Ericka Clay
The smell is sweet, and when I was younger, I had a hard time not thinking of pickles. Oblong, green. Floating in jars of brine. And that’s what pops up now when I look down and take account of Parker’s five tiny fingers. Little gherkins. It’s a mistake looking at his hands. I throw up a small puddle at my feet as my father walks in, and discontent pulses between us. He leaves and comes back with the mop and bucket and streaks through vomit while Parker watches. “I told you not to have the tuna,” he says. “You know how she loves her bargain basement mayonnaise.” I nod and pretend it’s the mayonnaise, and he looks at me looking at Parker. “Don’t get too attached. Into the fiery pit with this one.” “You can’t be serious,” I say. I glance at my father’s mopping hands that are a red sort of raw from the saccharine formaldehyde. The salty streaks at his temple tell me he’s getting older, and I have a “When did this happen?” moment. Just a few hours ago I was twelve and standing on the curb at the Manor Market, the squeal of wet tires stinging my ears. And now we stand shoulder-to-shoulder, peering into the casket of a dead boy. “It was in the notebook.” The leather-bound book on my father’s desk—the one Loretta calls “The Death Bible” —is stained with notes about impending wakes before they’re logged into the computer. I’ve checked it like always, but the details blurred with the truth of Parker’s combed strands of doll hair. “Picked out a nice mantle urn from what I remember,” he says. He taps out the organ beat piping through the speakers with a mop-free hand, and I watch his raw fingers ravage the wood. He leaves me to dump the dirty mop water in the guest bathroom, and the nausea doubles with the image of Parker’s mother with her boy in a jar in her arms. “You ready to lug this thing to the back?” He walks to the opposite end of the casket carrier and gives it a little push while I take one last look at Parker’s alabaster face. I feel the second wave of vomit rising
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