smile.
Stay home
, she’d said.
You’re not slick enough for California
. But talking to Emmet about show business was like Emily trying to talk to her folks in Act Three of
Our Town:
she just couldn’t make herself heard. In the end, Emmet trumped up a business trip to California for a hardware convention, and he announced that he was staying an extra three days to talk to some Hollywood agents.
Look what had come of that.
The day before Emmet was due back, Clarine received a phone call from the California HighwayPatrol, telling her that Emmet had been killed in a car wreck on the Ventura Freeway. The accident had been so bad that the car caught fire, the officer told her. There wasn’t much left of Emmet J. Mason. Did she want him cremated?
Before she thought about it, Clarine blurted out, “You might as well. A little more heat won’t matter to Emmet at this point.”
So they had. A couple of days after the phone call, the UPS truck had pulled up in the yard and the man made her sign for a heavy package, about the size of a shoe box, wrapped in brown paper. When Clarine took it in the house and unwrapped it, she found a blue-flowered ginger jar with a note attached that said:
Enclosed are the remains of Emmet J. Mason. With our deepest sympathy
, and signed by some California funeral director.
Clarine put Emmet on the mantelpiece between the carved-oak rooster clock and the silver-framed photograph. For a long time she was too shocked to feel much of anything, except an occasional flare of anger when she looked at the jar. Gradually she came to realize that Emmet had probably died happy, pursuing his silly fantasy of stardom, and that she didn’t miss him all that much. So she sold the hardware store, banked the life-insurance money, and lived as frugally as she could, because she didn’t want to run out of money in her old age. She’d never had a job in her life; couldn’t even balance a checkbook till Emmet’s death forced her to learn. She didn’t want to have to clean other people’s houses for slave wages when she was old and feeble, so she did all the chores herself, and she watched every penny.
She was about to get up and dust the mantelpiece when the telephone rang. Clarine hurried out into the hall and got it by the third ring. “Hello?”
“Mrs. Mason,” said an unfamiliar voice, notably lacking a Southern accent.
“Yes,” she said warily, ready to slam down the receiver at the first sign of a sales pitch.
“Wife of Emmet J. Mason?” he continued.
“Yes.” She didn’t bother to correct him. Best not to let strangers know you lived alone. Maybe she’d won a sweepstakes, she thought.
“This is Sergeant Gene Vega of the California Highway Patrol. I’m sorry to have to tell you that your husband Emmet J. Mason was killed in an auto accident here this morning….”
“What,
again?”
Sheriff Wesley Rountree was reading this week’s edition of the
Chandler Grove Scout
, an activity that never took as long as his coffee break. The front page was good for about three minutes, if you read slowly, and generally consisted of one city government story, one wreck or weather story, and a heartwarming human interest piece featuring either kids or old ladies. After that came the community news, devoted to toddlers’ birthday parties or visits from out-of-state relatives. Then came the local grocery ads, accompanied by a few freebie news releases from the U.S. Department of Agriculture ( THE GYPSY MOTH IS NOT YOUR FRIEND ) and a page of high-school sports stories that contrived to mention the name of every conceivable person present at the event (
After the third inning, Cheerleader Mascot Shannon Gentry waved to her grandmother, Mrs. Lois Andrews)
.
Wesley glanced at his coffee cup. It was nearly full, and he was already past the high point of the issue: the irate letter to the editor from Mr. Julian, the local curmudgeon.
Deputy Clay Taylor, on the other hand, was alreadyon his
Stay home
, she’d said.
You’re not slick enough for California
. But talking to Emmet about show business was like Emily trying to talk to her folks in Act Three of
Our Town:
she just couldn’t make herself heard. In the end, Emmet trumped up a business trip to California for a hardware convention, and he announced that he was staying an extra three days to talk to some Hollywood agents.
Look what had come of that.
The day before Emmet was due back, Clarine received a phone call from the California HighwayPatrol, telling her that Emmet had been killed in a car wreck on the Ventura Freeway. The accident had been so bad that the car caught fire, the officer told her. There wasn’t much left of Emmet J. Mason. Did she want him cremated?
Before she thought about it, Clarine blurted out, “You might as well. A little more heat won’t matter to Emmet at this point.”
So they had. A couple of days after the phone call, the UPS truck had pulled up in the yard and the man made her sign for a heavy package, about the size of a shoe box, wrapped in brown paper. When Clarine took it in the house and unwrapped it, she found a blue-flowered ginger jar with a note attached that said:
Enclosed are the remains of Emmet J. Mason. With our deepest sympathy
, and signed by some California funeral director.
Clarine put Emmet on the mantelpiece between the carved-oak rooster clock and the silver-framed photograph. For a long time she was too shocked to feel much of anything, except an occasional flare of anger when she looked at the jar. Gradually she came to realize that Emmet had probably died happy, pursuing his silly fantasy of stardom, and that she didn’t miss him all that much. So she sold the hardware store, banked the life-insurance money, and lived as frugally as she could, because she didn’t want to run out of money in her old age. She’d never had a job in her life; couldn’t even balance a checkbook till Emmet’s death forced her to learn. She didn’t want to have to clean other people’s houses for slave wages when she was old and feeble, so she did all the chores herself, and she watched every penny.
She was about to get up and dust the mantelpiece when the telephone rang. Clarine hurried out into the hall and got it by the third ring. “Hello?”
“Mrs. Mason,” said an unfamiliar voice, notably lacking a Southern accent.
“Yes,” she said warily, ready to slam down the receiver at the first sign of a sales pitch.
“Wife of Emmet J. Mason?” he continued.
“Yes.” She didn’t bother to correct him. Best not to let strangers know you lived alone. Maybe she’d won a sweepstakes, she thought.
“This is Sergeant Gene Vega of the California Highway Patrol. I’m sorry to have to tell you that your husband Emmet J. Mason was killed in an auto accident here this morning….”
“What,
again?”
Sheriff Wesley Rountree was reading this week’s edition of the
Chandler Grove Scout
, an activity that never took as long as his coffee break. The front page was good for about three minutes, if you read slowly, and generally consisted of one city government story, one wreck or weather story, and a heartwarming human interest piece featuring either kids or old ladies. After that came the community news, devoted to toddlers’ birthday parties or visits from out-of-state relatives. Then came the local grocery ads, accompanied by a few freebie news releases from the U.S. Department of Agriculture ( THE GYPSY MOTH IS NOT YOUR FRIEND ) and a page of high-school sports stories that contrived to mention the name of every conceivable person present at the event (
After the third inning, Cheerleader Mascot Shannon Gentry waved to her grandmother, Mrs. Lois Andrews)
.
Wesley glanced at his coffee cup. It was nearly full, and he was already past the high point of the issue: the irate letter to the editor from Mr. Julian, the local curmudgeon.
Deputy Clay Taylor, on the other hand, was alreadyon his
Similar Books
