Who: Zipporah Bakst, Sterling Darcy What: Zipporah loses her grandmother unexpectedly, Sterling is there to help with arrangements Where: Darcy Funeral Home When: 1st June 1888 [Backdated] Rating: PG
Zipporah stood uncertainly on the steps of the unassuming-looking building, Ach hovering behind her. She could see the sign on the door -- Darcy Funeral Home -- and the house and address matched the information she’d finally wheedled out of the police at Scotland Yard.
This was the place the (no doubt well-meaning) coroner had decided to take her grandmother after she’d died of a heart attack during her morning shopping. He'd probably thought it best, seeing as how none of the men from her neighborhood who’d been there when she’d died (damn them, all of them) had done their duty, and spoken for her.
So here she was, a neat tear in her dress (on the left side -- she’d been raised by her grandmother after her mother had died, after all), her heart heavy. She was there to look after her grandmother because no-one else would -- her aunt, who was still reeling from the suddenness of all of it, was cleaning the house to prepare for shiva at home, and so it was up to her to take care of the rituals, to make sure things were done properly, so that her grandmother’s soul could properly be laid to rest.
She was furious at the universe, at the men who’d stood by and done nothing, at the policemen and coroner and, no doubt, this mortician who didn’t know the way things ought to be done, at her grandmother for leaving her too soon, and God Himself, if she had to be honest about it. On top of that, she’d had to shout at no end of people at Scotland Yard to get any sorts of answers and had been walking for ages to track down who would know what happened to her grandmother, so she was well exhausted and heartsick to boot.
She bit her lip, saying a brief prayer (and asking for forgiveness for her brief falter in faith), and rapped on the door.
Sterling had been quite busy that day, between taking custody of the old woman from the market and a young infant from a small home nearby his hours of operation had been hectic.
It was Zipporah’s fortune that someone was there to answer when she knocked, a kindly woman who was up in age. She glanced at the young woman on the steps noting her dress and the symbolic tear - kriah - a gesture of condolence marking her face. “May I help you, child?” The woman inquired softly.
The inside of the building was warm and inviting resembling a home. There was furniture like one might see in a residence, comfortable couches and tables, sconces with candles and paintings. Rugs lined the hard wood floors and a wood stove in the corner burned to offer heat.
In the back part of the building was where the deceased were kept. The room was intended to be multi-purposeful. A large cooler that could hold two deceased sat in a corner and was kept cool with ice that needed to be replaced every so often. Nearby sat the tables for preparation, with sections marked with instruments and tools. Propped upon one of the walls were a few coffins, some made solely of pine and others a touch more lavish with cloth interiors, all of them anthropoidal in shape.
She hadn’t been expecting kindness, and the sight of a friendly older woman at the door very nearly made her burst into tears.
“Is this where they sent my bubbe? My… my grandmother? She died this morning at market and I think she’s here, and it’s… It’s important I see. Watch. To make sure it’s right.” Her voice wobbled. “Am I too late? Has he already… did he… start yet?” She didn’t know much of burial practices here, but she’d been told plenty of stories -- that if the bodies got sent to a coroner, all their organs were removed, and if they were sent to a mortician like this, they were drained of blood and pumped full of chemicals, the thought of which made her stomach twist. She swallowed after the tumble of words, uncertain if she’d been understood.
The place looked more like a person’s house -- she could see couches and rugs and a fireplace -- and while she hadn’t quite known what the inside would look like, it felt more like she was making a social call, and she was all of a sudden aware of the state of her clothes after tramping all over the city, the fact that she might look like she didn’t belong in such a fancy place, and she raised her chin, her eyes bright and her mouth only trembling a little.
The woman was kind, beckoning the younger female into the warmth of the parlor. When the young woman and her brother were across the threshold, Anita closed the door firmly to escape the wind and then began to tend to the task at hand.
“Dear, I can go find Mister Darcy for you. This is his place and it is up to him what he allows. Please have a seat, rest a moment. May I get you something to drink?”
