Read Online 1 Breakfast at Madeline's by Matt Witten - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Matt Witten
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embalming fluid.
I'm sure he would have preferred for someone else to help him carry the casket instead of me. But the gravediggers were on lunch break, the ninety-year-old Presbyterian minister wasn't exactly up to the job, and nobody else had showed up for Donald Penn's fu neral.
Nobody.
So Virgil and I lugged the casket up a hill to the gravesite, with Virgil in the rear giving laco nic direc tions and me in front walking backward. The rain had turned into a sad little drizzle, just enough to fog up our glasses and add that extra dollop of misery. We trudged past several rows of graves marked only by small aluminum gravestones. Molly was ahead of us, out of hearing range.
I lifted the casket higher, trying to get comfortable, and took a deep breath. "Virgil, I'm not trying to get your daughter riled up or anything, I just want to find out—"
"Look, Penn had a vivid imagination, that's all. And unfortunately, so does my daughter."
"Why don't you tell me about it yourself? Then I won't bug her anymore."
Virgil suddenly sped up. Since I was going back ward, his quick movement shoved the casket into my hips, knocking me off balance. I fell in the mud. The casket fell too, landing with a hard thud about an inch from my knee.
Virgil stood over me, furious. "Are you making me some kind of threat?"
I scrambled to my feet, equally furious. Fighting a fat man in the cemetery in the rain is not my idea of a good time, but still. "Did you just knock me down on purpose?"
He jabbed a finger at me. "Look, this internship is an important career opportunity for Molly. You better not screw it up."
I got in his face. "How could I screw it up? What are you so scared of?"
But Virgil just gave me a disgusted grunt and wouldn't say any more. We picked the casket back up and slogged silently up the muddy hill. We had to stop a couple of times to rest. Virgil was sweating profusely, and my headache was back.
I read the names and dates on the small aluminum gravestones, meryl renee danvers, 1998. raoul cis neros, 1997. unknown, 1996 . I found names going back to 1993. Older than tha t, though, the aluminum had cor roded and the names were illegible. I resolved to dip into my Gas that Ate San Francisco nest egg and buy The Penn a proper gravestone.
When the funeral service finally began, I feared the worst. The nonagenarian Presbyterian minister was so frail he looked like he might keel over any minute himself. But he had a surprisingly powerful voice, and it cut through the rain r ight into the heart of our lone liness. He told us that the least among us are known intimately to God, just as if they were presidents or kings instead of derelicts. God was waiting with open arms to receive Donald Penn.
I haven't figured out yet if I believe in God, and I guess I never will. B ut despite my doubts, a good fu neral speech always hits the spot.
When he was finished, the minister asked me if I would like to say a few words. I wanted to say no, but of course I couldn't, so I cleared my throat and began.
"Donald Penn," I said, "was an artist. A true artist. He devoted his whole life to his art."
Then I got stuck. I didn't know what else to say about the man, except that a couple of people seemed to like him or at least pity him enough to give him free coffee.
What I said out loud was, "God bless him."
Then I stepped down, the minister said amen, and that was that. The gravediggers lowered The Penn into his grave and covered him up, and the rest of us walked back through the rain to our cars.
Figuring I'd worn out my welcome with Virgil and Molly, I hit up the minister for a lift home. But first I went over to tell them good-bye. Virgil nodded gruffly and got in the hearse, leaving Molly and me alone for a moment.
She looked up at me anxiously. "Please don't tell Gretchen I mentioned the application."
Gretchen? "Why not?"
"She said it could real ly get the Arts Council in trou ble."
I was dying for details, but Virgil rolled his
I'm sure he would have preferred for someone else to help him carry the casket instead of me. But the gravediggers were on lunch break, the ninety-year-old Presbyterian minister wasn't exactly up to the job, and nobody else had showed up for Donald Penn's fu neral.
Nobody.
So Virgil and I lugged the casket up a hill to the gravesite, with Virgil in the rear giving laco nic direc tions and me in front walking backward. The rain had turned into a sad little drizzle, just enough to fog up our glasses and add that extra dollop of misery. We trudged past several rows of graves marked only by small aluminum gravestones. Molly was ahead of us, out of hearing range.
I lifted the casket higher, trying to get comfortable, and took a deep breath. "Virgil, I'm not trying to get your daughter riled up or anything, I just want to find out—"
"Look, Penn had a vivid imagination, that's all. And unfortunately, so does my daughter."
"Why don't you tell me about it yourself? Then I won't bug her anymore."
Virgil suddenly sped up. Since I was going back ward, his quick movement shoved the casket into my hips, knocking me off balance. I fell in the mud. The casket fell too, landing with a hard thud about an inch from my knee.
Virgil stood over me, furious. "Are you making me some kind of threat?"
I scrambled to my feet, equally furious. Fighting a fat man in the cemetery in the rain is not my idea of a good time, but still. "Did you just knock me down on purpose?"
He jabbed a finger at me. "Look, this internship is an important career opportunity for Molly. You better not screw it up."
I got in his face. "How could I screw it up? What are you so scared of?"
But Virgil just gave me a disgusted grunt and wouldn't say any more. We picked the casket back up and slogged silently up the muddy hill. We had to stop a couple of times to rest. Virgil was sweating profusely, and my headache was back.
I read the names and dates on the small aluminum gravestones, meryl renee danvers, 1998. raoul cis neros, 1997. unknown, 1996 . I found names going back to 1993. Older than tha t, though, the aluminum had cor roded and the names were illegible. I resolved to dip into my Gas that Ate San Francisco nest egg and buy The Penn a proper gravestone.
When the funeral service finally began, I feared the worst. The nonagenarian Presbyterian minister was so frail he looked like he might keel over any minute himself. But he had a surprisingly powerful voice, and it cut through the rain r ight into the heart of our lone liness. He told us that the least among us are known intimately to God, just as if they were presidents or kings instead of derelicts. God was waiting with open arms to receive Donald Penn.
I haven't figured out yet if I believe in God, and I guess I never will. B ut despite my doubts, a good fu neral speech always hits the spot.
When he was finished, the minister asked me if I would like to say a few words. I wanted to say no, but of course I couldn't, so I cleared my throat and began.
"Donald Penn," I said, "was an artist. A true artist. He devoted his whole life to his art."
Then I got stuck. I didn't know what else to say about the man, except that a couple of people seemed to like him or at least pity him enough to give him free coffee.
What I said out loud was, "God bless him."
Then I stepped down, the minister said amen, and that was that. The gravediggers lowered The Penn into his grave and covered him up, and the rest of us walked back through the rain to our cars.
Figuring I'd worn out my welcome with Virgil and Molly, I hit up the minister for a lift home. But first I went over to tell them good-bye. Virgil nodded gruffly and got in the hearse, leaving Molly and me alone for a moment.
She looked up at me anxiously. "Please don't tell Gretchen I mentioned the application."
Gretchen? "Why not?"
"She said it could real ly get the Arts Council in trou ble."
I was dying for details, but Virgil rolled his
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