The Vanishing Girls by Callie Browning (great novels of all time .txt) 📗

to get in yours today.” She drew back her cane and knocked his shins with a loud whack before turning to point at the other end of the cemetery. “I went to every village funeral since 1963 and your father was to bury with your grandfather close to the cemetery gate; I ain’t know why you putting him up here by the chapel.”

The crowd’s murmuring stopped as everyone looked curiously at everyone else. The son rubbed his shins and looked at Holden, pain overwhelming his grief as he asked, “So whose grave is this?”

Holden plastered on a smile and said, “I’ll double-check my files, please excuse me for a moment.” Under his breath, he muttered, “Eileen, to the hearse.”

“Kinda reminds me of when Batman tells Robin ‘to the Bat Cave’,” Eileen said with a weak chuckle. Her laughter sounded like it was running low on batteries and Holden stalked toward the hearse, clearly not amused by her attempt at levity. Eileen wished she would keel over then and there into the grave with Herbert. Clifford followed, an easy grin on his face as he watched Holden scan through a manila folder while Eileen wrung her hands. Holden’s eyes swung left to right across the page and a sheen of sweat spread across his brow as alarm grew on his face.

Holden slapped the file on his thigh. “We were supposed to bury him in N94; this is M94,” he fumed. Clifford shook his head in amusement. Holden glared at Eileen again but said nothing as he squared his shoulders and went back to the family. His tone was apologetic as he promised to relocate the body to the correct spot within twenty-four hours. Behind him, Eileen noticed the grave diggers working at a frantic pace, each of them glancing over their shoulders at her as they plunked soil into the hole. Eileen bit her lip and whispered to Clifford, “If they’re moving the body, why are they still putting in the dirt?”

Clifford raised an eyebrow at her and laughed. “Them fellas don’t get pay for half a grave, so they making sure the job done. Can’t blame them for that.” He quirked the toothpick at the side of his mouth. “Plus, you don’t think the boss paying to dig three holes, nuh?”

“Three?”

Clifford jutted his chin at the men patting the mound of soil they had finished shovelling at warp speed. “Dig to put him in, dig to take him out and dig to put him in the right one.”

“Oh…” Eileen’s face fell. “I didn’t study that.”

Clifford’s smile was benign. “That’s alright. We gonna help you this first time.”

“F-first time?” Eileen stuttered.

“The boss likes to make sure that staff know not to do these things twice.” He clapped her on the shoulder. “We going bring the shovels and pick you up tonight.” He said, glancing up at the gloomy sky and then down at her high heels. “Wear boots; it’s gonna rain.”

* * *

Eileen’s arms and shoulders ached on Friday morning. She could barely move her limbs enough to tuck the newspaper under her desk and leaf through the classifieds to find a job that didn’t involve her slinging mud in the dark. Most of the openings for women required a secretarial certificate or advanced sewing skills. There was only one that she was qualified for: a simple black and white listing for a maid with a phone number printed beneath it. Eileen was about to clip it out when she noticed that the obituaries — which Holden read religiously every day — were on the other side of the ad. She sighed and tucked it away, making a mental note to do it later that day.

The rest of the morning dragged on. Letters were sent, calls were answered and bills were paid. By the time parliament’s clock tower bonged twelve times, Eileen was so exhausted that she couldn’t lift her arms to eat the rice and stew she had brought. It turned out to be a blessing in disguise.

Unbeknownst to Eileen, Holden always found it best to throw new assistants in at the deep end during the first week. It helped him to avoid unnecessary paperwork with the unemployment office if they couldn’t withstand the pressure. He summoned Eileen to the back of the building and handed her a folded bundle with a coat and gloves and instructed her to put it on. Then he took his time wheeling Lydia James across the prep room’s white tile floor.

Eileen watched him, all the while feeling like she was drowning in the voluminous prep coat that brushed her gloved knuckles and grazed her ankles. Her pulse hammered in her throat as she stood next to the wide stainless steel sink. In her imagination, the young woman smelled sweet like bagasse and molasses after being found in a sugar factory. The reality wasn’t so pleasant. The metallic scent of alcohol rose in the air when Holden pulled back the white sheet. Eileen gagged.

Holden pretended not to notice as he described the embalming process in graphic detail before cautioning Eileen to let him know if she felt faint or nauseous. She folded her lips together and nodded.

“Now,” he said, slapping his gloved hands together. “This is the moment of reckoning; help me move the young lady so we can begin.”

Together they transferred her to the embalming table, a white marble slab with a sunken ring carved into its perimeter. The room was frigid, but sweat broke out on Eileen’s forehead as her back bent with the weight in her hands. Holden dangled a fat yellow sponge in front of her and pointed to bottles of shampoo and bath liquid on the shelf, before he reached over and turned on a faucet. Water streamed down from a broad shower head that hung from the ceiling onto Lydia. Eileen had never noticed it before, a strange omission for her eyes to make given the circumstances. Despite Lydia smelling so sterile, Eileen realized some things weren’t washed off