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           Marlastartedajobdoingprepaidfuneralplansforamortuarywheresometimesgreatfatmen, butusuallyfatwomen,wouldcomeoutofthemortuaryshowroomcarryingacrematoryurnthesizeofaneggcup, andMarlawouldsitthereatherdeskinthefoyerwithherdarkhairtieddown andhersnaggedpantyhoseandbreastlumpanddoom,andsay, "Madam,don’tflatteryourself. Wecouldn’tgetevenyourburned-upheadintothattinything. Gobackandgetanurnthesizeofabowlingball." 

           Marla’sheartlookedthewaymyfacewas. Thecrapandthetrashoftheworld. Post-consumerhumanbuttwipethatnoonewouldevergotothetroubletorecycle. 

           Betweenthesupportgroupsandtheclinic,Marlatoldme,shehadmetalotofpeoplewhoweredead. Thesepeopleweredeadandontheotherside,andatnighttheycalledonthetelephone. Marlawouldgotobarsandhearthebartendercallinghername, andwhenshetookthecallthelinewasdead. 

           Atthetime,shethoughtthiswashittingbottom. 

           "Whenyou’retwenty-four,"Marlasays, "youhavenoideahowfaryoucanreallyfall,butIwasafastlearner." 

           ThefirsttimeMarlafilledacrematoryurn,shedidn’twearafacemask, andlatersheblewhernoseandthereinthetissuewasablackmessofMr.Whoever. 

           InthehouseonPaperStreet,ifthephonerangonlyonceandyoupickeditupandthelinewasdead, youknewitwassomeonetryingtoreachMarla. Thishappenedmorethanyoumightthink.