“Wedo not do funerals for rabid animals.Ido. Ugh. I mean, I do funerals forpets. Her cat isnota rabid animal,” I say in exasperation, rolling my eyes. “It’s a funeral for a loved family pet.”
“Can I help?” He asks after a moment of thoughtful consideration.
“With the cat funeral?” I ask, unable to hold in my disbelief.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“She loved the creature enough to throw a party for it. I would like to see what all the fuss is about,” he declares with a nonchalant shrug.
“Fine, you can help,” I tell him. “But for the love of the gods, please do not call a funeral aparty.”
Chapter Four
Sunshine
Today’s funeral is for a beloved family cat named Mr. Pickles.
Because of course it is.
The gods are obviously bored and in need of some entertainment.
In the viewing room, I adjust a vase of wildflowers I picked from the edge of the backyard. They’re simple and pretty with small white petals and thin green stems. Not extravagant, but they feel right for this. I turn the vase a little to the left, then push it back to where it was, and then slightly forward. I step back and squint. I’m not sure if I should’ve spent the money on professional arrangements. This is my first service, and firstimpressions are a big deal, but also… Mr. Pickles was a cat, and cats like nature.
Right?
Hopefully.
Behind me, Ember sits upside-down in the front row, his head hanging over the edge as he watches me with the intense focus of someone judging a highly disappointing art exhibit. He’s still small, maybe four or five years old in looks now, and looks like he’s about to fall asleep.
“I still think you should’ve gone with the lilies,” he says, voice dripping with haughtiness. “They were more aesthetically pleasing.”
“Lilies are toxic to cats,” I say for what has to be the tenth time.
“It’s not like we have to worry about Mr. Picklesdyingagain,” he scoffs.
I ignore him because if I respond to every ridiculous thing he says, I’ll never get anything done. I adjust the daisies again and chuckle at Ember’s long-suffering groan behind me.
“Fine. I’ll leave it alone,” I assure him. “I think it looks perfect now anyway.”
Mr. Pickles rests in a small satin-lined basket on the viewing stand; Miss Geraldine had dropped him off in it early this morning. Her poor eyes were rimmed in red, and her grief was a palpable, heavy thing following her around.
I polished the wood viewing stand last night until my arms ached, bringing the antique grain back to life. The basket sits centered with a lace cloth underneath that Miss Geraldine made special for this occasion. The lighting is soft; Mr. Pickles' fur is illuminated with a faint shimmer. Everything is exactly asit should be. Cleaned and polished to within an inch of its life. No detail is too small for my first service.
“I still don’t understand,” Ember continues, his long hair brushing the floor, “why anyone would host a party for a dead animal.”
“It’s not a party,” I correct, smoothing the edge of the lace cloth again. “It’s a funeral service for a beloved family member.”
“A cat,” he says.
“Afamily member,” I repeat.
He studies me for a long moment, and I think he’s going to argue with me about this. Instead, he says, “You’re nervous.”
“No,” I squeak unconvincingly.
His eyes narrow, judging me, “You keep fixing and refixing things that don’t need to be fixed.”
