Read Online Plainclothes Naked by Jerry Stahl - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jerry Stahl
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I think you’re bearing up beautifully.”
“Thank you,” she said, and announced, by way of trying it out, “I’m actually expecting. This is all such a terrible blow.”
Mister Edward said nothing for a moment. Tina pictured him star ing in a hand mirror, rubbing ointment on his problem skin. Then he
spoke into the phone, if possible, with even more professional sympathy than before. He’d begun to sound like the butler in a thirties movie. “Rest assured, Mrs. ... ?”
“Podolsky.”
“Mrs. Podolsky, yes. Rest assured, Mrs. Podolsky, I will do every thing in my power to make the transition process a smooth one. It’s never easy, but you have a friend at Martino and Sons.”
“Thank you again,” said Tina, catching his formality like a bug. She was trying to think of a way of asking how much this bullshit will cost when Mister Edward addressed the issue for her.
“We have a number of burial packages, Mrs. Podolsky. You’re wel come to visit us here and select the casket and service you prefer. Or, if you’d like, I or one of my associates can come by for a home consulta tion. Whatever the method,” he continued delicately, “we recommend that the bereaved make arrangements at their earliest convenience. Is there, perhaps, a friend or family member we can contact? We find it wise to establish viewing hours and decide on the type of service that best suits your needs as soon as possible.”
“There’s just . . . just me,” she said, putting some quiver in it.
“I see. And did you and the late Mr. Podolsky have a cemetery you preferred? Have you selected a plot?”
“Not exactly. He was sort of Indian,” Tina said, fondling Marv’s turban, as if this would somehow explain everything.
Tina was still clutching the turban when the knock came on her door. She peeped through the curtain to see a whip-thin, short-haired woman in a business suit speaking into a cell phone. By now, the new widow had changed into a black skirt and sweater, the closest she had to actual mourning-wear.
Oddly enough, Marvin’s face had shown up in the Trumpet two weeks ago, in the lifestyle section, as part of a series on Alternative Wor ship. He’d been interviewed over the phone. The headline read COS MIC CASH - IN . Below that: LOCAL MAN LEADS MOVEMENT TO
MONEY MEDITATION . In the story, Marv explained that chanting the proper mantra was a way of not just creating prosperity but establishing a harmony with the cosmos that made possible a life without fear of
death overshadowing the joy of living. “If we find the right vibration of joy in the moment,” the reporter quoted him, “then we are guaran teed to live forever.”
Apparently, he’d been wrong.
Tina thought about that as she opened the door. “I hope this isn’t a bad time,” said the lady in the business suit, before Tina could get out a hello. “I’m Dee-Dee Walker, from the Trumpet ?”
The way she left it, like a question, let Tina know she was supposed to recognize her, probably even be impressed. Tina remained noncom mittal. She decided to let the reporter do the talking, as though her own grief had rendered her mute.
“Is this,” Dee-Dee Walker wondered again, “a bad time?”
Tina thought of a few responses, none polite. But Ms. Walker answered her own question.
“Of course it’s a bad time! I know how it is. My Buddy died last summer. He was a St. Bernard, but you’d have thought he was human! He was my everything.” She sighed, then found the strength to con tinue. “Since your husband, your late husband, was recently profiled in the paper, my editor thought that we should get a few words, some thing about what happened. Whether you’ll be continuing his work, and so on. It would be, I guess you could say, a way for all of us to get closure.”
Tina found herself fascinated by the woman’s delivery, the way she kept looking around but pretending not to. Her eyes wandered over Tina’s shoulder, into the living room.
“Thank you,” she said, and announced, by way of trying it out, “I’m actually expecting. This is all such a terrible blow.”
Mister Edward said nothing for a moment. Tina pictured him star ing in a hand mirror, rubbing ointment on his problem skin. Then he
spoke into the phone, if possible, with even more professional sympathy than before. He’d begun to sound like the butler in a thirties movie. “Rest assured, Mrs. ... ?”
“Podolsky.”
“Mrs. Podolsky, yes. Rest assured, Mrs. Podolsky, I will do every thing in my power to make the transition process a smooth one. It’s never easy, but you have a friend at Martino and Sons.”
“Thank you again,” said Tina, catching his formality like a bug. She was trying to think of a way of asking how much this bullshit will cost when Mister Edward addressed the issue for her.
“We have a number of burial packages, Mrs. Podolsky. You’re wel come to visit us here and select the casket and service you prefer. Or, if you’d like, I or one of my associates can come by for a home consulta tion. Whatever the method,” he continued delicately, “we recommend that the bereaved make arrangements at their earliest convenience. Is there, perhaps, a friend or family member we can contact? We find it wise to establish viewing hours and decide on the type of service that best suits your needs as soon as possible.”
“There’s just . . . just me,” she said, putting some quiver in it.
“I see. And did you and the late Mr. Podolsky have a cemetery you preferred? Have you selected a plot?”
“Not exactly. He was sort of Indian,” Tina said, fondling Marv’s turban, as if this would somehow explain everything.
Tina was still clutching the turban when the knock came on her door. She peeped through the curtain to see a whip-thin, short-haired woman in a business suit speaking into a cell phone. By now, the new widow had changed into a black skirt and sweater, the closest she had to actual mourning-wear.
Oddly enough, Marvin’s face had shown up in the Trumpet two weeks ago, in the lifestyle section, as part of a series on Alternative Wor ship. He’d been interviewed over the phone. The headline read COS MIC CASH - IN . Below that: LOCAL MAN LEADS MOVEMENT TO
MONEY MEDITATION . In the story, Marv explained that chanting the proper mantra was a way of not just creating prosperity but establishing a harmony with the cosmos that made possible a life without fear of
death overshadowing the joy of living. “If we find the right vibration of joy in the moment,” the reporter quoted him, “then we are guaran teed to live forever.”
Apparently, he’d been wrong.
Tina thought about that as she opened the door. “I hope this isn’t a bad time,” said the lady in the business suit, before Tina could get out a hello. “I’m Dee-Dee Walker, from the Trumpet ?”
The way she left it, like a question, let Tina know she was supposed to recognize her, probably even be impressed. Tina remained noncom mittal. She decided to let the reporter do the talking, as though her own grief had rendered her mute.
“Is this,” Dee-Dee Walker wondered again, “a bad time?”
Tina thought of a few responses, none polite. But Ms. Walker answered her own question.
“Of course it’s a bad time! I know how it is. My Buddy died last summer. He was a St. Bernard, but you’d have thought he was human! He was my everything.” She sighed, then found the strength to con tinue. “Since your husband, your late husband, was recently profiled in the paper, my editor thought that we should get a few words, some thing about what happened. Whether you’ll be continuing his work, and so on. It would be, I guess you could say, a way for all of us to get closure.”
Tina found herself fascinated by the woman’s delivery, the way she kept looking around but pretending not to. Her eyes wandered over Tina’s shoulder, into the living room.
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