through the rest of the kitchen, discovered a few more cooking utensils unaccounted for, then proceeded through the house, searching for what wasn’t there. The matching lampsfrom the living room—those were worth some real money, which probably explained why his father had taken them. The portable TV—although Jack had left the cable box behind, a forlorn black wire looking for a screen to hook up to. The toaster oven. The Weed Whacker. The police scanner Jed had given his grandfather for his birthday a couple of years ago.
John Willetz had left his grandson the house and its contents because he hadn’t trusted his son with them. “Jack will get my money when I die, but my property is going to you. Your dad doesn’t know manure from mulch,” John had told Jed. “You know what’s valuable and what’s junk. Your dad still hasn’t figured that out.”
Unfortunately, Jed realized, his father had figured out how to help himself to whatever he wanted, even if it didn’t belong to him.
Jed was annoyed. So annoyed, he still hadn’t contacted his father, let alone made a plan regarding the old man’s ashes. He’d gone to Hackett’s and stocked up on edibles, missing New York City more with each item he tossed into his cart, and then he’d devoted the rest of the morning and much of the afternoon to writing a list of everything his father hadn’t already lifted from the house. So what if the ashes didn’t get buried immediately? He had pressing business to attend to.
As he sat on the creaky swing on the broad farmer’s porch that extended the length of his grandfather’s house, he acknowledged that his business entailed more than just taking care of what was left of his grandfather’s life. There was that other matter. The matter of Erica Leitner.
Everyone at the Superette had been buzzing about her when he’d gone in to buy a few days’ worth offood. Of course, once he’d stepped inside the glaringly lit shop, everyone had started buzzing about her and him . “I see you’re making friends with that schoolteacher,” Harriet Ettman had remarked, a dangerous glint in her eyes. “You sure know how to work fast. Barely back home, and you’re already cozy with that lovely young lady.”
“You’d be the first,” Pop Hackett had commented from his post at the cashier counter. “Not that others haven’t tried with her.”
“I hope you haven’t tried with her,” Harriet had clucked, wagging a bony finger at Pop. “Elaine wouldn’t be too happy with you. Besides, you’re old enough to be Erica’s father.”
“You’re old enough to be her grandmother,” Pop had retorted.
“Well, who cares how old I am? I think it’s lovely that she came here all the way from Boston just to teach our children. That shows true dedication. Not too many young people would be happy settling in a sleepy little town like Rockwell. Isn’t that right, Jed?”
“She’s Jewish,” Toad Regan had commented to no one in particular as he emerged from behind a rack of potato chips. Toad Regan had a way of addressing the air molecules around him rather than actual people. Much of what he said made no sense, and a goodly portion of the rest of it was irritating or offensive.
“What’s her being Jewish got to do with anything?” Harriet had inquired, her voice as prickly as a porcupine.
Toad had glanced up, as if startled to discover human beings within hearing distance of him. “Well, we ain’t got no Hebrew National here, if you get my meaning,” he’d muttered before shuffling out of thestore, a wrinkled paper bag shaped suspiciously like a whiskey bottle tucked under his arm.
Jed hadn’t gotten his meaning, but that was nothing new. The last time he’d seen Toad was a few years ago, when he’d been visiting town and had spent the night at his father’s place. In the morning, he’d discovered Toad passed out on the living-room sofa. Jed had awakened Toad and asked him what the hell he was doing, and Toad
John Willetz had left his grandson the house and its contents because he hadn’t trusted his son with them. “Jack will get my money when I die, but my property is going to you. Your dad doesn’t know manure from mulch,” John had told Jed. “You know what’s valuable and what’s junk. Your dad still hasn’t figured that out.”
Unfortunately, Jed realized, his father had figured out how to help himself to whatever he wanted, even if it didn’t belong to him.
Jed was annoyed. So annoyed, he still hadn’t contacted his father, let alone made a plan regarding the old man’s ashes. He’d gone to Hackett’s and stocked up on edibles, missing New York City more with each item he tossed into his cart, and then he’d devoted the rest of the morning and much of the afternoon to writing a list of everything his father hadn’t already lifted from the house. So what if the ashes didn’t get buried immediately? He had pressing business to attend to.
As he sat on the creaky swing on the broad farmer’s porch that extended the length of his grandfather’s house, he acknowledged that his business entailed more than just taking care of what was left of his grandfather’s life. There was that other matter. The matter of Erica Leitner.
Everyone at the Superette had been buzzing about her when he’d gone in to buy a few days’ worth offood. Of course, once he’d stepped inside the glaringly lit shop, everyone had started buzzing about her and him . “I see you’re making friends with that schoolteacher,” Harriet Ettman had remarked, a dangerous glint in her eyes. “You sure know how to work fast. Barely back home, and you’re already cozy with that lovely young lady.”
“You’d be the first,” Pop Hackett had commented from his post at the cashier counter. “Not that others haven’t tried with her.”
“I hope you haven’t tried with her,” Harriet had clucked, wagging a bony finger at Pop. “Elaine wouldn’t be too happy with you. Besides, you’re old enough to be Erica’s father.”
“You’re old enough to be her grandmother,” Pop had retorted.
“Well, who cares how old I am? I think it’s lovely that she came here all the way from Boston just to teach our children. That shows true dedication. Not too many young people would be happy settling in a sleepy little town like Rockwell. Isn’t that right, Jed?”
“She’s Jewish,” Toad Regan had commented to no one in particular as he emerged from behind a rack of potato chips. Toad Regan had a way of addressing the air molecules around him rather than actual people. Much of what he said made no sense, and a goodly portion of the rest of it was irritating or offensive.
“What’s her being Jewish got to do with anything?” Harriet had inquired, her voice as prickly as a porcupine.
Toad had glanced up, as if startled to discover human beings within hearing distance of him. “Well, we ain’t got no Hebrew National here, if you get my meaning,” he’d muttered before shuffling out of thestore, a wrinkled paper bag shaped suspiciously like a whiskey bottle tucked under his arm.
Jed hadn’t gotten his meaning, but that was nothing new. The last time he’d seen Toad was a few years ago, when he’d been visiting town and had spent the night at his father’s place. In the morning, he’d discovered Toad passed out on the living-room sofa. Jed had awakened Toad and asked him what the hell he was doing, and Toad
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