Jolly's Job
Jolly got the call around 5am. Grim had taken the soul, and now, with the body left tucked into the bed as if it had passed gently in its sleep, it was Jolly’s turn.
She entered the home through the side gate. It was still early in the morning, her favorite time. The birds were chirping to signal the new day, and she took a moment to breath in the fresh air and sense her own aliveness.
Choking a bit on her own intentionality to savor the moment, Jolly coughed as she put her hand on the keypad. She wondered how many folks in the neighborhood knew the secret: the Reapers could enter any home simply by fact of knowing everyone’s birthday. Humans aren’t all that creative in their selection of pin codes.
Mr. and Mrs. Oberfeldt’s house was simple, the kind of you want for your grandparents as they age. It gave the kids more assurance that their parents wouldn’t fall down the stairs or slip on the slick pavement out front.
The architectural modesty made Jolly’s life easier, too. Fewer doors and no stairs meant less energy spent finding the body and transporting it to the Afterlife Celebration. Without a soul, after all, things are much heavier, especially if the person is well-loved.
And that was certainly the case for Betty. Betty Oberfeldt had outlived her husband Bert by nearly 8 years. Some days, she longed for their partnership, remembering how Bert had won her over as the other pinball “flipper” at her favorite arcade back in Omaha. Other days, she embraced the peace, befriending the birds in her neighborhood. Bert had always hated the pigeons and the crows, who sat around doing, as he’d say, “nothing but shitting and squawking.”
Jolly entered Betty’s birth date in the keypad and pressed enter. She wasn’t expecting the flashing red light. Maybe she had messed up the 6 and the 9? The second and third attempts failed, too.
Confused, Jolly tapped her wrist three times to get in touch with Grim, whispering slowly.
“The keypad’s not working.”
“Did you try the European format?” Grim retorted.
“We’re in Lincoln, Nebraska, Grim.”
“The Oberfeldts were German. I don’t know, you gotta know your audience.”
Jolly was somewhat relieved that didn’t work either — is there anything less worthy of a phone call than date-time formatting? But still, she couldn’t get in to do the job.
Grim suggested trying Bert’s birthday instead.
The door unlocked and Jolly was relieved. She was the younger sister, and Grim already looked down on her as though his job was harder, and more demanding. Meant for the man in the family. She loathed having to call to him for help, giving him one more reason to mistrust or disrespect her.
The back door was laced with a glint of morning sunlight, angled just right so you could see the smudges and prints on the glass and know that it hadn’t been long since life was being lived within those walls.
The main room had a musk, but little else of note. A modest chandelier above a wood dining table. A quaint montage of photos, varying in quality, shape and size. This was one of Jolly’s favorite parts of her job. Seeing someone’s life so close to their death was a treasure afforded to so few. There’s always a rush to “make arrangements,” but Jolly’s job enabled her to imagine her own life as a hologram of someone else’s. She had a special affinity for drinking in the beauty of her surroundings. Connection is sometimes only palpable in the silent space of loss.
The bedroom wasn’t large, but the bookshelf was full of titles and featured a picturesque ladder that likely hadn’t moved in years. It rested against a wall and gave access to both the highest shelf of literature, and a tiny crawl hole that led to an attic.
The room hadn’t yet been graced by morning light — it faced west and the only window was in the adjacent bathroom. So Jolly was surprised when she turned on the light and saw, to her great surprise, that Betty Oberfeldt wasn’t in the bed at all.
Jolly’s inhale was this time more of a gasp. Her heart started thumping loudly, uncertain of what to do next.