I am moving but much more than that, I am also trying to pack up an entire warehouse, populated by the ghosts of long-dead clients. Rows and rows of five-high shelving units, stretch at least fifty feet into the distance. In the dusty gloom, I barely see the end.
Every single shelf contains
the flat remains of ten souls. I give up
trying to do the arithmetic in my head and just count the rows. I can do the math later - when I have a
calculator in my hand.
There’s a guy with me, a new
romantic interest, who goes by the name of Joe, and he’s helping me pack. I had forgotten about the warehouse, a
business operated by my ex-husband, Walter, dead for years and who may even occupy
some of the real estate spread out before my dismayed eyes.
His accountant, Bruce
Charters, the executor of his estate, and recently expired himself, is the
reason I am standing here, trying not to hyperventilate. Bruce had also been Walter’s business manager
and continued in that role after my ex-husband died in a
mysterious boating accident fifteen years ago.
Rumours had spread like wild-fire
in our tiny town, known as The Beach. The mystery created by the discovery of Walter’s
bruised, battered and unrecognizable body, was distressing but at the same time,
to many in the hamlet, intriguing.
Concealed in a mound of
detritus, he was in an advanced state of decomposition when he finally washed
up on the more populated south shore, after an early and violent spring storm. I understand that a woman walking her dog
found him while strolling along the golden sand beach. Her dog, a Chocolate Lab, had started digging
furiously, flinging debris every which way but loose, and finally exposing
Walter’s corpse. She still talks about her
shocking, albeit fascinating experience all these years later.
Apparently, Bruce thought I
should take up where he and Walter left off, since Walter had left me his
seventy-five year-old wooden frame cottage on the beach. The warehouse however, is three towns over,
in the middle of nowhere, which is why I hadn’t thought about it in years.
Walter’s business, Eternally Yours Storage, was the place for funeral homes across the
province to store the remains and memories of those not claimed by family
members within twelve months. Too bad Bruce hadn’t thought to ask me if I
wanted the honour and now I was stuck.
With dismay, I look at the
thousands of containers. Each flatish, 9" x 12” box, is a couple of inches high.
Inside is a four-colour photograph of the long-dead person, upon which is
printed a memory or two, obviously written by someone who had, at one time,
loved, or at least known the person now in the box.
What in the hell was I going to do with the cremains
of thousands of people?
I have until tomorrow at
11:59 p.m. to pack everyone up and get out.
The property has been sold and closing day is now. The hundreds of racks have been included in
the purchase price of the property, so at least I don’t need to think about
getting rid of those. Too bad Bruce
hadn’t thought to mention this village of forgotten souls and a really
important part of his estate to his own executor.
My stalwart helper and
new(ish) boyfriend, Joe is a lot more optimistic than me. He thinks that if we work through the night,
we should be able to pack everyone up.
No boxes, no labels, no packing tape and no idea of who reposes on the
rickety, gray metal shelves. How would
we be able to inventory our village of lost souls, so that if someone does come
looking for their loved one, I could find them?
Sighing mightily, I make a
list of the supplies we’re gonna need and send Joe off to the nearest big box
store to buy it all. Boy, Bruce’s
executor is not going to be happy when she gets that bill.
Taking down the nearest box,
I look through it more carefully, lifting out the photograph. A small slip of paper flutters to the floor
and I stoop to pick it up. Oh lordy! Be still my heart! It contains the name and address of the
dearly departed, plus the date they left this mortal coil. Yay! Propping
the picture up, I lay the paper against it, along the bottom. I finally find my ancient smart phone at the
bottom of my well-worn, butter-coloured messenger bag and take a snap. Not too bad.
When I enlarge it on my small screen, I can at least make out the
text. On a larger screen I would even be
able to see the person in the picture.
Feeling squeamish, I quickly
drop the pendant and step back from the shelf.
Steeling myself, I move down a few shelves and check the contents of some
of the other boxes and find pretty much the same stuff for each forgotten loved
one. I hear muffled noises in the
distance and I crane my neck to its fullest extent to see over the forest of
shelves. Is Joe back already? Nope, no
one there. Why then, had I heard what
sounded like footsteps? A goose
walks over my grave and I shiver.
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