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He grumbled in the dark, grasping blindly for his phone that had the audacity to wake him with that shrill xylophone of a ringtone.
“Apologies for calling so early, Volkarin,” the feminine voice flatly imposed before he could usher a groggy greeting.
“Myrna.” Emmrich yawned with a cordial head turn from the mic.
“You've an interview for the new intern at 7.”
He rubbed his face. Did she really need to call at 4:12 to tell me? It couldn't wait until 5:00? Emmrich scowled at his alarm clock.
“That’s a tad last minute,” he politely protested. “I have to begin preparing the Talth body by 8; you know this. That's not nearly enough time for an interview.”
Myrna was always graceful enough to let him finish his arguments. She hummed almost inaudibly in agreement.
“I am aware. And I apologize for the tight schedule. But it seems Viktor already approved this one. This is merely a compatibility interview.”
“Ah,” Emmrich pinched the bridge of his nose, “So Mr. Goth expects me to chaperone another aspiring undergraduate again?” His voice, though not fully awake just yet, dripped with all too professional vitriol.
“This one promises to be different. I think you will agree,” Myrna firmly entreated.
Emmrich rolled his eyes rather liberally, but withheld the scoff in his throat.
“If you both insist.”
“Thank you. I've already emailed you their resume and other information. Mr. Goth also attached his personal interview notes for your convenience.”
“Thank you, Myrna.”
“Good day.”
The phone quietly beeped before going dark as Myrna ended the call, leaving the senior mortician to stew in the pitch black of his pre-dawnlit bedroom. He let his phone hit the nightstand with an inelegant drop.
If I have to see to one more squeamish intern this year, I may actually retire.
Of course, that was bull. Whatever would he do with his life if he retired? The university in Cumberland had no interest in hiring a man his age, even with his mosaic mural of degrees. Visiting Johanna from the visiting end of a bulletproof divider was hardly the emotionally healthy way to waste the weekends of his twilight years. Surely Manfred would appreciate having him around, at least. Emmrich sighed, gazing down at his companion laying in cinnamon roll formation at the foot of the bed, the creamy coat of the little shiba barely visible against the darkness.
“Oh, Manfred… what kind of day will it be?” He hummed rhetorically. Of course the dog wasn't an oracle, but what was life without a little whimsy to ask your pets your day to day fate? Manfred lifted his head with a sleepy gurgle, rising to lumber up to the empty pillow by Emmrich's head. The rakish pup flopped with a content huff and small lick. It was really his pillow, at this point. It had been there forever for who knows what reason. To complete the ensemble, if nothing else. How odd that would be; such a big bed with only one pillow. As if it needed to portray himself as any lonelier.
Emmrich clicked off his alarm clock at exactly sixteen seconds before it was to ring. He watched the minutes wind down. Going back to sleep for that precious extra 45 minutes was moot, ruined by the subject of Myrna’s call. His routine went the same as always. Warm shower, yoga, breakfast (with Manfred), get dressed proper, and off to work. Never out of order. A simple controlled environment he’d built his life around. Something as guaranteed as death meant job stability too; his work as a mortician for the Beloved Vaults Memorial Home had served him well for the last 37 years. Emmrich had become indifferent to the monotony. Such was life. And probably death as well, if things kept going like this.
Emmrich was in the door of the funeral parlor by 6:20 and not a moment later. Getting to his office with any punctuality was entirely up to fate, however. Fate, in this instance, was ruled by the secretaries. Why Viktor Goth felt it necessary to have two was a mystery
“Good morning, Dr. Volkarin!” Curi gleamed impossibly bright.
Kesa swiftly joined in. “Was the traffic into town any better than yesterday? Or is Markham Blvd still a construction nightmare?”
Before Emmrich could even process a courteous greeting of his own, the two had already entwined the conversation amongst themselves.
“It’s Ferventis, Kes! When isn’t Nevarra city doing roadwork? There are only two seasons in Nevarra: Winter and Construction.”
“Well, one can have hope! It’s been partially closed off since Eluviesta. I keep having to ask Mr. Goth to let me leave early or work later depending on the bus schedule!”
Emmrich just stood there with his entirely insufficient sized coffee and a lopsided smile. These two have always been as ambiguous as their genders. Both sat in oversized vaporwave hoodies. Neither particularly looked like the types you would find in a funeral parlor. They were lively, chatty, and always excited by something. Their hair, green and blue respectively, stood out in the muted tones and pastels of funeral bouquets. Sometimes they said things that seemed to stand outside time. Emmrich always chalked it up to simply being out of touch with lingo amongst the newer generations. Elderly clientele occasionally voiced their outdated grievances of the pair, but Viktor was always adamant anyone willing to work in the field at all was a welcome guest. Appearance didn’t define the job, though they always dressed aptly on days when wakes were held. And the parlor did well enough that Mr. Goth had no qualm in letting an unruly customer or two go about it. Though few were really of the mind to hassle changing funeral homes once it was suggested.
