Page 15 of Bitter’s Sweet

“Miss Mercy, then.”

“There you go.” She tilts her head toward the funeral. “You ever seen a last ride viewing before?”

“No.”

“Bother you?”

“No.”

She waits like she expects me to add a nervous laugh. I don’t. The truth is, I can feel my heartbeat, but it ain’t pounding with panic. It is curiosity. Wonder, even. There is so much love in this room, even if half of it is wearing leather and the other half smells like moonshine.

I’ve never had love like this.

“He wanted to be buried like that?” I ask.

“Wanted to be viewed like that,” she says. “Burial’s a different matter. We built a custom drop cradle to transfer him into a rider’s coffin after the service. Black walnut, chrome handles, velvet lining, two hidden compartments, and a carved raven on the lid. Man had opinions.”

“I respect that.”

Miss Mercy laughs under her breath. “Lord help us. You might actually belong here.”

The preacher finishes the prayer. For a moment, the room is quiet except for sniffles and the faint creak of leather as men shift in their chairs. Then one biker near the front stands, lifts a mason jar, and says, “To Raven. May heaven have open roads and no speed traps.”

A rough chorus answers, “Ride low, sleep deep.”

My chest warms.

That ain’t church the way I learned it, but it is something.

Miss Mercy touches my elbow and guides me toward a side hallway before the crowd can spill out. “Come on. We’ll get you oriented before one of these fools decides grief is best expressed through property damage.”

We slip through a black door and into a corridor that smells like lemon cleaner, hair spray, and old wood. The walls are painted deep green, with framed certificates on one side and old black-and-white mortuary photographs on the other. A sign above another set of double doors reads GRAVE PROWLERS MC SCHOOL OF THE DEAD in fancy silver script. Underneath, in smaller letters, someone has painted: COSMETOLOGY, RESTORATIVE ARTS, HAIR, MAKEUP, AND OTHER NECESSARY MIRACLES.

“I love that,” I say.

“You say that now,” Miss Mercy replies. “Wait until you’re contouring a man who got run over by his own tractor.”

I don’t mean to smile as wide as I do, but it happens.

Her eyes narrow with interest. “You ain’t right, are you?”

“Probably not, no.”

“Good. Normal girls cry by lunch.”

“I cry at dog food commercials, not dead people.”

“That may be the most useful thing you say all day.” She pushes open the doors.

The school ain’t at all what I expected.

I expected a classroom, maybe, with mannequins and metal chairs and posters about sanitation. There is some of that. But this place is prettier than it has any right to be. Old church windows throw colored light across polished floors. Workstations line the walls, each with bright mirrors, rolling carts, brushes, palettes, curling irons, and mannequin heads wearing everything from victory rolls to biker braids. One corner is arranged like a salon. Another is staged like a restoration lab with stainless steel tables, covered equipment, and cabinets labeled by use. A row of coffins stands upright along the back wall like dramatic wardrobes. One is pink with rhinestones, another has orange flames, and a matte-black one is covered in little silver bats. The last has a Tennessee mountain scene carved into the side so detailed I stop walking.

“You like the boxes?” Miss Mercy asks.

“They’re beautiful.”

“Don’t call them boxes in front of Carver unless you want a lecture on craftsmanship and profit margins.”