When I arrived home after visiting the church, I asked Mother, "Did you hear about Bob Martin?"
She sighed. "It's been on WFHR every hour. I wonder whatever made him do such a thing?"
"Mister Kell said it's because Bob's wife wanted diamonds and furs."
"That's not a reason for Bob to become a murderer."
"Murderer? Bob's no murderer."
"After he killed his wife, he became one."
I knew Mother was correct in the dictionary meaning of the word. Still, Bob could never be a murderer. "Mister Kell said his wife was a bitch."
"Gordon, how many times have I told you to not use that kind of language?"
"Bitch is a female dog. It's not a curse word."
"When a man calls a woman a bitch, he doesn't mean she's a female dog. He means something else altogether. When you're older, you'll understand. Just trustwhat I—"
"Gordy, Gordon Hoffman," interrupted Glen and Paul Peterson, Paul's nose pushing on the rear door screen.
"Hello, boys," Mother sang out.
"Did ya hear about Bob Martin?"
I descended the stairs. "I still can't believe it."
"Us, either. Our folks said Bob was the least likely man in the world to kill somebody and his self."
"I'm in total agreement with your parents," said Mother.
"Hi, Mrs. Hoffman," yelled Paul. That's all Paul does is yell. Even when he talks. "Dad says Bob's wife's family won't allow Bob to be in the same funeral home as his wife."
"Where'd you hear that?" I asked.
"Dad told us."
"Gordy," said Glen, "we're going to the river to fish. You wanna come along?"
"Yeah."
"Be home in time for supper," said Mother.
* * * * * *
The next morning, I thought about what Dad had said yesterday after he arrived home from his house calls. He said Bob was at Baker Mortuary on First Street while Bob's wife was at Krohn and Berard funeral home on First Avenue, across the river.
So, after I carried my wet sheets and underwear to the basement and put them in the washing machine, I went up to the kitchen and ate Rice Krispies. "Why do you keep looking at the clock?" asked Crazy Annie, my sister.
"Because I want nine O'clock to hurry up."
"Why?"
"I have something important to do."
"What’s that?"
"None of your beeswax."
At one minute after nine, I was on the Schwinn, heading downhill behind Dr. Barnett's house, across the street from the Old Grove, on the route I take to thecity swimming pool. The chain kept hitting the chain guard every pedal revolution, causing quite a clatter. When I got to the First Street stop sign, I turned left and rode on the sidewalk.
Baker Mortuary is a huge, white building with tall pillars. Our fifth-grade teacher told us it was a mansion, built long ago by one of the Arpin twins, local lumber barons, originally from France.
I got off the bike but didn't move. Adults visit funeral homes. Not kids. Should I knock on the door?
"Good morning," a deep, base voice said behind me. I thought I was going to pee in my pants. I turned. The tall man with white hair and red face smiled. "You're not the new paper boy, are you?"
"No." I pointed to the door. "Is Bob Martin in there?"
He smiled. "Bob's In there but not being shown. His casket is closed. Did you wish to say goodbye?"
I nodded.
"Where is a place you like to go and think?"
I pointed to the other side of the swimming pool, below the dam's first gate. "On that big rock, I fish there and like to be alone."
The tall man with white hair and red face nodded. "If I were you, which I'm not, that's where I'd go to say goodbye to Bob, not before a coffin in my mortuary."
Minutes later, I sat on the rock, thankful no other kids were there. When it felt right, I stood, gazed at puffy, white clouds in the perfectly blue sky. Placing my left hand to the side of my mouth, I yelled, "Bob, I know you're up there. I miss you. I'll never forget you." I could no longer stand.
Bawling like a baby, I crumbled to a sitting position. Eventually, I left the rock and returned to my bike. I rode up the hill to Habeck's gas station. Mister Habeck lent me a wrench, which I used to fix the chain guard.
She sighed. "It's been on WFHR every hour. I wonder whatever made him do such a thing?"
"Mister Kell said it's because Bob's wife wanted diamonds and furs."
"That's not a reason for Bob to become a murderer."
"Murderer? Bob's no murderer."
"After he killed his wife, he became one."
I knew Mother was correct in the dictionary meaning of the word. Still, Bob could never be a murderer. "Mister Kell said his wife was a bitch."
"Gordon, how many times have I told you to not use that kind of language?"
"Bitch is a female dog. It's not a curse word."
"When a man calls a woman a bitch, he doesn't mean she's a female dog. He means something else altogether. When you're older, you'll understand. Just trustwhat I—"
"Gordy, Gordon Hoffman," interrupted Glen and Paul Peterson, Paul's nose pushing on the rear door screen.
"Hello, boys," Mother sang out.
"Did ya hear about Bob Martin?"
I descended the stairs. "I still can't believe it."
"Us, either. Our folks said Bob was the least likely man in the world to kill somebody and his self."
"I'm in total agreement with your parents," said Mother.
"Hi, Mrs. Hoffman," yelled Paul. That's all Paul does is yell. Even when he talks. "Dad says Bob's wife's family won't allow Bob to be in the same funeral home as his wife."
"Where'd you hear that?" I asked.
"Dad told us."
"Gordy," said Glen, "we're going to the river to fish. You wanna come along?"
"Yeah."
"Be home in time for supper," said Mother.
* * * * * *
The next morning, I thought about what Dad had said yesterday after he arrived home from his house calls. He said Bob was at Baker Mortuary on First Street while Bob's wife was at Krohn and Berard funeral home on First Avenue, across the river.
So, after I carried my wet sheets and underwear to the basement and put them in the washing machine, I went up to the kitchen and ate Rice Krispies. "Why do you keep looking at the clock?" asked Crazy Annie, my sister.
"Because I want nine O'clock to hurry up."
"Why?"
"I have something important to do."
"What’s that?"
"None of your beeswax."
At one minute after nine, I was on the Schwinn, heading downhill behind Dr. Barnett's house, across the street from the Old Grove, on the route I take to thecity swimming pool. The chain kept hitting the chain guard every pedal revolution, causing quite a clatter. When I got to the First Street stop sign, I turned left and rode on the sidewalk.
Baker Mortuary is a huge, white building with tall pillars. Our fifth-grade teacher told us it was a mansion, built long ago by one of the Arpin twins, local lumber barons, originally from France.
I got off the bike but didn't move. Adults visit funeral homes. Not kids. Should I knock on the door?
"Good morning," a deep, base voice said behind me. I thought I was going to pee in my pants. I turned. The tall man with white hair and red face smiled. "You're not the new paper boy, are you?"
"No." I pointed to the door. "Is Bob Martin in there?"
He smiled. "Bob's In there but not being shown. His casket is closed. Did you wish to say goodbye?"
I nodded.
"Where is a place you like to go and think?"
I pointed to the other side of the swimming pool, below the dam's first gate. "On that big rock, I fish there and like to be alone."
The tall man with white hair and red face nodded. "If I were you, which I'm not, that's where I'd go to say goodbye to Bob, not before a coffin in my mortuary."
Minutes later, I sat on the rock, thankful no other kids were there. When it felt right, I stood, gazed at puffy, white clouds in the perfectly blue sky. Placing my left hand to the side of my mouth, I yelled, "Bob, I know you're up there. I miss you. I'll never forget you." I could no longer stand.
Bawling like a baby, I crumbled to a sitting position. Eventually, I left the rock and returned to my bike. I rode up the hill to Habeck's gas station. Mister Habeck lent me a wrench, which I used to fix the chain guard.
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