“Good morning to you both, as well,” Emmrich finally cleared his throat. “And I’m afraid the boulevard is still shut down. But it has moved up a block or two. Seeker Ave to 44th Street is clear, at last.”
“Praise the stars!” Kesa cheered with a wiggle in their swivel chair.
Nodding politely, Emmrich pushed on past the receptionist desk and made his way upstairs to his office. He wasn’t looking forward to this interview. It wasn’t the first one in his tenured career here; he’d taught more than a couple dozen aspiring morticians in his day. Most were squirrelly, tardy, disengaged, and of the most flippant attitudes towards the deceased. He held little faith this one would be any different. Digging through his satchel for his readers, Emmrich took another swig of coffee and wiped the cold foam from his carefully kempt moustache as he waited for his desktop to hum to life. He could hear his pocket watch ticking away in his phthalo tweed waistcoat. He really needed to replace his white noise machine…
Freshly blinded by the Windows 10 start up screen, the mortician dug into preparing himself for another painfully awkward meet. Ingellvar... The intern’s resume was simple enough. Less to it than most, admittedly. But they already had their associates degree. That was refreshing compared to all the ones who were still in school when applying. At least this one wouldn’t need their hand held in the prep room… hopefully. Seems they took a few years between schooling and this job, for unlisted reasons. Or perhaps it was an oversight. But it was the funeral director’s notes that were the most interesting addition to Emmrich. Viktor was never shy in his opinions of potential interns and hires. Blunt, perhaps, was a better way to put it. Feelings were spared only for clients when it came to him. But these notes gave a sense of someone genuinely impressed. Could Viktor even feel things like that?
-Thorough autopsies, sharp eye
-Exceptionally knowledgeable, passionate about the details
-Hands tremble, well managed
-Not ideal for families, best suited for prep for now
-Already certified
-Open to any Schedule
-Open to weekends, needs Thursday mornings off
-Quiet, avoids eye contact, astute manners regardless
-Brought coffee
It was a very agreeable list for what seemed to be a very agreeable intern.
Is Viktor hiring my assistant or my replacement? The intrusive thought flashed through Emmrich’s mind without a chance to latch on.
The chantry bells rang outside. Seven o’clock.
Kn’knock.
It was soft and swift, almost inaudible. Like if “sorry to disturb you,” was a sound.
Ah. The intern. On the dot, it seems.
Emmrich stood to get the door, preening as if he was the one with something to prove. He pulled off his half moon readers and adjusted his lilac print tie, flattening a wrinkle in his cashew chinos. They needed to know they were dealing with a man of class and experience, after all.
Opening the door, a man almost as small and mousey as their knock stood. Back straight, looking a little like a halla in the headlights on some midnight Arlathan backroad. Emmrich only had a brief moment to glance over the young man's appearance before time taken to actually greet him would have veered into socially uncomfortable territory. But he had time enough to pick up on two things: the fluffiest stripe of peachy hair with a well combed cascade of a beard to match, and the rattling.
The tremors. I see.
“Please! Come in. Let me take those,” Emmrich held out his hands to take a shaking cup. The young man had, as noted, brought coffee.
“Oh, thanks. This one's yours,” the intern’s voice twittered nervously.
Emmrich inspected the label as he ushered the man in and closed the door. His brows hiked in pleasant surprise.
“You know my coffee order?”
“No,” the man answered sheepishly as he sat across from the desk, “But Mr. Viktor does. Mr. Goth, I mean. Your- our?- boss, sir.”
“Viktor sold me out?” Emmrich accused lightheartedly.
The question only seemed to stun the young man, much to his confusion.
“Ah. It was a jest,” the mortician gently corrected.
The intern’s shoulders dropped almost immediately. “Oh!” He chirped. “Right. Y-Yes. He mentioned you ‘always regret not getting a bigger one.’ I thought…” his voice trailed off.
Emmrich took the opportunity to assess this potential apprentice as he listened.
His resume said 29, but he likely would be carded anywhere without the beard. Taciturn, fidgets, stiff posture. Simple wrist braces. Low maintenance formalwear; black shirt, sleeves up, low cut vest, black jeans… malachite cufflinks? Black canvas sneakers, interesting that the laces match the malachite. Worn but cleaned. Must walk everywhere. Gold torc, under the collar. Phalanges and metacarpal tattoos on the hands. Class ring, Mortalitasi signet. Quite the credential, on its own. Whyever is he so anxious?
“The coffee is appreciated. Thank you,” Emmrich leaned forward warmly. “There's no need to buy my approval, however, if that is something you're concerned about.”
The intern sat up, same halla wide stare in his clover eyes. “Oh, no, I don't– sorry, I keep starting every sentence with ‘oh’– I just like doing nice things for people. I can stop, if you'd rather–”
“Laird,” Emmrich stretched his hand over his desk in a gentle ‘mellow down’ gesture.
The intern’s eyes snapped up at the sound of his name, meeting the mortician's for the first time.
Emmrich leaned back in his office chair with a disarming smile, steepling his hands.
“Mr. Goth made a note that you were rather ardent about the job. Tell me about that.”