the line.
Mrs. Clancyâs dentures clacked as she whispered in my ear. âClancy and Sons Funeral Home, serving the North Fork Valley since 1920.â
âGeorgia, is that you?â the man asked.
âNo, this is Amy. Would you like to talk to Mrs. Clancy?â
Mrs. Clancy shook her head sharply and pushed a notepad and pen across the desk.
I repeated Mrs. Clancyâs prompt and added, âHow may I help you?â
âThereâs not much to be done now,â the man said, âbut to bury her.â
My breakfast burned the back of my throat. âOh.â
âWhoâs calling?â Mrs. Clancy asked.
âMay I ask whoâs calling?â
Once Henry T. Bigelow hit his conversational stride, no detail seemed too mundane or intimate to exclude about his sisterâs death. âWe found her just after weâd come back from moving the irrigation pipes up tâ the mesa, you know. She was feeling poorly most of last week, complained about feeling tired, spent a lot of time in the outhouse, she did. Other than that, whatever was bothering her didnât seem to slow her down none. Bert says she was stronger than most men though she werenât much taller than my belt buckle. But she was getting old, thatâs for sure.â
Mrs. Clancy put her cheek to mine to listen in. She smelled sour like she hadnât taken a bath in a few days. Old people and twelve-year-old boys couldnât smell themselves coming or going. I breathed through my mouth.
The man continued his reverie. âWe knowed something was wrong when we didnât smell no bacon from the kitchen. It wasnâtlike her, though, to leave good meat on the counter where the flies could get to it. Bert swore up and down, but he wrapped the bacon up neatlike âcause thatâs how Mildred always done it. Then he goes stomping off âcause he says weâll be needing some more ice here pretty quick. Bringing the ice up from the ice house, that was Mildredâs job. She done got the cows milked and the cream skimmed before she lay down in her daffodil bed to die.â
Mrs. Clancy took the phone. âHenry T. Bigelow, you old coot.â She shook her finger at the receiver. âDonât be rattling off a bunch of nonsense. The sooner we get Mildred in here, the better sheâll look come viewing day.â
Whatever Henry T. Bigelow said made Mrs. Clancy roll her eyes. âSuit yourself, Henry, but you wrap her up nice. I wonât be picking manure out of her hair. And make sure she doesnât roll around that trailer. Do you hear me, you old fool?â
* * *
THE DOORBELL RANG. Mom and I huddled behind her bedroom door.
Mrs. Clancy bellowed, âWhat are you doing? Not through the kitchen. For heavenâs sake, we have a ramp out back.â
âThe trapdoorâs in the hall, ainât it, Georgie?â asked a male voice I recognized as Mr. Bigelow.
âHenry, people stopped calling me Georgie fifty years ago.â
âI think itâs been more like sixty, donât you, Bert?â
âBring her in then, you old fool.â
Men shuffled and grunted in the hall, and the floor groaned under their weight. One uttered an epitaph no one would dare chisel into a headstone. Mrs. Clancy called for me, but Mom held me tightly.
âNot yet, fofa . Not yet. Stay here.â
âAre you happy, Henry?â asked Mrs. Clancy.
âIâd heard about the chute, but I never believed it. Thanks, Georgie, that settles my mind a bit.â
âNow get out of here. Iâve got work to do.â
Outside, sparrows chirped and bicycle tires clattered over gravel. âMom, Iâll be okay. They have her in the basement. I donât want to make Mrs. Clancy mad.â
Mom crossed herself and glanced toward heaven. âI must be crazy. Blessed Mary, what was I thinking? A funeral home? Dead people in the basement? I never should have brought you here,
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