Free Putting Makeup on Dead People by Jen Violi Page B

this? Is anyone listening? Are you listening?” With my hands gripping the edge of the table, I close my eyes and listen for a rumbly voice I worry I’m starting to forget. I wait for him to say, “That’s it. You’re on the right track, sweetheart.” I squint my eyes tighter, thinking that might improve my hearing. Nothing. But then I feel my hands getting warm.
    When I open my eyes, a ray of sun extends over my hands and my application, like when Indiana Jones finds the location of the Ark of the Covenant in that underground chamber, just not as precise and, I hope, not ending with anyone’s face melting off. Still, I guess sunshine is as good an answer as any.
    I sign my application and drive the forty minutes to Chapman College of Mortuary Science. I take Route 4, which isn’t as busy as the highway, and travel slowly, reviewing all the intelligent and charming questions I’ll ask the admissions counselor. What are the strengths of your program? From my research, I noticed that you’re the only program in Ohio with decomposition experts from three countries—how have you seen students benefit from that wisdom?
    When I walk through the tall glass doors, an oversized oak desk stands before me. I have to get up close to see the lady behind it. She wears a peach cardigan and a white silk blouse, and her graying blond hair perches on her head a little bit like a dust mop.
    “Where do I turn in my application?” I ask.
    “Right here.” She holds out her hand.
    “Um.” I pull the application to my chest. “I have a few questions.”
    “Okay.” She grudgingly brings her hand back and folds it with the other one on the desk. “What do you want to know?”
    Suddenly, I can’t think of any of my impressive questions, and before I can stop myself, I ask, “What’s your policy on death?”
    “Excuse me?”
    “Well,” I say, feeling like a derailed train plummeting off a bridge, “if I die while I’m a student, do I get anything fun, like a free embalming or something?”
    She unlaces and then relaces her fingers. She sighs. “No.”
    “Okay, what else can you tell me?”
    She sighs again, breathes in like she’s rewinding her inner message tape. “The program is a year,” she says, which is, in fact, how the message starts on Chapman’s voice mail. Maybe she recorded it. “After that, most students typically do a one-year internship before entering the workforce.”
    “Last bolt on the casket, eh?”
    She doesn’t laugh. “That it? Or do you have more pertinent questions?”
    I’m not sure for a second if she said impertinent, but I think my time is done here. “Nope.” I hand her the application. “Sign me up.”
    “Actually, there’s an application process,” she says, glancing at my paperwork, “Ms. Parisi. So I can’t really do that.”
    I force a smile. Now who’s being pertinent?
    I take myself on a walk around the campus, keeping an eye out for Lars and Sarah and Betty from the catalog, but I don’t see any of them. I do see a few wooden benches, some gingko trees with the stinky berries, old brick buildings, and people milling about with backpacks and books and teeth that aren’t as white as I was led to believe.
    One of the buildings has a gold plaque with two lines of writing: the suzanne palmisano restorative arts laboratory on top, and underneath, restore in peace. I walk up the path to the door and try the knob. It’s unlocked, so I walk in. Down the hallway ahead of me, I see a long window with bright light washing through and over the patch of hallway floor below. I tiptoe farther in and peek through the window.
    Below, I see what looks like an art studio—long tables and paintbrushes and carving tools. About twenty people in lab coats are working with what I think is clay, shaping it into things I have to squint to realize are parts of the human face—noses, ears, cheeks, even what I’m guessing is an eyelid, which one woman is gluing eyelashes onto. She holds it