The Cool Room by Clifford Beck - HTML preview

Chapter 23

The day had finally arrived, and Emily, having ruminated on what to wear, thought that black might be appropriate. But although this might be fitting for a mind as dark as hers, it would not be for a simple dinner. After a time, she decided on jeans and a flannel top. Winter was reaching its apex, and she thought a combination of warmth and style would be more than adequate without being flashy or revealing. The last thing she wanted was to offend Jonathan’s wife. After all, they were co-workers and if Iona got the wrong impression, she might suspect her of having a romantic interest in her husband. In not so many words, she might think Emily was a slut. This, however, would soon prove to be nothing more than a fleeting anxiety-driven illusion.

While Emily lived only a few blocks from the funeral home, Jonathan and Iona resided in the next town south. One might think that the distance, however short, might give Emily more time to compose herself. On the contrary, driving to Jonathan’s home only provided her with more time to overthink, creating circumstances that could never take shape in reality. Essentially, Emily was quite good at driving herself nuts with things that birthed themselves in her mind. In college, she resorted to the occasional use of marijuana to steady her nerves and quiet her mind. But college is a sheltered world where one is insulated from what takes place beyond its scholarly halls. In the real world, the use of such substances – albeit plants— can have life-altering consequences and is therefore something to be avoided.

As she pulled up in front of Jonathan’s house, Emily felt her skin break out in a cold sweat as her hands began trembling. Stopping across the street, she sat trying to compose herself as she tried to talk herself down from what she believed was an impending anxiety attack.

“Jesus Christ, Emily,” she began. “You work with the dead for a living. You shouldn’t be so fucking nervous over a fucking dinner. It’s not like you’re going to get laid afterward. Now, get your shit together.”

Finally talking herself into a state of relative calm, Emily got out of her car, and locking the door, turned and crossed the street. Checking the address against a note she had put in her purse, she approached the front door. The house was set in an older part of town surrounded by Victorian homes, many with rounded towers built into the corners of their second stories. If one looked up, a widow’s walk could be seen on the roof of a few. It seemed that the owners of these homes were in possession of more than a few coins and paid a great deal to keep them up-to-date with the historical period they had been built in.

Taking a few moments to survey the neighborhood, Emily – for only a few moments – saw herself having taken up residence in one of those magnificent homes, enjoying a lifestyle she would likely never see. Pulling herself away from that Victorian fantasy, Emily made her way up the steps and, facing the door, noticed the windows. They were not as flat as most are, but thick and beveled. The doorknob also lacked the plain appearance of a house of lesser standards and seemed to be made of deeply embossed brass. The design was something that might be found in an antique store or perhaps an art gallery. In the middle of the door was a T-shaped object – small and slightly greenish. Although Emily had never seen such a device, she took it between her thumb and forefinger and twisted it. Not only did it cause a bell on the other side to loudly ring, but she also felt it vibrate through her fingers.

“That is so cool,” she whispered.

A moment later, the door swung open, and there stood Jonathan, a broad smile on his face. “Hey,” he said. “How are you?”

Stepping aside, he motioned Emily in, allowing her to study the home’s interior. It was no surprise that the inside was consistent in style with the outside. Somehow, Jonathan managed to acquire period furniture, perfectly setting off the house’s interior. Emily, to say the least, was impressed. “I love your house,” she said. “Maybe I’ll make enough money that I can live in a house like this someday.”

It was only moments later that she realized her faux pas and quickly apologized for her blunder. “Emily,” Jonathan responded. “You don’t have to apologize. I used to be a bit jealous of people who lived in places like this.”

Before he could continue, Iona appeared and, extending a hand, welcomed her to their home. “It’s nice to finally meet you,” she said. “C’mon in. Have a seat.”

Directing her to the parlor, Jonathan motioned Emily to the love seat near the front of the living room.

“This is my wife, Iona,” he said.

Having already been introduced, the two immediately began chatting about Emily’s chosen profession as Iona and Jonathan also sat. “Don’t take this the wrong way,” Iona said. “But why would a woman want to work in such a dreary job? Seeing dead people all day must really bother you after a while.”

Emily understood the reason for her question. The funeral industry was largely male-dominated, and like an exclusive club, women were rarely allowed through its doors unless they were delivering flowers. But times were changing, and as Emily discussed the fascination she held with her chosen career path, Iona began to understand that the idea of a ‘man’s world’ was quickly fading as an occupational footnote. But Emily, not wanting to talk about work on her time off, steered the conversation in a different direction. “So,” she began. “Jonathan tells me you met in Romania. What part of the country are you from?”

“Wallachia,” Iona replied.

Tapping into her limited knowledge of that part of the world, she asked what anyone else might have asked, but with more specificity.

“Anywhere hear Bran Castle?” she asked. Iona was a bit stunned to find that Emily knew anything of Romania. Most people ask far more superficial questions pertaining to Dracula, such as, “Have you ever seen a vampire?” Iona generally found this line of questioning ignorant and irritating, but Emily seemed to possess at least some cursory knowledge of Romania and didn’t mind continuing the discussion.

“Where I’m from is called Brasov,” she replied. “And it’s not far from the castle. In fact, Jonathan and I met in Brasov. He was attending some kind of conference and wanted to see the castle. Most people think it’s haunted, but I’ve never seen anything spooky up there.”

Emily, wanting to show off her knowledge of Romanian history, continued with the discussion of the most notable of Romanian characters. “I hope you don’t mind,” she began. “But I read that Vlad Tempes was killed by forces of the Ottoman Empire and that his father was a Crusader.” Iona was truly impressed, seeing that Emily’s knowledge of her country’s history went beyond that of most people, who only wanted to talk about Dracula and vampires.

“That is true,” Iona said. “His head was supposedly taken back to Constantinople and placed above the gate to the city. But there are some who believe he was buried under a monastery. Who knows, really?” Now it was Iona’s turn to change the subject and asked Jonathan to keep an eye on dinner. “Come,” Iona continued. “Let me show you the house.”

With everyone getting to their feet, Jonathan made his way to the kitchen while Iona escorted Emily through the first floor. During the tour, Emily noticed the strong Romanian theme with paintings, wall-mounted weapons and the occasional suit of armor. Iona had obviously brought some of Romania to America and decorated their home with its countryside, culture and history. “Are these weapons antiques?” she asked. Iona tried to obtain as many authentic items as possible but could afford only so much originality. “Some,” Iona replied. “Most are copies. It’s difficult to get antiques from Romania without actually being there to see them. And with everything you have to do to get them out of the country, it makes it almost not worth the trouble.” To Emily, it didn't matter if what adorned the walls of the hallways was genuine or not. Jonathan’s house was a thing of Victorian art on the outside and a Romanian museum within its walls. She thought there couldn’t possibly be another house like it in all of Fulton County.

The second floor was much the same, with tapestries on the walls and artwork hanging in places that allowed anyone to easily see it. Most were copies of works done by famous artists, but Iona was quick to point out the authentic from the copies. Emily continued to marvel at the house's interior and considered asking if she could rent a room from them – all in jest, of course. But the smell of dinner bellowed its call, and Jonathan, having let the women know that it was ready, removed the cookware from the stove and a platter from the oven. Iona had timed everything perfectly. Even serving sizes were measured according to what the average adult should consume. By the smell alone, Emily thought that Iona seemed to have missed her calling. But she never considered life as a chef when she had Jonathan and lived in a glorious house away from the big city, where one's circumstances could spiral out of control at a moment's notice. All one needed was to meet the wrong person. Small-town living was certainly enough for Iona.