16. Songs for the Dead
16
Songs for the Dead
SATURDAY ROLLED INTO Sunday, and I tried to convince Mom to let me help out with the funeral today—the second-to-last one Dad scheduled before he died—but she adamantly refused the entire breakfast. I hadn’t been to a funeral in years. The dirges, the gospels, the crying widows and the grieving kids and the parents who had to bury their children and—
The ghosts.
I pulled on an NYU sweatshirt and texted Mom,
Are you sure?
One more word and I will ground you
, Mom texted back with a heart emoji.
Well, fine then.
Speaking of ghosts, I hadn’t seen my resident haunt yet today, not even as I went downstairs to grab a bagel and some cream cheese from the breakfast selection in the dining room. (Second breakfast was always my favorite meal of the day.) I smeared a large helping of cream cheese onto my bagel, humming along with the morning radio murmur in the corner of the room. I poured myself coffee in a to-go cup and made my way back into the foyer.
“Florence! There you are.”
I gave a yelp. Sitting at the front desk, his head propped up on his hand, was John. And beside him, leaning smugly against the desk, was Officer Saget.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” the police officer commented. In the daylight hours, he looked much older than I remembered. His hair was almost completely silver now, he kept his beard trimmed tight against his jaw, and he looked to be made of nothing but blocks put together. He was as square as they came.
“Ha, that’s hilarious,” I replied tightly. “Nice to see you, Officer.”
“You, too. Did you have a busy night last night, Miss Day?”
“Absolutely not. Went to bed early. Had a great night’s sleep—” Though I couldn’t resist a yawn. “And now I’m up and about to go check out the town.”
“Early, you say?”
“Absolutely.”
He didn’t get a read on my face last night. He didn’t know it was me.
John watched the exchange back and forth like a badminton tournament, putting a bookmark into his current manga to watch.
“You know it’s illegal to lie to an officer,” Saget went on.
“Why would I lie?”
“So you didn’t take any midnight strolls?”
“Oh, absolutely not,” I lied.
He pursed his lips. His nostrils flared. But then, after a moment, he seemed to think better of his strategy. “You get off this once—this
once
, Florence. If it were anywhere else, I’d be getting you for trespassing. Try to act your age, okay?” he warned, and bid John goodbye, before he left out of the front door, climbed into his police car illegally parked on the curb, and drove away.
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. “
Shit
, that was close.”
John gave me a look. “Oh, girl, you just love chaos, don’t you.” This morning he had his red beard braided down his front like a Viking, and his pizza baseball cap again.
“It’s in my blood,” I replied, and took a long sip of coffee. “What
I
want to know is who ratted me out to the cops. Seaburn doesn’t care if I go into the cemetery after dark, but I’ve trespassed so many times everywhere else I feel like Saget’s just gunning to get me on something.”
“I don’t think he ever forgave you for bringing in that wild possum to the police station.”
“I didn’t know what else to do! I didn’t think he had
rabies
.”
Chuckling, he shook his head. On an embroidered doggie bed beside the front desk was our mayor. He looked up, his tail
pat-pat-patting
on the ground. I scrubbed him behind the ears. “So, I got a question.”
“I might have an answer.”
“Do you know when Bar None opens?”
He checked his smart watch. “I’m sure it’ll be open for lunch in a few minutes. They’ve got pretty good cheese dogs. And their Tater Tots are—” He mimicked an A-OK signal. “Why don’t you take the mayor with you? He’s due for an inspection of those tots, anyway.”
I guessed that Seaburn was helping out with the funeral, so the least I could do was bring his dog along. “Sure. Mayor, wanna go with me?” The dog popped to his feet. “Then let’s go! Thank you, John!”
I wasn’t looking forward to today’s tasks. While Carver and Alice were helping Mom, I had to figure out how to do Dad’s impossible tasks. I already miserably failed at trying to get the flowers yesterday. I couldn’t wait to fail at finding Elvis today.
At least I had a good companion with me.
But the flower shop owner
did
give me a lead, and while he wasn’t exactly Elvis, I knew my dad well enough to know that he didn’t always mean what he said, and thank god Bar None actually did keep strict operational hours, because I got there right at ten in the morning.