It was formality by now, ensuring that anyone who'd lost someone was comfortable here. Sterling did not want anyone to be afraid of him or his practice as ominous and intimidating as he could be in person. Structure, compassion, dignity were all important things. This was a business but part of the integrity was maintaining the respect and rapport of his clients. He wanted it to be inviting for all people, not just those with a heavy purse or pocketbook.
“Tea, please,” Zipporah replied, automatically sitting, Ach standing behind her and resting a protective hand on the back of the chair. She looked up at him. “My brother doesn’t need anything,” she added.
The room was comfortable enough, but Zipporah felt a cold shudder move through her regardless, something giving her goose pimples despite the warmth of the fire, and as the woman left to fetch tea and Mister Darcy, she plucked at the red string around her wrist, fingering the knots there, and murmuring a brief prayer. She tended to err on the side of over-protection -- between Ach, and the various precautions she took on her person, she was more than safe -- but she worried for her grandmother’s soul if the place was inhabited by spirits.
Anita nodded and hurried off to get, first, the mortician and then secondly the requested tea.
“Mister Darcy, the family of the woman from the market, they are here to see you…” Anita breathed as she shuffled her way into the back room.
Sterling tilted his head upward as she scurried in and then made to stand to his full height. As young as he was, he was tall and lean with a touch of tone to him from lifting. He offered a small, thin but warm smile and a nod. The reflection in the lenses of his spectacles showed a woman a touch unsettled by something. “Thank you, Anita.”
Setting aside his newspaper, Sterling shrugged on his jacket, smoothed out the fabric and then allowed his long legs to carry him out into the parlor area.
His blue eyes cast first to the young woman sitting and then to the young man behind her. He smiled, “Hello, how may I be of assistance to you?”
Zipporah stood, smoothing her skirt. She’d had a few breaths to regain her composure, which was a blessing, and Ach’s steady presence was a comfort in this place despite the fact that it threw her off-balance in more ways than one.
The man was a great deal taller, thinner, and younger than she’d pictured in her head. “I believe you have my grandmother’s…” she dug around for the words. “My grandmother’s body,” she finally said, her words lightly accented, looking up at him. “Do you? Please, I need… I need to be with her? There are rites, there are ways the body should be... managed, handled, and…” her eyes started stinging again with shame and anger, “she got taken here instead of the place she should have been. They don’t want her.” Belatedly, she realized she hadn’t introduced herself, and extended her hand. “Zipporah Bakst. My brother, Ach. ...I am pleased for to be making your acquaintance.”
The sentiment wasn’t quite right under the circumstances, of course, but she was going to be making a great deal of requests of the young mortician -- at the very least, she figured it didn’t hurt to try to be polite to start.
Sterling waited with practiced patience as the young woman wound her way through the processes of her mind. She had a lot on her plate, he suspected, which wasn't uncommon with the circumstances.
He listened when she spoke, noting the mention of rites of particular things that should have occurred and hadn't and the fact that the young woman standing before him had been forced here instead of where she had wanted to go. He'd seen that before.
Anita came back with a cup of tea and the saucer just as Sterling extended his hand. He shook Zipporah’s hand gently and pulled away so Anita could offer the beverage. “Yes, Miss Bakst. Certainly we want to honor your grandmother. Please, you may come this way.”
He generally didn't let people go into the back rooms of the place but rites were rites and he'd seen nothing to lead him to believe she meant any ill will.
The corridors were dim, lit by candles on sconces that accented the wallpaper and carpeting. The decor gave way to another small corridor and then they were in the room beyond.
Her grandmother lay on a small table beneath a sheet, still dressed and untouched. Sterling had only just taken her from the cooler and laid her out when the housekeeper had come.
The relief upon seeing her grandmother’s body whole and untouched was palpable -- she gripped Ach’s arm to keep her legs from wobbling right out from under her, and the tears sprung to her eyes. “Oh thank God”, she murmured in Yiddish, “bubbe, I’m here, it’ll be alright,” she said, quietly, handing her cup of tea to Ach before reaching out to touch her grandmother’s hand, her other hand still clinging resolutely to Ach’s thick forearm.
