asked Shadow.
“Hell no,” said Wednesday.
The freeway slipped past them: browning grass meadows on each side of them. The trees were leafless and dead. Two black birds stared at them from a telegraph wire.
“Hey, Wednesday.”
“What?”
“The way I saw it in there, you never paid for the gas.”
“Oh?”
“The way I saw it, she wound up paying you for the privilege of having you in her gas station. You think she’s figured it out yet?”
“She never will.”
“So what are you? A two-bit con artist?”
Wednesday nodded. “Yes,” he said. “I suppose I am. Among other things.”
He swung out into the left lane to pass a truck. The sky was a bleak and uniform gray.
“It’s going to snow,” said Shadow.
“Yes.”
“Sweeney. Did he actually show me how he did that trick with the gold coins?”
“Oh yes.”
“I can’t remember.”
“It’ll come back. It was a long night.”
Several small snowflakes brushed the windshield, melting in seconds.
“Your wife’s body is on display at Wendell’s Funeral Parlor at present,” said Wednesday. “Then after lunch they will take her from there to the graveyard for the interment.”
“How do you know?”
“I called ahead while you were in the john. You know where Wendell’s Funeral Parlor is?”
Shadow nodded. The snowflakes whirled and dizzied in front of them.
“This is our exit,” said Shadow. The car stole off the interstate, and past the cluster of motels to the north of Eagle Point.
Three years had passed. Yes. The Super-8 motel had gone, torn down: in its place was a Wendy’s. There were more stoplights, unfamiliar storefronts. They drove downtown. Shadow asked Wednesday to slow as they drove past the Muscle Farm. CLOSED INDEFINITELY , said the hand-lettered sign on the door, DUE TO BEREAVEMENT .
Left on Main Street. Past a new tattoo parlor and the Armed Forces Recruitment Center, then the Burger King, and, familiar and unchanged, Olsen’s Drug Store, and at last the yellow-brick facade of Wendell’s Funeral Parlor. A neon sign in the front window said HOUSE OF REST . Blank tombstones stood unchristened and uncarved in the window beneath the sign.
Wednesday pulled up in the parking lot.
“Do you want me to come in?” he asked.
“Not particularly.”
“Good.” The grin flashed, without humor. “There’s business I can be getting on with while you say your goodbyes. I’ll get rooms for us at the Motel America. Meet me there when you’re done.”
Shadow got out of the car, and watched it pull away. Then he walked in. The dimly lit corridor smelled of flowers and of furniture polish, withjust the slightest tang of formaldehyde and rot beneath the surface. At the far end was the Chapel of Rest.
Shadow realized that he was palming the gold coin, moving it compulsively from a back palm to a front palm to a Downs palm, over and over. The weight was reassuring in his hand.
His wife’s name was on a sheet of paper beside the door at the far end of the corridor. He walked into the Chapel of Rest. Shadow knew most of the people in the room: Laura’s family, her workmates at the travel agency, several of her friends.
They all recognized him. He could see it in their faces. There were no smiles, though, no hellos.
At the end of the room was a small dais, and, on it, a cream-colored casket with several displays of flowers arranged about it: scarlets and yellows and whites and deep, bloody purples. He took a step forward. He could see Laura’s body from where he was standing. He did not want to walk forward; he did not dare to walk away.
A man in a dark suit—Shadow guessed he worked at the funeral home—said, “Sir? Would you like to sign the condolence and remembrance book?” and pointed him to a leather-bound book, open on a small lectern.
He wrote SHADOW and the date in his precise handwriting, then, slowly, he wrote (PUPPY) beside it, putting off walking toward the end of the room, where the people were, and
“Hell no,” said Wednesday.
The freeway slipped past them: browning grass meadows on each side of them. The trees were leafless and dead. Two black birds stared at them from a telegraph wire.
“Hey, Wednesday.”
“What?”
“The way I saw it in there, you never paid for the gas.”
“Oh?”
“The way I saw it, she wound up paying you for the privilege of having you in her gas station. You think she’s figured it out yet?”
“She never will.”
“So what are you? A two-bit con artist?”
Wednesday nodded. “Yes,” he said. “I suppose I am. Among other things.”
He swung out into the left lane to pass a truck. The sky was a bleak and uniform gray.
“It’s going to snow,” said Shadow.
“Yes.”
“Sweeney. Did he actually show me how he did that trick with the gold coins?”
“Oh yes.”
“I can’t remember.”
“It’ll come back. It was a long night.”
Several small snowflakes brushed the windshield, melting in seconds.
“Your wife’s body is on display at Wendell’s Funeral Parlor at present,” said Wednesday. “Then after lunch they will take her from there to the graveyard for the interment.”
“How do you know?”
“I called ahead while you were in the john. You know where Wendell’s Funeral Parlor is?”
Shadow nodded. The snowflakes whirled and dizzied in front of them.
“This is our exit,” said Shadow. The car stole off the interstate, and past the cluster of motels to the north of Eagle Point.
Three years had passed. Yes. The Super-8 motel had gone, torn down: in its place was a Wendy’s. There were more stoplights, unfamiliar storefronts. They drove downtown. Shadow asked Wednesday to slow as they drove past the Muscle Farm. CLOSED INDEFINITELY , said the hand-lettered sign on the door, DUE TO BEREAVEMENT .
Left on Main Street. Past a new tattoo parlor and the Armed Forces Recruitment Center, then the Burger King, and, familiar and unchanged, Olsen’s Drug Store, and at last the yellow-brick facade of Wendell’s Funeral Parlor. A neon sign in the front window said HOUSE OF REST . Blank tombstones stood unchristened and uncarved in the window beneath the sign.
Wednesday pulled up in the parking lot.
“Do you want me to come in?” he asked.
“Not particularly.”
“Good.” The grin flashed, without humor. “There’s business I can be getting on with while you say your goodbyes. I’ll get rooms for us at the Motel America. Meet me there when you’re done.”
Shadow got out of the car, and watched it pull away. Then he walked in. The dimly lit corridor smelled of flowers and of furniture polish, withjust the slightest tang of formaldehyde and rot beneath the surface. At the far end was the Chapel of Rest.
Shadow realized that he was palming the gold coin, moving it compulsively from a back palm to a front palm to a Downs palm, over and over. The weight was reassuring in his hand.
His wife’s name was on a sheet of paper beside the door at the far end of the corridor. He walked into the Chapel of Rest. Shadow knew most of the people in the room: Laura’s family, her workmates at the travel agency, several of her friends.
They all recognized him. He could see it in their faces. There were no smiles, though, no hellos.
At the end of the room was a small dais, and, on it, a cream-colored casket with several displays of flowers arranged about it: scarlets and yellows and whites and deep, bloody purples. He took a step forward. He could see Laura’s body from where he was standing. He did not want to walk forward; he did not dare to walk away.
A man in a dark suit—Shadow guessed he worked at the funeral home—said, “Sir? Would you like to sign the condolence and remembrance book?” and pointed him to a leather-bound book, open on a small lectern.
He wrote SHADOW and the date in his precise handwriting, then, slowly, he wrote (PUPPY) beside it, putting off walking toward the end of the room, where the people were, and
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