The Boy in the Black Suit Read Free Page B

appetite, especially since the whole place smelled like old, wet socks now, but people went on ordering.
    Mr. Ray faced the front of the restaurant and put his arm around me. “All good, Matthew,” he said. “Go ahead and finish up your application. Hell, they should hire you just for having to endure that!” He chuckled to himself and moved toward the register.
    â€œWait. Mr. Ray.” I reached out and grabbed his arm. He turned back toward me. “Will I . . . uh . . . will I have to touch dead people?” Honest question.
    He crossed his arms. “Do you want to?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œThen, no.”
    I weighed my options. Funerals suck. The possibility of not being able to eat my favorite fast food, dealing with random crazies who come in and talk trash, and mopping up throw-up really, really sucks.
    â€œOkay,” I said to Mr. Ray.
    â€œOkay?”
    â€œOkay.”
    Mr. Ray smiled. “Okay,” he said with a nod. “C’mon, you can start right now.”
    I followed him up to the register. I set Clara’s pen on the counter while Mr. Ray reached in his suit jacket and pulled out a few cancer pamphlets and left them in front of Renee’s register, like they were some kind of tip or something.
    â€œGive these to your grandma,” he said while we gathered up all the buckets of chicken.
    â€œYou got it,” Renee said nicely as we headed toward the door. I held my breath as me and Mr. Ray tiptoed over the pile of sand that covered whatever was left of the vomit, leaving the application with only my name and half of my address on the table.

    â€œSo, who’s funeral is it up there?” I asked Mr. Ray as we laid the chicken out on platters. The repast (I actually didn’t know that’s what they’re called, but it’s the dinner after the funeral—the repast) was happening in the basement of the funeral home, and the actual service was going on upstairs. The only reason I knew that some funerals happen in the funeral home is because we used to always see people standing outside of Ray’s dressed in all black, hugging, just like they do at funerals that happen at churches. The good thing about Ray’s Funeral Home is, at least the AC worked.
    â€œYou know Rhonda Jameson?” Mr. Ray asked.
    He placed a breast next to a leg.
    â€œMs. Jameson died?”
    â€œNo. Ms. Jameson is fine. Her father passed last week.”
    â€œOh,” I said. “Well, at least she had him for a long time.”
    â€œYeah.” Still, he shook his head. “But it never gets any easier.”
    Mr. Ray put these big, really nice bowls on the table and was scooping out spoonfuls of canned greens. I have to admit, the food area looked pretty good. He had tablecloths down and fake flowers on the tables (I hate real flowers, but I’ll get to that), and had me set up the cushioned fold-up chairs instead of the regular, hard-butt ones.
    After all the food was out and all the tables were set, there really wasn’t much else to do, but I still didn’t want to go home yet. At the same time I also hoped Mr. Ray didn’t start digging into how I was feeling and all that. I mean, I know people mean well when they ask those kinds of questions, but at the end of the day, they are stupid questions. How am I feeling? Well, let me think.My mother’s funeral was a couple days ago, so I damn sure ain’t happy.
    Lucky for me, Mr. Ray didn’t ask anything like that. He actually didn’t say nothing about my mother at all. Instead he started talking about what he was like when he was my age.
    â€œMan,” Mr. Ray said with a sigh, “you better than I was. You responsible, y’know?” He leaned against the wall and crossed his ankles.
    â€œI guess,” I said, unsure of where this conversation was going.
    â€œI mean, I wasn’t thinking about no job or nothing like that. I was thinking