She sighed, taking a moment, before nodding her head and looking up at the young Mortician.
“It’ll do,” she said, nodding. “She can’t… no bleeding, no chemicals,” she said, shaking her head. “Just rinse with water. Three buckets full, poured slow. Ach has the Tachrichim, the outfit for to put her in, and I know how to tie it properly, and ask for forgiveness, and then there is a sheet to be put in the box… the coffin… and wrapped around her. Plain.” She paused. This part was the trickiest -- the part she wasn’t sure he’d agree to. “And we need to watch. To be by her until burial, and recite prayer. I ought to have been from the beginning.” She paused. “We can stand in the corner, we’ll be as quiet as possible, I promise.”
The place was haunted -- she could taste the energy in the air -- and she was itching to perform a warding charm on the off-chance that the unwanted spirits had somehow tainted her grandmother’s body, her soul. She looked up at the young Mister Darcy, her gaze direct and firm despite her eyes being a little shinier than usual, and her grip on Ach’s arm was tight.
As the instructions for preparation came, Sterling listened. He absorbed what she was telling him, no preparation, no bleeding. The buckets of water poured slowly, exactly three.
The mention of being there beside the woman was a request Sterling found unusual, though in his line of work unusual was common. He couldn't let them stay here, the dignity of his clients wouldn't allow it. But they could use one of the rooms in the house to sit until she was ready or if they needed time.
“You can't sit in here, it's dangerous. But you can sit in another part of the house, I can move her to another room, somewhere with a bit of warmth for you and your brother.” He didn't know how it was going to work with the water, perhaps that part would have to be completed here and then the relocation.
He didn't want to ask about money, but this was a business after all. “And who is taking care of the bill?”
She’d started to open her mouth to protest upon hearing ‘can’t,’ that she had to watch, that was the whole point, but his follow-up made her close her mouth suddenly, startled into silence.
“Yes,” she finally whispered. “Thank you. You are a good man.”
She patted Ach’s arm, taking the teacup from him to cover for her sudden swell of emotion that rose over her -- relief, sorrow, and gratitude battling it out in her heart.
His inquiry about the bill galvanized her into motion again. “I will pay,” she said, taking a sip of the now lukewarm tea. “I… I’m not sure what is the cost, though.” She swallowed, hard, wondering if Mister Darcy, who’d been so accommodating, would cease to be so if she couldn’t settle the bill right then and there, and whether he accepted installment plans. Her grandmother had set a sum aside for this purpose -- and had made her own burial clothes by hand (the woman liked to be prepared for everything) -- but it might not be enough -- London was an expensive city, and the funeral home was richly appointed.
Before Sterling could respond to the comment about cost, a loud bang came from beyond the closed back area door. A scream followed. Sterling sighed.
“If you'll excuse me,” Sterling said briefly, allowing them to stay with their grandmother while he tended to the situation in the kitchen.
The ghost had been a tricky thing, popping up here and there. He'd been through three housekeepers this month already though all of them were aware of his situation.
Sterling wandered away, pushing quickly through the doorway to tend to the matter at hand.
In the kitchen, Anita was fanning herself with a sweaty palm. A teacup had fallen to the floor from her hands and shattered. Her face was pale. A tower of teacups sat stacked on the countertop near the wash basin.
The scream made Zipporah start, and she could smell a slight sulfuric, coppery sort of tang beyond the scent of chemicals and perfumes and the subtle must of death that hung in the air. She handed the teacup back to Ach, who took it gently in his large hand as she started to pray in earnest, weaving a spell of cleansing through the prayer, using intonation, gesture, pauses and slight variations in wording to imbue it with power, her voice low and clear and sure, rising and falling softly in what sounded very nearly like a song. She knew whatever it was wouldn’t dare come around her, as heavily protected as she was -- her grandmother’s soul was safe as long as she and Ach were there by her side -- but her grandmother’s body had been unwatched for hours, and goodness knows what could’ve happened in the meantime.
For all his kindnesses and accommodation, it was less than ideal to have her grandmother prepared for burial in such a place.
