The fourth Wednesday of the month is a dark day in our office. This is the day when people call in sick, or take long, early lunches. Our Office Manager went to the restroom on the fourth Wednesday of April 2014 and has still not returned. Why? Because promptly at noon on the fourth Wednesday of every month the Grim Reaper comes to visit.
“The Grim Reaper” is what we call our bookkeeper, Doreen. Doreen is extremely active in her church where she is apparently the go-to girl when someone is ill or dying. When she is not actually balancing our checking account or preparing our deposits she is regaling us with stories of death and despair, doom and gloom.
Every month she comes in with a new horror story of the sick she has prayed over or the dead whose eyes she has personally closed. To my recollection, no one has ever initiated a conversation with her, nor asked her about her works of mercy, but every month she forces some unlucky soul to hear a fresh story of woe.
This month it was my turn. She cornered me in the break room and stood between me and the door so there was no escape. “My apologies that I am tardy,” she began. Doreen speaks in an oddly formal manner that she apparently feels suits the majesty of her calling. “I was comforting the bereaved,” she said with dignity.
I was determined not to respond, but she fixed me with a cold eye and waited. Trapped, I said “Is that so?” and all was lost.
She brightened instantly. “One of our parishioners passed this morn,” she said. “I was holding her hand when she breathed her last.” She shook her head sadly. “She was blessed with a peaceful passage,” she continued, “yet still her children mourn.”
“I’m sure they do,” I said, squeezing past her. In the distance a phone was ringing and I made to answer it but someone else picked it up. Cursing, I headed for my office but Doreen followed me and planted her ample backside in the chair by my desk. She sighed deeply and settled in for a chat: I knew that there was no stopping her now.
Doreen told me about Mrs. Wllkins who died in agony and Mr. Huber who would have expired alone were it not for Doreen. She told me about Mr. Coleman who woke from a coma just long enough to curse his only son, and then passed. She gave me a long, loving description of Mrs. Messina’s “death rattle.” “When you hear that it shan’t be long,” she whispered confidentially. “It never ends well.”
“Who knew?,” I said wildly as Doreen told me of drownings and stillbirths and aneurisms. By then I was trying to determine my chance of surviving if I jumped through my second-story window onto the parking lot below, but then it dawned on me that Doreen was uncharacteristically silent which meant it was my turn to say something. I was silent for a long moment trying to figure out what to say. “They’re lucky to have you,” is what I finally came up with.
“I pray it is thus,” she agreed, and told me of a centenarian who had passed unexpectedly. “Is that possible?” I asked quietly, but she did not hear me. As Doreen droned on and on, I thought that if there were ever an opening for a fifth Horseman of the Apocalypse, Doreen would be a shoo-in for the position.
I was jolted back to earth when Doreen’s cell phone rang; her ringtone was Mozart’s “Requiem.” She took the call, shaking her head with resignation and, with apologies, she told me she had to leave. “Mrs. Dietz will be in a better place before vespers,” she said darkly. She gathered her pocketbook and looked around in confusion. “I always get lost in your office,” she said; “how do I find the egress?”
“It’s easy,” I said pointing to the illuminated “Exit” sign by the door: “Walk towards the light.”