Victor Handed Me The Erase Order Beside Leon Bell's Empty Chair

I straightened the empty chairs before I let myself miss Leon.

Each front leg belonged on a small blue square of tape. When a family came through the chapel doors, their room should look ready. That was one thing I could give them.

I was a tall, narrow Ethiopian American man of forty-seven, with brown skin, close gray curls, and a white line through my left eyebrow.

My name was Henok Alemayehu. I ran funeral webcasts at Alder Gate Funeral Home in Detroit. I set gain, clipped on lapel mics, and gave people overseas a clear view of the flowers.

Leon Bell had fixed my snowblower for $38 when another shop wanted $210. He had also saved me a chair at his shop whenever I stopped by.

Now his daughter, Talia, sat beside his empty place.

"Can you save the whole service?" she asked.

"The family copy, yes. You signed for that."

"Even if the website loses it?"

I tapped the little recorder under my desk.

"Separate box. Separate copy. You decide who gets it."

She signed the archive page, then pushed a tissue flat with both hands.

The public stream had mixed sound. The private family archive kept each mic on its own track. It helped me clean up a cough over a prayer, or lift a soft voice without lifting every sound in the room.

Leon had wanted his cousins in Alabama to hear his favorite hymn. I had promised him they would.

Before the doors opened, I checked the left speaker with a low test tone. Leon would have called it a sick refrigerator. I reached for my phone to tell him, then remembered. I set it down and moved another chair onto its square.

Victor Sayegh arrived carrying flowers so large the door attendant had to turn sideways.

Victor Sayegh was a broad Lebanese American man of fifty-five, with silver hair swept back, a smooth tan face, and a gold watch loose on his thick wrist.

He owned a large stake in Alder Gate and the building beside it. He called every widow "dear heart." He called me "sound man," even when my name was printed across his invoice.

"Sound man. A microphone."

"Your remarks are after the hymn. Sign here first."

"More paper?"

"Permission to record your mic for the broadcast and the family's private copy."

He signed without putting down his flowers.

I clipped the lapel mic to his dark tie. The pack had a little green light. I showed him the switch.

"Leave it alone until I collect it. I'll control the public sound here."

"A man who knows his place," he said.

During the hymn, he moved to the side pews behind a folding screen. They were still inside the chapel. People used them when they needed a quiet moment without leaving the service.

Leon's business partner, Mara Ellis, followed him.

At my board, I pulled Victor's public fader down. His private track kept rolling, as the family contract required. I was watching the camera, trying to keep Talia's bent head out of the wide shot.

Victor returned for his remarks. He spoke about loyalty. He promised $2,000 toward Leon's burial costs.

Mara stayed behind the screen.

After the service, Victor stood over my desk.

"Delete it."

"The public replay?"

"All of it. A private family matter was picked up."

"I'll need Talia's approval for her archive."

His smile stayed in place. His hand closed around the back of my chair.

"You plug things in, Henok. You don't make decisions."

It was the first time he had used my name that day.

He gave me an order on funeral home letterhead. It said the public webcast had been withdrawn by management. At the bottom was his signature and the time: 2:16 p.m.

"I can remove the public replay," I said.

"Then do your little job."

I took down the link and cleared the hosting copy. I sent the deletion receipt to the office printer. Victor watched the screen until the page said unavailable.

"Good man."

He left the lapel pack beside my keyboard. Its green light was still on.

I stopped the private recorder only after the family had gone. Then I checked each track for faults before sealing the archive.

On track three, beneath the hymn, Victor said, "Leon stopped paying. You saw how lonely his last month got."

I sat very still.

Another voice answered, thin and low. "I have two people on payroll."

"Then find the $4,800 by Friday. Or I'll have a room ready for you here, too."

A chair scraped. Somewhere, close to that mic, a woman struggled for breath.

I copied the original card into the protected family folder. I wrote the file number on an envelope and put Victor's erase order inside.

Then the office printer woke again.

A new funeral inquiry slid into the tray, marked PREARRANGEMENT: MARA ELLIS.