Why was he always right?
“I’ll pay you back,” I said.
“Just get out of town.” Softly, he said, “Tiffenie. I worry about you.”
Two hours later, a guy in a shiny track suit pulled up in a sky-blue hearse painted with fluffy white clouds. The side door readHappily ever after funeral home.
Hmm…it was going to take me a minute to process that one. So much optimism for death.
“You Tiffany?” the guy asked, in a heavy Bronx accent.
“Yes, that’s me.”
“You need help loading a package in this thing?”
“Um, I guess.” From the way he saidpackageit seemed like he meantbody.
Upstairs, he wrapped Heaven more tightly in her burrito-style double wrap and eyed me skeptically. In a gruff voice, he asked, “Can you help me carry her down the stairs or do I need to get a guy over?”
“I’m stronger than I look,” I said.
“What’s the camera situation outside? I’m sure there’s footage of her coming in here, but you don’t want a video of her being carried out.”
There was only one cheap camera covering the stairs and our doors. I hit it with some organic avocado oil spray from Heaven’s apartment.
He snickered. “I was thinking black spray paint, but I guess that’ll work. Nothing to say that murder and healthy living don’t go together.”
Awkwardly, we carried Heaven down the stairs, her fluffy slippers poking out from the couch cover. When we were done, we stared down at the paisley pattern while he caught his breath.
“If you’re not up to it, I’ll dispose of her, but that’d be an extra charge.”
I clasped my hand to my heart. “No! This is my friend.” Well, technically, my neighbor with benefits, the benefits being a parking spot and blood swap. I grasped her hand through the slipcover.
“This must be your first time.”
I sighed and nodded. “It was an accident.”
“It’ll be fine. Tomorrow you’ll have some avocado toast and a latte and the world will look the same.”
I looked up into the eyes of this gangster’s helper, or whatever he was.“You’re right, Gary. Tomorrow will be a new day.” Or night, as the case may be. I was moving to Vermont with my dead neighbor in the back seat. It wasamove. Maybe notthemove, but a move nonetheless.
“My name’s not Gary.”
“What is it?”
“No names.” He glanced up at my apartment. “Vlad said you were skipping town. You need help with the rest of this?”
“Really?”
“Yep. I don’t pull no legs.”
So a guy who wasn’t named Gary, who believed he was helping me dispose of a body, packed a woman I sort of knew into a sky-blue hearse along with three centuries’ worth of knickknacks, a duffel bag of Rainbow Brite T-shirts, and Cat, mewling in a panic in her carrier.
Standing in the doorway, I took in my apartment for the last time. The slatted light from the parking lot reached all the way to the back wall, exposing all of the imperfections and dust I’d let build up. The place somehow looked even smaller without my things. I’d lived here for years. I’d made a home here, or at least, I’d tried to. So why wasn’t my heart breaking? The Germans probably had a word to describe the absence of feeling when leaving a place that should be beloved. Maybe the feelings would come later. They probably had a word for that, too.
With Cat protesting loudly, I started up my brand-new car, typedValentine, Vermontinto my map app, picked a route, and hitDrive.
Like my hearse said, Happily Ever After, here I come.
