“We’re bored,” Walker announced.
Some mornings Conall found them watching The Transformers, or occasionally something that was on TV, but increasingly they were lying in wait for him. He found it really hard to say, No, I can’t do anything with you, I need to go back upstairs.
He waved a spoon. “I’m game for something after I eat.”
The younger boy’s face brightened. “Cool.”
He pulled out a chair and sat, crunching away on his too-sweet cereal. They sat, too. Walker drummed his heels on the chair legs and watched Conall eat. Brendan looked withdrawn, more as he had when Conall first came. He stared at the tabletop.
Conall got up to pour his coffee. “Have trouble sleeping last night, Bren?”
He looked up, his eyes haunted. “Kind of.” He went quiet then said in a sudden burst, “I keep thinking about Mom. Does she…does she still look like Mom?”
Oh, damn, Conall thought. Maybe he would rather talk about sex.
“Um…that depends.”
They both fixed their eyes on him with unnerving intensity. “On what?” Brendan asked.
“Well…” Did parents normally have these kinds of conversations with their kids? “She wasn’t cremated, was she?”
“What’s cremated?” Walker asked.
“Ah…burning the body. So you’re left with only ashes.”
The horror on their faces made his first swallow of coffee go down wrong. He coughed and finally had to wipe his face with the back of his hand.
Walker looked at his brother. “They didn’t do that to Mommy, did they?”
“I don’t think so,” Brendan said uncertainly. “There was a coffin. If they do that, is there still a coffin?”
Conall was glad to be able to shake his head. “No. She wasn’t cremated then. Um, did you see her after she died?”
“Right after. She looked like she was asleep.” Brendan hesitated. “Kind of.”
Conall knew what he meant. People sometimes said that—Oh, he looked like he was sleeping—but really, he hadn’t. Conall wasn’t a spiritual man, which was probably just as well given his profession and the fact that he’d killed a few people along the way. But there was no question something left the body at the moment of death. A dead person didn’t look peaceful, he looked dead.
Keeping his voice matter-of-fact, he said, “Your mom was probably embalmed, which means chemicals were used that will keep her from decomposing.” He could see from their expressions that they didn’t know the word. Well, crap. “Rotting,” he admitted. “Normally, living things rot after they die. If a raccoon dies in the woods, its body eventually enriches the soil that helps plants grow that will feed that raccoon’s kits—that’s their babies—and their kits and so on.”
Lia walked into the kitchen right then. Conall was fiercely glad to see her, and not only for the usual reason. She gave them a general smile that didn’t linger on him any more than on the boys. “What are you talking about? What kind of kits?”
“We’re talking about what happens to dead people,” Brendan said.
Her gaze flew to Conall’s. He grimaced.
“And…what does this have to do with kits?”
Brendan explained about how raccoons died like people did, and how their bodies helped make berries and stuff like that grow better to feed baby coons. “And they’re called kits. Right, Conall?”
“Right.”
She blinked. “Okay. Um, do you mind if I join you? I might have a cup of coffee.”
He noticed belatedly that she was grubby. She’d been working in the garden, then. Actually, the boys were pretty dirty, too, especially beneath the fingernails. He tilted his head to one side and saw that the knees of their jeans were filthy. So she’d succeeded in putting them to work this morning. No wonder they were desperate for new entertainment.
“Do you know anyone who’s dead?” Brendan asked her.
“Not well,” she admitted. “I mean, my great-aunt died a few years ago, but the funeral wasn’t open-casket.”
They turned aghast looks on her and she hastily explained how sometimes at funeral services the casket was open so mourners could view the body.