I let myself in, the mayor at my heels. There was a
DOGS SHOULD VOTE
sign inside the bar, and I took that as permission enough to let the best dog in with me. A man stood behind the bar prepping for the day.
“Is that Florence Day I see?” he asked, and adjusted his glasses. “I don’t believe my eyes! The famous Florence Day.”
Dagger, meet heart. “You got me,” I replied with a practiced smile.
“Perez. I’m sorry to hear about the old man,” he said, offering out a hand.
I shook it. “Thanks. Um, I have a weird question for you. Mr. Taylor down at the flower shop said that there was an Elvis that plays here some nights?”
“Elvis . . . ? Ah! Of course!” He thumbed over his shoulder to a poster on the events board behind him. “You mean
Elvistoo
.”
I glanced behind him to the poster he was referring to, and found myself staring at an aged-out version of Elvis in glittery sequins, about to eat a microphone. “Oh, that’s—exciting?”
“Hey, Bruno!” he called in the back.
The chef poked his head out. “Yeah, boss?”
“This is Xavier’s kid.”
Bruno’s dark eyes lit up like firecrackers on the Fourth of July. He quickly exited the kitchen, wiping his hands on his pristine white apron. “Well, I’ll be! Florence Day!” His voice was velvety smooth. I had a feeling he was— “Your dad came to watch me sing every Thursday. Before the poker games,” he added when confusion crossed my brow.
“That makes sense.”
We shook, and he sat down on the stool beside me. Perez, the bartender, asked if I wanted a drink, and I told him a lemonade would be nice. Bruno said, “Your old man never missed a night—and when he didn’t come on Thursday, we knew something was wrong,” he said. “I’m sorry. I know it’s not much and it’s not a great word to express the shit that’s happened, but it’s all I got.”
“It’s really appreciated.”
The bartender slid over a lemonade, and I curled my fingers around the cool, moist glass. The ice shifted, condensation pearling on the outside like rain droplets. He said, “Your dad always raved about you.”
Bruno nodded. “Always said you were up in the big city, chasing your dreams. That you could write words that could wake the dead.”
“He said that?”
“Absolutely.”
I felt heat nibble at my cheeks. Of
course
Dad would say something like that. He didn’t even know that I ghostwrote—that those books were sold in airport bookstores and at grocery store checkout counters—
And . . . now I couldn’t tell him at all.
Ever.
He paused. “Xavier swore me not to tell anyone, but I gotta know if it’s true that—”
“Bruno . . . ,” the bartender warned.
I frowned. “Know if what’s true?”
Bruno instead said, “He was so proud of you, Miss Day. So fuckin’ proud he cried. He knew you were chasing your dream, like Carver and Alice, and he was so damn proud of all you kids.”
But he never knew the full story. I never told him that I pulled inspiration from his and Mom’s romance, that I memorized all of the stories they told me of their grandparents, all the love
stories they had passed down from generation to generation. I had been so caught up with being the exception to the rule—the one family member who would never have a glorious love story—that I’d forgotten why I wrote about love.
Because a gray-haired woman in an oversized sweater asked me to, yes, but also because I
wanted
to. Because I believed in it, once upon a time.
“Did I upset you?” Bruno asked, and I realized I hadn’t touched my lemonade.
I took a deep sip and shook my head. “No,” I replied, and winced because my voice was anything but convincing. “I actually came to ask you a question about Dad. Would you be available Thursday around three?”
“I—I mean, I’d have to check with Perez—”
“Yes,” Perez replied. “He is.”
“I guess I am?”
“Then would you do the honors of singing at my father’s funeral? I’ll pay you, of course—is there a special rate you have for . . . strange venues?”
Bruno blinked at me. Once. Twice. Then he leaned forward and asked, “Lemme get this straight: You want me to sing at your father’s funeral.”
“Yes. In that.” And I pointed to the poster.
His bushy black eyebrows shot up. “Huh.”
“I know it’s strange but—”
“Hell yeah.”
That took me back. “And your going rate?”
The man grinned, and finally I noticed that his left canine was gold plated. “Miss Day, Elvistoo honors the dead for free.”