Read Online The Pigman by Paul Zindel - Free Book Online

she didn’t take anything with her to California. All those clothes in the closet. But how was I supposed to know? Maybe she went to visit the Pigman’s sister in a nudist camp or something. They do anything in California—crazy religions and that kind of thing.
     
    What should be done first?
    Who is our Funeral Director?
    Do we have a cemetery preference?
    Are there any organizations or friends to invite?
    What kind and type of casket?
    Do we have money for the expense?
    If so, where? How much?
    If not, where is the money to come from:
    Veterans’ benefits?
    Social Security?
    Insurance?
    These, and many more, are the questions that are asked when the time comes. Peace of mind will be yours if you follow this booklet.
    If you need more than one book, just call the Silver Lake Company, and we will forward it at once.

     
    Then I found this bill right in with all the jewelry and junk and her Social Security card, and that’s when I knew Conchetta Pignati was not in California. I knew that where Conchetta Pignati was she was never coming back.

8
     
    H is wife’s
dead
!” John whispered.
    “What?”
    “I just found her funeral bill.”
    A terrible chill ran through me when he said that, because I had been afraid Conchetta was not away on a vacation. I didn’t exactly suspect Mr. Pignati of having murdered her and sealed her body behind a wall in the cellar, but I was suspicious. There was something about the glaze in his eyes when he laughed that disturbed me because I could tell he didn’t really believe his own laughter. It was a nervous type of laughing, the same kind as that of a landlady we once had after her husband died in a dentist’s chair while he was under gas.
    “Did you see the ad in yesterday’s paper?” Mr. Pignati asked, finally coming back with more of the red wine.
    “No.”
    “For sale: Complete set of encyclopedias, never used. Wife knows everything.” And then he let out that laugh again.
    I just couldn’t smile at his joke. I thought it was very sad. I mean, that cute little girl in the ruffled dress had already grown up, gotten married, lived her life, and was underground somewhere. And Mr. Pignati wasn’t able to admit it. That landlady used to think her husband was going to come back one day too, but she died less than two months after him. I’ve always wondered about those cases where a man and wife die within a short time of each other. Sometimes it’s only days. It makes me think that the love between a man and a woman must be the strongest thing in the world.
    But then look at my father and mother, although maybe they didn’t ever really love each other. Maybe that’s why she got the way she is.
    “I found this upstairs.” John smiled, holding a small plastic card. “What is it?”
    The Pigman explained what a charge card was.
    “You mean you just sign your name, and a department store lets you take whatever you want, and you don’t have to pay for it for months?” John asked, wide-eyed.
    Mr. Pignati said he only got the card so his wife could go shopping in the fancy-food delicatessen they’ve got at Beekman’s.
    “She loves delicacies,” he said.
    And I remembered the taste of the scungilli.
    When I got home that night, I thought of them again, but another thought struck me. I realized how many things the Pigman and his wife must have shared—even the fun of preparing food. Good food is supposed to produce good conversation, I’ve heard. I guess it’s no wonder my mother and I never had an interesting conversation when all we eat is canned soup, chop suey, and instant coffee. I think I would have learned how to cook if she had ever encouraged me, but the one time I tried baking a cake she said it tasted horrible and was a waste of money.
    “Did you fix my coffee?”
    “Yes.”
    “This one has sex on the brain. He has only got a couple of months to live, and he’s still got itchy fingers.” I watched my mother powdering her nose at the kitchen table. She