Gaby gave me a hug and pointed at the store behind us. “Shall we?” she said.
    â€œI was