Page 4 of Bless This Hot Mess

Scat jazz played softly in the background, the kind of soundtrack that felt less like a lawyer’s office and more like a dive bar after hours. Stanford Weinus, a frumpy man in his fifties, was spinning slowly in a squeaky office chair. His tweed jacket was slightly too big, his tie perpetually askew, and he had the air of someone who’d lost important documents under piles of coffee-stained papers more than once.

“Emma-Lou, Emma-Lou, Emma-Beep-bopscaddily-do-boo-hoo!” He exclaimed, snapping his fingers along with the rhythm. “It’s good to see you! After a month, I didn’t know if we’d ever get these papers signed. You needed time, I totally understand that. But to think! It was their first vacation in years,years!And to be swallowed up, gone poof, vanished. So strange. And so sad.”

Stanford spun once more for good measure before hopping up from his chair. He shuffled over to the filing cabinet, which groaned in protest as he yanked it open. Legal folders tumbled forward as he rifled through them, muttering to himself, “I just had your file… now where did I… Oh!” he exclaimed, his hand darting to a messy stack of papers on his desk. “Will you read this aloud? Does this say Emma-Lou Burns?”

“No, this file is for the Ferrari family,” Emma-Lou said, handing back the file.

“The doctor says I’ve got low-vision. And it just keeps getting lower! Getting old is no picnic. Here it is! Don’t mind the coffee rings.” He grinned sheepishly, “Do you have a pen?”

“Umm… let me–” Emma-Lou began, searching her bag.

Stanford waved her off. “I’ve got one, well, it’s a pencil, but just press nice and hard.” He plopped the pile of paperwork in front of her, tapping a finger on the top sheet. “This first document is to acknowledge and accept that you are now the sole owner of WWJD Radio Station. And as such and so forth, you’ll take on all legal and fiscal responsibility for the company, yada yada yada. If there’s debt, it’s yours now; if there’s piles of money stashed in the walls, it’s yours, too! Ha!” He chuckled, “That’s a joke. I doubt there is, but if therewas, it’d be yours, Emma-Lou.”

Emma-Lou’s hands trembled slightly as she took the pencil, her eyes lingering on the stack of papers. “I’m not doing this for the money,” she said softly, almost to herself.

“Or the debt, if there is any,” Stanford added, with a wink.

Emma-Lou let out a shaky breath, “I need to stop pretending they’re going to show up one day, and everything will be back to normal. Everyone at the radio station is looking at me…”

“To be a leader. Their new boss, yes!” Stanford nodded, leaning back in his chair with a satisfied smile. He laced his fingers behind his head as he looked at her.

“There’s so much to learn,” she continued. “Big Daddy always managed the jockeys’ shows, and Mamma handled…”

“The money, the hiring and firing, the Ferraris…” Stanford interrupted, rattling off a list with ease that suggested he was familiar with the family business.

Emma-Lou shook her head, the hint of a smile tugging at her lips. “Mamma and Big Daddy were practical. Frugal even. They drove a Chrysler 300.”

“Eggplant purple,” Stanford recalled, his eyes gleaming with the memory. “I remember it.”

She sighed, glancing at the papers, “It’s really falling apart at the radio station. I need to…”

Stanford’s expression softened as he slid the stack of papers closer to her. “You need to declare their death by signing here… and here.” He tapped two spots on the top document. “Your daddy’s boots and your Mamma’s chunky platformswerebig, but Emma-Lou, you can fill them. I’ve known you since you were a bean sprout.”

He paused, letting the words sink in. “Is it going to be hard to take charge at WWJD? Yes, ma’am. Is it going to pull your stomach into knots to stand in front of your family and friends at the funeral tomorrow and finally lay them to rest? Absotutin’lutely. But there’s a giant of a person in you, Emma-Lou, and I justknowthat you’re going to do great things. And our whole town of Greater Napanee and the Land O’Lakes region is going to be living good Christian lives because of you and the good work of WWJD.”

Emma-Lou blinked rapidly, trying to steady the emotions bubbling inside her. She took a deep breath and nodded, “Thank you, Mr. Weinus.”

Stanford smiled, handing her the final sheet of paper. “Just one more signature to cancel the missing persons form for the police and… we’re done!” He leaned back in his chair, clapping his hands together. “Congratulations, Emma-Lou. You are now the proud owner of WWJD in Greater Napanee!”

Emma-Lou hesitated for a split second, then signed the form with a steady, determined stroke. She placed the pencil down, feeling the weight of it all pressing down on her chest. This was it.

Stanford beamed, leaning forward with a gleam in his eye. “There it is! You’ve done it, Emma-Lou. Now, let’s see what you’re made of.”

By the time the law office door clicked shut behind her, Emma-Lou felt like she’d been wrung out and hung up to dry on the world’s dingiest clothesline.

She stood on the sidewalk outside Weinus, Weinus & Ware and blinked hard against the sudden brightness. The afternoon sun over Greater Napanee seemed almost rude in its cheerfulness. Inside, she’d just declared her parents dead. Outside, the town was doing what it always did–puttering along, buying lottery tickets, returning empties, gossiping about other people’s misfortunes, hers included.

The brass plaque beside the door,Weinus, Weinus & Ware, LLC, glinted dully in the sunlight. It could use a little polish; then again, so could she. She looked down at herself and grimaced. She’d done her best ‘funeral chic,’ but grief and taste were not a natural pairing. She wore a black dress that was almost, but not quite, the right size. The sleeves were a little too loose in the biceps, the skirt a little too tight at the hips. The fabric was matte and unforgiving, the kind of synthetic that always felt faintly clammy no matter the temperature. Her mother’s vintage black blazer sat on top, shoulders slightly padded, lapels shiny from decades of wear. It smelled faintly of Estée Lauder and menthol cigarettes, though her mother had quit both in ‘92.

Her legs were encased in slightly crooked black tights, her calves stuffed into sensible low-heeled pumps that clicked on the pavement. She tried not to think of the rhythmic taps as the phantom pleas of her parents knocking on their own empty caskets, begging her not to go through with this, that they were somehow, someway–still alive.

Her blonde, wavy, eager to rebel hair had been forced into a barrette that was losing a weary war, tendrils alreadyescaping around her face. In one hand she clutched a coffee-stained manila folder embossed with the wordsDeclaration of Death: Lost at Sea. In the other, her mother’s old leather purse, the strap darkened where a frugal hand had rested for years.

“Wonderful,” she muttered. “You look like a paralegal in mourning who got dressed in the dark.”

Her voice wobbled. Her throat burned. She swallowed hard.

“Pull it together, Burns,” she scolded herself under her breath. “Pull up your little lady pants and stop snifflin’. Snifflin’ never solved a thing. You march into the rest of your life, you hear?”