in its original box in the recreation cabinet. He liked it close at hand so that he could film every item he purchased, for insurance purposes. He stored the photographic evidence in a safe-deposit box in the unlikely event a burglar was able to break through the considerable security of his Upper East Side apartment. Few parts of T.S. Hubbert's life went unorganized. He liked life well ordered and well mannered.
"Good," Lilah was saying. "Then I'll pick you up tomorrow at six sharp. I can wait outside with my driver while you go in. I'm afraid I'd faint and make a fool of myself. How about you? Are you sure you're ready for this?"
In truth, he already did feel a bit like fainting. But it was at the thought of seeing Lilah again after three months, not a dead body. He had to get a grip on himself. "It won't be my first corpse," he pointed out in what he hoped was a capable and slightly insouciant manner.
"True," she agreed cheerfully. "You do seem to collect dead bodies, actually." Without waiting for his reply, she purred a good night and left him alone with the silence of a single man's apartment and two bored cats for company.
But there was always tomorrow.
Tomorrow commenced early with a phone call from a determined Auntie Lil. She was going to the morgue with them and that was that. "I've never seen the inside of the medical examiner's office," she announced. "And I'm not passing up the opportunity to see something new. You needn't worry about me horning in on your little tete-a-tete. I shall discreetly disappear after we take the photographs."
Discreetly disappear? Whether appearing or disappearing, Auntie Lil was about as discreet as a stripper in a monastery. T.S. sighed. He could argue, but what was the point? If he said no, she'd call Lilah who would, of course, urge her to come along for the fun of it.
No, there was no way to dissuade Auntie Lil. They'd all just have to troop in like a club of ghoulish thrill seekers. He'd not even be surprised if Aunt Lil brought along a date. There was sure to be someone among her motley collection of admirers who considered the morgue the ultimate good time.
"Now that we've settled that," she decided for them both, "when are you coming down to the soup kitchen to help?"
"I'll be down in a couple of hours," he promised, not even bothering to argue. He thought of his soap operas, but the thrills of Camilla and Tyrone seemed cheap and artificial next to the sudden excitement of his own life. Besides, he was not above having the little old lady actresses flutter around him in gratitude.
Unfortunately, once he arrived at St. Barnabas, it was obvious that the women were overcome with theatrical grief, not gratitude. Neither Emily's death nor Auntie Lil's chili the day before had abated anyone's appetite. The line was as long and patient as ever. T.S. walked by, nodding at those faces he recognized. Nearly every single one of the old actresses was decked out in various styles of mourning wear. From far away, they looked like small black birds scattered among the crowd. Up close, they looked like figures you'd see on the edge of a movie horror scene: frail and cloaked in black, about to fade slowly from view like grim messengers from the beyond. Adelle had apparently dragged out a leftover costume from a stint as Lady Macbeth—she wore a long black gown uniquely inappropriate for the quite warm late September day. But T.S. had to admire her carriage—her proud chin never faltered—and noticed that the other soup kitchen attendees stood at a respectable distance from her regal sorrow. She wore a small triangular hat with a black dotted veil that swept down over her face. Altogether, it was a flawless performance.
Adelle managed a brave smile as T.S. passed by, and he patted her on the back in what he hoped was a consoling manner. Then he spotted plump Eva standing to one side, defiantly dressed in a bright red dress in a ploy to nab the Bette Davis role in the drama. Her arms were crossed firmly across her ample bosom and she appeared ready and raring to fight with anyone who dared question her attire. T.S. wondered how anyone could carry a grudge for nearly half a century. What a waste of energy to be belaboring the past so tortuously. Especially when neither