Read Online 1 Breakfast at Madeline's by Matt Witten - Free Book Online
Authors: Matt Witten
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sneaking into the funeral home with your boyfriend at midnight and making love inside the caskets?
I felt guilty having such fantasies about this young girl who was just minding her own business, looking out at the gloomy day. It had started to rain and the sky was an endless dirty gray. The windshield wipers were relentless, and so was Virgil's voice. I interrupted him. "So, Molly," I said conversationally, "you help out your dad with the business?"
"You kidding?" Virgil answered for her. "She hates the business. Always has, ever since she was a little kid. Now she's studying arts administration over at Skidmore. Any money in that?"
The truthful answer would have been no, but I didn't want to get in the middle of any father-daughter arguments. "Sometimes. God knows the world needs good arts administrators." That part, at least, was true.
Molly looked away, clearly not in the mood to chat. But I was curious. "So how come you're going to this funeral?"
She turned and spoke to me for the first time that whole day. "I knew him," she said.
"Really? How?"
Her eyes went back to the window, looking far away again. "I made him a cup of coffee every morning."
I was puzzled for a moment, but then it came to me. "Oh, you work at City Hall in the mornings."
Now it was her turn to be puzzled. "No, the Arts Council."
Huh? "The Arts Council?"
She nodded, getting a little more animated now. "I intern there from nine to eleven, and he always came downstairs for free coffee. He lives right above there. I mean, used to live."
Amazing. This guy seemed to get free coffee every where. I wondered if it was free at Madeline's too.
"Did you make him Ethiopian?" I asked.
She eyed me curiously. "How'd you know?"
"Wild guess."
After that we rode in silence for a while, thinking about the dead man. Saratoga's suburbs gave way to a dark spruce forest, which turned into a series of video rental stores and fas t-food outlets that somehow man aged to look glum despite their garish colors. The windshield wipers beat out their lonely rhythm. Ahead of us was the cemetery.
Then Molly spoke again. There was something dif ferent in her voice this time, a kind of quaver. "Did you hear about his application?"
"Molly," her fath er said warningly.
"What application?" I asked.
"The one where he said someone was threatening to kill him."
10
"No, I hadn't heard about that," I said, when I could get my mouth working again.
"Molly, enough . Let the man rest in peace."
I put my hand on the girl's shoulder. "Who was threatening to kill him?"
She bit her lip. "Dad's right. I shouldn't talk about it."
"About what?"
"Jacob, forget it—" Virgil began, but I stopped him.
"Damn it, Virgil, come on. I was the man's only friend in the world. Except maybe for you," I added, turning to Molly.
Virgil was driving fast and angry. "Who cares what the guy thought? Face it, he only had one oar in the water."
That was true, of course. Probably no one had ever threatened to kill P enn—and certainly no one had ac tually done it. He died of a heart attack, right?
But still, something strange was going on here. I tried another tack. "What kind of application are you talking about, Molly?"
"Nothing," she said nervously, "just a NYFA grant. He applied every year." Virgil caught her eye in the rearview mirror, and she clutched at her hair with a fist. "I promised I wouldn't say anything."
"Who did you promise?"
Suddenly Virgil turned the wheel sharply. We veered into the cemetery, tires squealing on the wet road, and the car fishtailed. Penn's casket banged into the side of the hears e, and the casket lid sprang up ward. Molly looked back there and gave an earsplitting scream.
Donald Penn's eyes had been jarred open and he was staring straight at us.
My heart stopped. Molly screamed even louder.
Virgil jumped from the hearse, opened the rear door, and slammed the li d back down. He shot me a hate- filled look—probably picturing me naked and full of
I felt guilty having such fantasies about this young girl who was just minding her own business, looking out at the gloomy day. It had started to rain and the sky was an endless dirty gray. The windshield wipers were relentless, and so was Virgil's voice. I interrupted him. "So, Molly," I said conversationally, "you help out your dad with the business?"
"You kidding?" Virgil answered for her. "She hates the business. Always has, ever since she was a little kid. Now she's studying arts administration over at Skidmore. Any money in that?"
The truthful answer would have been no, but I didn't want to get in the middle of any father-daughter arguments. "Sometimes. God knows the world needs good arts administrators." That part, at least, was true.
Molly looked away, clearly not in the mood to chat. But I was curious. "So how come you're going to this funeral?"
She turned and spoke to me for the first time that whole day. "I knew him," she said.
"Really? How?"
Her eyes went back to the window, looking far away again. "I made him a cup of coffee every morning."
I was puzzled for a moment, but then it came to me. "Oh, you work at City Hall in the mornings."
Now it was her turn to be puzzled. "No, the Arts Council."
Huh? "The Arts Council?"
She nodded, getting a little more animated now. "I intern there from nine to eleven, and he always came downstairs for free coffee. He lives right above there. I mean, used to live."
Amazing. This guy seemed to get free coffee every where. I wondered if it was free at Madeline's too.
"Did you make him Ethiopian?" I asked.
She eyed me curiously. "How'd you know?"
"Wild guess."
After that we rode in silence for a while, thinking about the dead man. Saratoga's suburbs gave way to a dark spruce forest, which turned into a series of video rental stores and fas t-food outlets that somehow man aged to look glum despite their garish colors. The windshield wipers beat out their lonely rhythm. Ahead of us was the cemetery.
Then Molly spoke again. There was something dif ferent in her voice this time, a kind of quaver. "Did you hear about his application?"
"Molly," her fath er said warningly.
"What application?" I asked.
"The one where he said someone was threatening to kill him."
10
"No, I hadn't heard about that," I said, when I could get my mouth working again.
"Molly, enough . Let the man rest in peace."
I put my hand on the girl's shoulder. "Who was threatening to kill him?"
She bit her lip. "Dad's right. I shouldn't talk about it."
"About what?"
"Jacob, forget it—" Virgil began, but I stopped him.
"Damn it, Virgil, come on. I was the man's only friend in the world. Except maybe for you," I added, turning to Molly.
Virgil was driving fast and angry. "Who cares what the guy thought? Face it, he only had one oar in the water."
That was true, of course. Probably no one had ever threatened to kill P enn—and certainly no one had ac tually done it. He died of a heart attack, right?
But still, something strange was going on here. I tried another tack. "What kind of application are you talking about, Molly?"
"Nothing," she said nervously, "just a NYFA grant. He applied every year." Virgil caught her eye in the rearview mirror, and she clutched at her hair with a fist. "I promised I wouldn't say anything."
"Who did you promise?"
Suddenly Virgil turned the wheel sharply. We veered into the cemetery, tires squealing on the wet road, and the car fishtailed. Penn's casket banged into the side of the hears e, and the casket lid sprang up ward. Molly looked back there and gave an earsplitting scream.
Donald Penn's eyes had been jarred open and he was staring straight at us.
My heart stopped. Molly screamed even louder.
Virgil jumped from the hearse, opened the rear door, and slammed the li d back down. He shot me a hate- filled look—probably picturing me naked and full of
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