“I don’t like the wordhearse,” says Amanda.
“Fine. We’ll wing it.”
“Winging it is perfect,” moans Dave. “We have the right equipment.”
I think he’s missing the point, but hey—not my wedding, not my flying monkeys.
Or bats. It’s probably going to be bats.
“So just checking, you don’t have any preference for where you stand during the ceremony?”
“No,” the couple says in unison.
“And you don’t care about the order of the ceremonies?” After a pause, I correct myself. “Ceremony?”
“No, we don’t, so long as we’re carried into the room in our coffins,” says Dave, giving me new information he could’ve shared earlier. “The coffins are very important.”
Amanda puts in, “He needs it to be dark.”
“Very dark.”
“Noted,” I say, rubbing my temples.
In desperation, I ask ChatGPT: “What do you need to do to prepare for a sixty-head wedding that’s last-minute? Also, I have no budget and the guests aren’t human.” Its answer is… questionable. Thankfully, I find super-detailed DIY checklists on Pinterest for brides planning their own weddings. And I scour my memories of the handful of events I’d catered at the hotel. It’s a total headache, and by this point I’m not sure that the four thousand dollars is going to be worth it.
If I ever see Hanry Burleson the graveyard forager again, I am going to give him a piece of my mind. And possibly hurl a bunch of pine cones at him.
By the end of Friday evening, I feel as ready as I can be. I’ve pulled together: a bridal bouquet, replete with dead beetles; an assortment of bridesmaid bouquets and boutonnieres, with the pins replaced with Command hooks and Velcro so no one gets any ideas aboutstabbing; centerpieces for the four banquet tables; and, because I’m an overachiever—make no mistake, that accounting degree from NYU was nowhere near a cakewalk—a garland for a wedding arch, composed of vines stripped from a spare lot nearby; and finally, lumber for the arch itself. Plus hammers, nails, and scissors and stuff. Pulling out my credit card with the greatest regret, I rent an SUV to carry everything to the wedding venue. In a moment of generosity, I suggest wedding singers. One of my NYU friends who moved to Boston for work moonlights as lead guitar for his cover band, the Vampire Weekenders. Judging by his sad posts on social media, they’ve been suffering for opportunities to play gigs. What am I, if not a good friend?
As I’m perfecting the last centerpiece, ensuring it looks genuinely spectacular—if you’re into Gothic nightmares—I get a final unexpected visitor to the shop: Baldy.
“Samantha,” he calls from outside. “Samanthaaa. Samaaaaaantha!”
I don’t look up, too busy shaping Oasis, the professional-grade floral foam that holds arrangements in place. YouTube tells me that once you chip the green stuff off, there’s no going back. But I’m precise. I’m focused. I’m a goddamn floral Michelangelo.
“Samantha, since you haven’t checked your mail, I’ve brought documents for you to sign.”
I jump from my seat, flinging the Oasis aside. Anything that must be done on paper has to be Serious.
“One second,” I call out. I scramble to find the keys to the door—until I think better of finding them. Here’s my problem: it wouldn’t be good if Baldy laid his eyes on the torso-impaired head near my laptop, slurping Diet Pepsi through a straw. It’s not just Bulan I need to protect, either. I don’t trust Baldy to ignore me running a business in violation of local tax law. So I settle for shouting, which is, frankly, rewarding in and of itself. I’ve more than earned some stress relief.
“What are the papers for?”
“They affirm your understanding of the estate’s debt and all its outstanding bills.”
“Amazing. Could you let Grandma’s creditors know I’m going tohave the money to start paying them back by Sunday night? And let the courts know too? Also, the… magical courts? Also, question. When Grandma’s soul ascends, how will I know?”
“I suspect there will be confetti,” he says.
“Really?”
“No,” says Baldy. “I have not witnessed such an event myself.”
He presses his oily forehead against the glass, marring it horrifically.
“What are you doing in there, Samantha? The tables, they’re looking… fuller than before. On our call, you said you had finished inventory and clean-out, so why—”
“Happy Halloween! See you.”
