to rise from the dark sea of his memory. News of something cruel had recently arrived.
Martin Glass had died.
Martin had died and Arvo was about to bring him home.
By the time he’d eaten a quick breakfast at his kitchen table, dressed in his black denim jeans and a white washed-and-ironed shirt, and had gone outside to unlock the workshop, the Henry J had crossed the Old Highway from Stevenson Road and was pulling up in front of the double doors, a plywood sign with large red letters fastened to the front bumper:
!!SLOW HEARSE FOLLOWING!!
Peterson rolled down his window to explain in a stage whisper. “Herbie stayed up half the night to make it.”
Grinning, Herbie Brewer stepped out of the Henry J and held up a second sign. “This one’s for the back of the hearse.”
SORRY
WE’RE GOING
AS FAST AS WE CAN
Otherwise, Peterson said, they’d have to put up with a whole lot of cursing and honking from people who caught up behind them. “We don’t want them running you off the road.”
Peterson brought flats of potted plants from his trunk and opened the rear door of the hearse to slide them in. “Cynthia was waiting by her gate,” he said. “Told us she sat bolt upright in the middle of the night and decided we couldn’t go without flowers for Martin’s journey home.” Since it was not yet fully daylight, the flowers were closed up so tight it was impossible to guess what sort they might turn out to be. Arvo tried out a few names — gladiolus, dahlia, chrysanthemum, peony — but neither Peterson nor Herbie Brewer knew one flower from another. “So long as they aren’t those evil-smelling lilies you getat funerals,” Arvo said. “Cynthia or no Cynthia, I’d throw the stinking things straight into the ditch.”
For the time being, these had no smell at all, and did not resemble anything that any of them had ever seen.
It was obvious now that he would not be making the journey alone. Both Peterson and Herbie were wearing striped shirts and sports jackets. Clearly the three of them were in this rescue mission together. “I’ll keep close to the side of the road,” he said, once he’d hung Herbie’s sign off the rear bumper. “You do the same up ahead. That way, the traffic can see when it’s safe to pass.”
He put his tool box on the seat beside him — his mother would have called it his Sampo , knowing that he had built it himself, like the legendary Ilmarinen, though this had been made from a length of oak rather than a plough blade heated in a forge. His good-luck charm. He climbed in behind the wheel again and started her up. Once he’d driven out of the shed, then closed and locked the door behind him, he said, “Let’s go! Martin may not be in any hurry but I’ve got things to get back to.” There was a ’49 Meteor out back that hadn’t counted on him going off on a trip.
But before they’d started moving, Cynthia drove in and pulled up beside them in the ’89 Honda Arvo had found abandoned in a gravel pit and spent one Christmas week bringing back to life. Had she decided to come along too?
She left her motor running while she got out of the car to hand him a tin box. “My banana loaf, as promised!” she said. “Already sliced. Something for when you stop for a break. I forgot to give it to Bert with the flowers.” Her face was a little flushed, like a young girl excited by her own generosity. She’d had a reputation as a no-nonsense teacher, but in retirement she’d never been anything but generous and kindly-intended. Before getting back in her car she put a handon his and squeezed. “You’re a good man, Arvo — going to all this trouble for our Martin. Make sure you come back safe.”
She winked, as though she suspected he was up to some sort of mischief but couldn’t find it in herself to object.
They would take the Old Highway that wandered leisurely along the coastline rather than the inland freeway where they’d be constantly buffeted by blasts of wind
Martin Glass had died.
Martin had died and Arvo was about to bring him home.
By the time he’d eaten a quick breakfast at his kitchen table, dressed in his black denim jeans and a white washed-and-ironed shirt, and had gone outside to unlock the workshop, the Henry J had crossed the Old Highway from Stevenson Road and was pulling up in front of the double doors, a plywood sign with large red letters fastened to the front bumper:
!!SLOW HEARSE FOLLOWING!!
Peterson rolled down his window to explain in a stage whisper. “Herbie stayed up half the night to make it.”
Grinning, Herbie Brewer stepped out of the Henry J and held up a second sign. “This one’s for the back of the hearse.”
SORRY
WE’RE GOING
AS FAST AS WE CAN
Otherwise, Peterson said, they’d have to put up with a whole lot of cursing and honking from people who caught up behind them. “We don’t want them running you off the road.”
Peterson brought flats of potted plants from his trunk and opened the rear door of the hearse to slide them in. “Cynthia was waiting by her gate,” he said. “Told us she sat bolt upright in the middle of the night and decided we couldn’t go without flowers for Martin’s journey home.” Since it was not yet fully daylight, the flowers were closed up so tight it was impossible to guess what sort they might turn out to be. Arvo tried out a few names — gladiolus, dahlia, chrysanthemum, peony — but neither Peterson nor Herbie Brewer knew one flower from another. “So long as they aren’t those evil-smelling lilies you getat funerals,” Arvo said. “Cynthia or no Cynthia, I’d throw the stinking things straight into the ditch.”
For the time being, these had no smell at all, and did not resemble anything that any of them had ever seen.
It was obvious now that he would not be making the journey alone. Both Peterson and Herbie were wearing striped shirts and sports jackets. Clearly the three of them were in this rescue mission together. “I’ll keep close to the side of the road,” he said, once he’d hung Herbie’s sign off the rear bumper. “You do the same up ahead. That way, the traffic can see when it’s safe to pass.”
He put his tool box on the seat beside him — his mother would have called it his Sampo , knowing that he had built it himself, like the legendary Ilmarinen, though this had been made from a length of oak rather than a plough blade heated in a forge. His good-luck charm. He climbed in behind the wheel again and started her up. Once he’d driven out of the shed, then closed and locked the door behind him, he said, “Let’s go! Martin may not be in any hurry but I’ve got things to get back to.” There was a ’49 Meteor out back that hadn’t counted on him going off on a trip.
But before they’d started moving, Cynthia drove in and pulled up beside them in the ’89 Honda Arvo had found abandoned in a gravel pit and spent one Christmas week bringing back to life. Had she decided to come along too?
She left her motor running while she got out of the car to hand him a tin box. “My banana loaf, as promised!” she said. “Already sliced. Something for when you stop for a break. I forgot to give it to Bert with the flowers.” Her face was a little flushed, like a young girl excited by her own generosity. She’d had a reputation as a no-nonsense teacher, but in retirement she’d never been anything but generous and kindly-intended. Before getting back in her car she put a handon his and squeezed. “You’re a good man, Arvo — going to all this trouble for our Martin. Make sure you come back safe.”
She winked, as though she suspected he was up to some sort of mischief but couldn’t find it in herself to object.
They would take the Old Highway that wandered leisurely along the coastline rather than the inland freeway where they’d be constantly buffeted by blasts of wind
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