Apocalypse Read Online Free PDF Page A

Cally lied. “I checked.” She would have worn the boots all day if she could have gotten away with it. She hated low shoes, women’s shoes, skimpy, flimsy, flabby, insubstantial flats, crippling heels; she hated it when she had to put on a dress and dressy shoes to go to church or a funeral or viewing. Women’s shoes made her feel helpless, susceptible to cold and weather, unable to run from danger; flat or not, the things were designed so that she would twist an ankle if she so much as tried to stride out in them. And the heels made all women walk like waterfowl, in her opinion. Cally loved boots. She could stride and swagger in boots. She fantasized of men, muggers, rapists, foolish enough to attack her when she was wearing boots. One hard booted kick to the crotch, or a crunch of a heavy leather heel on an instep, and she would show them.
    She fetched the glue, running downstairs and up again. She always ran wherever she could to use up calories. She wanted to be thin, youthful-looking, and loved.… She watched, belly growling, as Mark positioned the dead man’s hands. Deceased, rather. Never say dead.
    She wished Mark would thank her, notice her, maybe kiss her, but he was preoccupied by his work.
    â€œHe looks nice,” she said, doing the duty of a good wife. Mark took pride in his business. He pinked out his bodies well, applied cosmetics to them with artistry, displayed them in beautiful layouts (arranging the flowers himself), and he could even sculpt convincing facial repairs with wax when necessary. These accomplishments were not such that he could brag of them at Rotary meetings, so only Cally knew how much of him was artist rather than businessman. How he had struggled, for instance, with the body of a manic-depressive who had jumped off an overpass onto the concrete four-lane in front of a tandem truck. Most funeral directors would have simply closed the casket, but Mark had made the man look nearly as decent as a church deacon for his burial. Though the ungrateful corpse had ruined the effect by leaking. No matter how well you patched up jumpers, they always leaked.
    No glue showed when Mark had finished with the stout body’s hands. “Very dignified,” Cally approved. “His own manicure?”
    â€œI freshened it.”
    â€œVery classy.”
    Mark nodded in acknowledgement, and Cally felt her heart hunger like her aching gut. He was such a good-looking man. She wanted to take that monkey suit off him and put him back in jeans, the way he belonged, the way he had been when they met—or better, just take it off him, and take him to bed.… How long had it been? Far too long. Funeral directors (never say “undertaker”) often had to work at night.
    â€œGo on over to Peach,” Mark suggested, “say hi to Barry, see what he’s doing.”
    The Peach room, he meant: his ultimate in decorating achievement, with its heavy, fringed, gold-damask curtains and crystal-beaded lampshades and the three-tiered fountain mumbling nasally to itself like a priest. Business was good, if Mark had two layouts going at once. The funeral home (a term Mark preferred to “mortuary,” which had a cold ring to it), must have been one of the few businesses doing well in Hoadley, and no wonder. The town was full of old people who were busy dying. Generally at inconvenient times, Cally thought, thrilling herself: such a daring, such a cynical thought. Gigi would be proud.
    She was not yet daring enough to wonder why Mark seemed to be pushing her away, or to stop obeying him. Cally went to see what was going on in the Peach Room.
    â€œHi, Barry.”
    â€œHi, Mrs. Wilmore.”
    Another man of that age, early twenties, would probably have called her by her first name, but Barry Beal always called her Mrs. Wilmore. She was the boss’s wife, and Barry was serious about such things. About most things. He worked slowly with blunt white hands. She saw