Read Online A Permanent Member of the Family by Russell Banks - Free Book Online Page B

the nearby lot of Sunshine Chrysler on Northwest Twelfth and traded it in for a lease on a new dark brown 200S Chrysler convertible.
    The following morning, her best friend, Jane, drove from Keene to Albany in her slightly older Subaru Outback, parked the car in the long-term lot and flew to Miami for George Pelham’s funeral. She planned on staying with Isabel for three or four days. Maybe a week. As long as it took to console her friend and help her with the logistics of sudden widowhood. The school headmaster, Dr. Costanza, assured Jane that she could spend all of her accumulated sick days if need be. It wasn’t as if she had classes to meet. Everyone on the faculty and in town held George and Isabel dearly to their breast, was how Dr. Costanza put it.
    Jane found his manner of speaking, like his bow ties and argyle sweater vests, faintly amusing, and sometimes when speaking with him she imitated it. She said she’d reveal her plans to him as soon as they blossomed and revealed themselves to her.
    Though Jane’s husband, Frank, had never been close to the Pelhams—he was what was called a Keene native; the Pelhams, like his wife, were “from away,” as local people put it—he respected Jane’s friendship with Isabel and told her to stay down there in Florida as long as she wanted. He’d be in hunting camp up on Johns Brook with the guys for the next week anyhow. Maybe longer if he didn’t kill his deer right off. They could pull in Ryan whatzizname, you know, the Hall kid, to take care of the dogs.
    Â 
    W HEN I SABEL ARRIVED to meet Jane at the Miami airport in her Chrysler convertible, top down, Jane was thrown off by the warm, welcoming smile on her friend’s broad, suntanned face. No grief-stricken tears, no trembling lips. Jane tossed her suitcase onto the backseat, got in and hugged Isabel long and hard, a consoling hug. Isabel was smaller than Jane, trim, and for a woman, especially a woman her age, muscular. She wore a white silk T-shirt and a flouncy pale blue cotton skirt and sandals.
    Not exactly funereal, Jane thought. Taking in the new car, she said, “I like the color, Isabel. I bet it’s called something like ‘espresso.’ Am I right?” Actually, she did like the color and hoped she didn’t sound sarcastic.
    â€œHa! It’s called ‘tungsten metallic.’ I wanted ‘billet silver metallic,’ but this was the only convertible they had on the lot, and I wanted a convertible more. So, listen, do you mind if we pick up George’s ashes on the way home? Since we’re in Digger O’Dell the Friendly Undertaker’s neighborhood.”
    Jane said no, she didn’t mind. Isabel’s jaunty tone confused her. “Is his name really Digger O’Dell?”
    Isabel laughed. “No, but he is friendly. Maybe too friendly. I think it’s Rick. Ricardo O’Dell. He’s Latino, despite the name. Argentine, maybe.”
    While she drove she punched a string of numbers into her cell phone. Steering with one hand and holding the phone to her ear with the other, Isabel cut swiftly—expertly, Jane thought, for someone who never drove in traffic like this—through the snarl of cloverleafs and on- and off-ramps that surrounded the airport. In minutes they were up on Route 112 speeding east toward Biscayne Bay.
    Isabel pulled into the sunbaked lot next to the large cinder-block cube that O’Dell’s Funeral Home shared with a tire store, and parked. She asked Jane if she’d like to come inside with her. “It’s kind of creepy,” she said, “but interesting.” Rick O’Dell had told her he’d be with a client in the Comfort Room when she arrived, but he’d leave the urn with her husband’s cremains in the reception area. She could simply take them. Nothing to sign.
    Jane said sure, she had never been in a crematorium before. She felt rushed by Isabel, pushed