Read Online The Alpine Obituary by Mary Daheim - Free Book Online
Authors: Mary Daheim
Tags: Fiction
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Engebretsen, one of our aged county commissioners. “June makes those real good ones— krumkake, filled with whipped cream.”
Vida pointed at the funeral car where Al Driggers and the others were still grappling with June. “There’s no coffee klatch tonight. June is overcome.”
To prove the point, the bereaved widow let out a blood-curdling shriek.
“Good God,” exclaimed Jack Iverson, Jack Froland’s nephew and namesake. “Auntie sounds pretty bad.”
“She is,” Vida declared. “Go home. Now. You’ll have to wait for your treats until after the funeral tomorrow.”
Bessie Griswold shot Vida a dirty look. “You better not eat all those cookies tonight,” she warned, as she started down the walk. The others trailed behind her. They stopped, however, on the sidewalk as three or four neighbors came out of their houses to see what was going on. June Froland was drawing quite a crowd.
Reverend Nielsen, with his long-legged step, had hurried ahead to the front porch where he opened the door. Max, who was carrying his mother’s lower extremities, momentarily stumbled over the threshold, causing Al to trip on the porch’s top stair. They bobbled their burden but righted themselves as June Froland emitted a groan that sounded like a cross between that of a wounded bear and a hoot owl.
I’d started to follow, but Vida put a hand on my arm. “Wait a moment,” she said, gesturing at an approaching car. “I called Doc Dewey. Here he comes now.”
“Has June gone off her rocker?” I asked as Doc’s modest dark blue sedan pulled in ahead of the limo.
“That’s a relative thing with June,” Vida said. “I’ve always thought she was a bit mental.”
Since Vida thought that of many Alpine residents, I didn’t take her diagnosis seriously. With a windmill-like wave, she called to Doc Dewey.
“Yoo-hoo! They’ve taken June inside. It might take a while to get her in bed.”
The onlookers, who now numbered more than a dozen, moved closer to the doctor.
“Is June done for?” called George Engebretsen.
Doc, who was carrying his medical kit, gave the county commissioner a mild look of reprimand. “June’s upset. She’ll be fine.” He turned to Vida and me, nodding and smiling. “Not uncommon after a loved one has died, I’m afraid.” He paused, his expression even more kindly than usual. “You were very brave after Tom died, Emma.”
“I was drugged to the eyeballs for a week,” I replied. “Four Valium and a quart of Wild Turkey work wonders.”
“I didn’t prescribe the whiskey,” Doc said, wagging a finger. “That was your brother’s doing.”
“I think he drank most of it,” I murmured as we headed into the Froland house, where June’s wails could be heard in the distance.
“I know the way,” Doc said, leading us past the living room and down a narrow hall. “I visited Jack here a few times.”
I knew June Froland only by sight, a plump little person with a dour manner. As we crowded into the small bedroom, I was shocked by her anguished appearance as she heaved convulsively on top of the covers.
Reverend Nielsen’s eyes were cast toward the ceiling. I assumed he was praying. Al was attempting to hold June’s hand, but she kept snatching it away and began hurling words of abuse at the undertaker.
“Fiends!” she screeched. “Go away! I can feel the evil! Murder! Oh, God!” She turned her face to the wall and began to sob again.
“Ma,” Max said in a pleading voice, “please. You’re making yourself sick.”
But Max’s ma kept screaming incoherently. Doc moved closer to the bed, then spoke quietly to the rest of us.
“It might be best if you’d all leave the room,” he said. “There isn’t much space in here. And make sure those people outside don’t try to get in the house.”
I immediately turned to leave, but Vida grasped Doc by the arm. “Don’t you need help?”
Doc shook his bald head. “No, Vida. I’ve done this before. You go along with
Vida pointed at the funeral car where Al Driggers and the others were still grappling with June. “There’s no coffee klatch tonight. June is overcome.”
To prove the point, the bereaved widow let out a blood-curdling shriek.
“Good God,” exclaimed Jack Iverson, Jack Froland’s nephew and namesake. “Auntie sounds pretty bad.”
“She is,” Vida declared. “Go home. Now. You’ll have to wait for your treats until after the funeral tomorrow.”
Bessie Griswold shot Vida a dirty look. “You better not eat all those cookies tonight,” she warned, as she started down the walk. The others trailed behind her. They stopped, however, on the sidewalk as three or four neighbors came out of their houses to see what was going on. June Froland was drawing quite a crowd.
Reverend Nielsen, with his long-legged step, had hurried ahead to the front porch where he opened the door. Max, who was carrying his mother’s lower extremities, momentarily stumbled over the threshold, causing Al to trip on the porch’s top stair. They bobbled their burden but righted themselves as June Froland emitted a groan that sounded like a cross between that of a wounded bear and a hoot owl.
I’d started to follow, but Vida put a hand on my arm. “Wait a moment,” she said, gesturing at an approaching car. “I called Doc Dewey. Here he comes now.”
“Has June gone off her rocker?” I asked as Doc’s modest dark blue sedan pulled in ahead of the limo.
“That’s a relative thing with June,” Vida said. “I’ve always thought she was a bit mental.”
Since Vida thought that of many Alpine residents, I didn’t take her diagnosis seriously. With a windmill-like wave, she called to Doc Dewey.
“Yoo-hoo! They’ve taken June inside. It might take a while to get her in bed.”
The onlookers, who now numbered more than a dozen, moved closer to the doctor.
“Is June done for?” called George Engebretsen.
Doc, who was carrying his medical kit, gave the county commissioner a mild look of reprimand. “June’s upset. She’ll be fine.” He turned to Vida and me, nodding and smiling. “Not uncommon after a loved one has died, I’m afraid.” He paused, his expression even more kindly than usual. “You were very brave after Tom died, Emma.”
“I was drugged to the eyeballs for a week,” I replied. “Four Valium and a quart of Wild Turkey work wonders.”
“I didn’t prescribe the whiskey,” Doc said, wagging a finger. “That was your brother’s doing.”
“I think he drank most of it,” I murmured as we headed into the Froland house, where June’s wails could be heard in the distance.
“I know the way,” Doc said, leading us past the living room and down a narrow hall. “I visited Jack here a few times.”
I knew June Froland only by sight, a plump little person with a dour manner. As we crowded into the small bedroom, I was shocked by her anguished appearance as she heaved convulsively on top of the covers.
Reverend Nielsen’s eyes were cast toward the ceiling. I assumed he was praying. Al was attempting to hold June’s hand, but she kept snatching it away and began hurling words of abuse at the undertaker.
“Fiends!” she screeched. “Go away! I can feel the evil! Murder! Oh, God!” She turned her face to the wall and began to sob again.
“Ma,” Max said in a pleading voice, “please. You’re making yourself sick.”
But Max’s ma kept screaming incoherently. Doc moved closer to the bed, then spoke quietly to the rest of us.
“It might be best if you’d all leave the room,” he said. “There isn’t much space in here. And make sure those people outside don’t try to get in the house.”
I immediately turned to leave, but Vida grasped Doc by the arm. “Don’t you need help?”
Doc shook his bald head. “No, Vida. I’ve done this before. You go along with
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