When the mortician came back, she was very nearly done with her prayer, and she finished the last two words before turning to him. “You have a haunting, yes?” She said, matter-of-factly. “I could… I could get rid of it, as payment.” The offer was a substantial one -- it would be an insult to the memory of her grandmother otherwise -- but not everyone believed in such things -- she wasn’t sure whether he’d laugh at her or not -- so she shrugged.
The ordeal in the kitchen didn't last long, Sterling unstacked the teacups one by one gently and assisted Anita in getting the shards of porcelain from the floor. It took longer than he'd have liked but not too long.
Sterling made his way back to the preparation area and when he arrived he found the young woman finishing up what seemed to him as a prayer. And then the mention of the ghost came.
With some discomfort, Sterling nodded, “Yes, it seems that way.” It was no laughing matter, this ghost. It was troublesome and bad for business.
At her offer, Sterling paused to consider it. It was a heavy thing, but necessary for both of them. “Alright. Consider our services a trade, mine for yours. How exactly do you expect to get rid of a ghost?” He inquired, curious.
“It will take a few days to do properly, once I start,” Zipporah replied, nodding. “I’ll be sitting shiva with my aunt for a week, and then I can come back and sort out the type of spirit that is bothering you so, what it wants, and then I’ll ask it for to leave, and set up protections so it won’t happen again.” She looked thoughtful. “I’d be speaking prayer, drawing holy symbols with chalk, burning purifying oils, adding small protections -- a small strip of metal -- to the front and back doors. I’ve done it before. And if it doesn’t work,” she shrugged. “You can bill me.”
Her gaze was confident and a little prideful, sure of herself, daring him to disbelieve her.
As she spoke her presence seemed to grow, each syllable and word enhanced with a cadence he hadn't expected out of a woman as petite as she.
“All right. When the time comes, I'll take care of whatever is needed to give you the space to work you'll require. For now, we must begin to tend to your grandmother. Does she have a cemetery? Is there one you prefer?” Of course there was one in the churchyard and another small strip of land designated for burial upon the grounds of the funeral home.
He wasn't sure what type of sacred ground Zipporah’s grandmother would require.
“And I need you to select a coffin.” There were those few leaning upon the wall and more down the street at the General Store.
Zipporah nodded, pleased. She walked over to the coffins purposefully, nodding at a simple pine box without any fabric lining. “Plain is good,” she said. She’d have to pull the lining out if they went with a fancier model. “She’s the first to leave us since we came here,” she said, thoughtfully. “Edmonton has a few of her friends…” she pulled a face. “If they allow you to bury her there, I would prefer that, if not, Bow.”
She turned and pulled out the embossed hamsa necklace she wore around her neck and, unclasping it, handed it to him, still warm from resting against her skin. “For you to wear until I can get to work,” she said. “For safety. I can send Ach by with another one for the nice lady. How many others are in your house?”
Noting the location and the pine coffin, Sterling nodded. He would need to move quickly to get the necessary preparations in order.
When she handed him the necklace, Sterling arched an eyebrow. He'd never been one for such things, jewelry or trinkets but in the moment it seemed rude to decline. Patiently he took the necklace and clasped it around his own neck letting it fall against the front of his shirt.
“Just us two, myself and Anita.” He'd lost his family some time back and has never taken it upon himself to find time to make another. Courting and dating seemed tedious and who wanted to marry the mortician?
Zipporah nodded, a sympathetic look passing over her face. She knew this was a family business -- and he seemed so very young, to be all on his own. She patted his arm almost out of habit before withdrawing her hand, a little embarrassed at the familiarity. “I see,” she said, nodding.
Sighing, she looked over at her grandmother, lying beneath the sheet. While the day had started off with heartbreak, anger, and dread, it seemed as if her grandmother had landed exactly where she was needed. If she’d passed while they were still back home, there would’ve been a village of people to recite the Kaddish and help her prepare things, but Zipporah would have to do the best she could on her own. “Well, then, Mister Darcy,” she said, looking up at the lanky mortician. “Let us begin.”