The roses in the parlor had died weeks ago, but Florence left them where they were. Let the house smell of what it was built for.
Through the front window, Mrs. Brennan’s funeral procession wound down Maple Street, past the shuttered mill that had lost half its men to the war. Three carriages instead of six. Even death no longer drew a proper crowd. The bells of St. Mary’s tolled their bronze notes, marking another departure from a town that seemed to bleed people like a wound that would not close.
“Mama, my stomach is making hungry noises.”
Mary appeared at her elbow, strawberry jam smeared across her chin, her cowlick stubborn at the same angle as Frederick’s had been. At six, she still believed problems could be solved if you asked the right way.
“Hungry, are you?” Florence dabbed the jam with her handkerchief. “It looks as if you’ve already been into the jam. Help me with these flowers first. Mrs. Peterson wants everything beautiful for her husband.”
“Why do dead people need pretty flowers?”
“Because beauty is all we can give them now.” Florence guided her daughter’s hands to strip the stems. “Sometimes that has to be enough.”
Mary worked with grave concentration. “Papa said white flowers mean heaven. Is Mr. Peterson going to heaven?”
The casual mention chilled her, like a draft beneath the doorjamb. Eight months since Frederick’s passing, and Mary still spoke as though her father might walk in with his leather satchel at any moment.
“I hope so, little bird.”
The screen door slammed in the back hall, followed by the quick shuffle of boots. James and William came tumbling in, cheeks flushed from the chill, smelling faintly of woodsmoke and the muddy thaw outside.
“You two wash up before you touch anything,” Florence said without looking up. “And hang your coats properly this time.”
William groaned. “We were playing soldiers. I’m starving.”
James dropped his cap on the peg and shot his brother a look. “You’re always starving.”
Florence hid a smile and reached for another stem. “Then you’ll both want clean hands or else you won’t be having supper.”
William wandered closer, inspecting the vase. “Who’s that for?”
“Mr. Peterson,” she said. “Mrs. Peterson wants everything to look beautiful.”
“Oh.” He hesitated, glancing at his sister. “Like when we took flowers to Papa’s grave.”
“Exactly like that,” Florence said softly, though it wasn't quite true. Frederick’s body remained in France. Only his dog tags lay entombed beneath the wooden cross at St Mary’s.
It was the best she could do.
For a moment, the three of them were quiet. The house felt almost peaceful, as though grief were just another part of the day’s work.
The bells faded. Late afternoon bled toward dusk, the light thinning like breath. Florence sent the children to wash their hands and set about finishing supper—a loaf to slice, butter to stretch, the kettle to coax into a boil.
When everything was in its place, she returned the vase to the front room where twilight glowed weakly through the windowpanes. Shadows lengthened across the parlor, draping themselves over the polished casket, the chairs arranged for mourners who might never come.
The door chime broke her thoughts.
When she opened it, Mrs. O’Sullivan from the bakery stood in the threshold, flour dusting her black dress, eyes wild with fresh grief.
“Mrs. Harrow,” she began, clutching a paper bundle. “I don’t know where else to turn. It’s Tommy. The fever took him this morning.”
Florence pressed a hand to her mouth, fighting the urge to cry out. Tommy O’Sullivan, sixteen, strong and smiling. Last week he had carried her grocery basket, refusing payment with a grin. My mama says we help folks who’re hurting, Mrs. Harrow.
“Katherine.” Florence took her trembling hands. “I’m so sorry.”
“I was hoping… I’d heard.” She faltered, but Florence understood the implication—the quiet talk that passed after Sunday Mass, the way her name traveled through grief like a secret.
“Of course, my friend.”
Katherine O’Sullivan’s voice wavered. “I brought his good clothes. The ones for his wedding.”
Wedding clothes for a boy who would never marry. Florence’s throat tightened. “He was a fine young man.”
“I can’t pay what it’s worth,” Katherine said quickly. “The bakery’s barely surviving, and the cost of medicine—”
“Stop.” Florence’s voice carried gentle authority. “Tommy helped this whole town. Now we help him.”
Still, Katherine pressed a few copper coins into her hand, wrapped in a bit of paper torn from a flour sack. “Then take it for flowers,” she whispered.
Florence hesitated, then nodded. “For flowers, then.”
Mrs. O’Sullivan gave a trembling smile, eyes wet, and slipped out.
A moment later, the back door creaked. Two neighbor boys entered carrying the wicker bier between them. Florence met them at the threshold, keeping her voice steady.
“This way,” she said, leading them down the hall.
The floorboards groaned beneath their careful steps. When they reached the cellar door, she lifted the latch and nodded toward the narrow stairs.
“Set him gently,” she murmured.
They obeyed without a word, lowering the bier into the waiting dark. The smell of damp stone and formalin drifted up to meet them.
“Thank you, boys,” she said once they’d straightened. “Go on home now. Your mothers will worry.”
They hesitated—one looking back, hat twisting in his hands—before vanishing into the gray dusk.
When the door shut behind them, the house fell silent.
Florence stood for a moment with her hand on the latch and took a deep breath. Then she lifted her lamp and descended the steps.
In the cellar preparation room, she stared at the bundle of clothes laid neatly beside the bier. Washing and dressing—those tasks were acceptable enough for a woman. But the preservation that would allow Katherine to see her son at peace instead of ravaged by fever required Frederick’s locked tools.
Her fingers touched the key at her neck. Tonight, when the house slept, she would give Tommy the dignity he deserved.
The Commonwealth of Massachusetts had clear opinions about women practicing mortuary science. But the Commonwealth had never watched a mother weep over her child’s fever-wasted face.
Florence drew a steadying breath, slipped the key back under her collar, and blew out the lamp.
There would be time for courage later.
For now, there were flowers to arrange, linens to wash, children to feed. Life’s small disguises for what waited below.