My Mom's A Mortician

by Patricia Wiles

  I spent a lot of time in the back lot that week. I’d go out early, before daylight, since I didn’t sleep too well. At night I’d stay out past the ten o’clock news, just staring out at the mysterious shadows that shivered in the evening breeze. By the weekend I’d recorded so many minute details that I had to start a new notebook—Volume X.

  But I couldn’t hide out at home forever. Mrs. Goldwyn talked to my parents every day I was absent to make sure I was coming back to school. I didn’t want to, but I knew I had to. Finals were coming up. So on Monday I gritted my teeth and went back to Armadillo Middle for the last ten days of school.

  The other students left me alone. No one asked what had happened; no one pestered me to tell the story. Dani stayed with me as much as she could. The teachers treated me as usual, but a few times I heard fragments of their conversations in the halls: “Did you hear about Stan Stiller?” “He got what he deserved.” “That poor kid. It’s a shame he had to suffer so.”

  Chuck Stiller didn’t come back to school. I didn’t want to talk about what had happened, so I didn’t ask anyone about Chuck’s absence.

  At the end of the week, Mrs. Goldwyn called me to her office.

  She motioned to a chair upholstered in thick green velvet. “Sit down. We need to talk.”

  I sank into the seat cushion. I felt very small.

  “Chuck’s uncle from Michigan—his mother’s brother—and his wife took Chuck home with them a couple of days after Mr. Stiller was arrested. Chuck’s going to live with them. I don’t know what’s going to happen to Stan Stiller, but frankly, I don’t care. My only concern was that Chuck would have a safe place to go. I met his uncle and aunt when they came to get his records. They’ll take good care of him.

  “I know you and Chuck didn’t get along, Kevin. You can’t be principal and not pick up on things like that. But I want to tell you that I’m proud of you for controlling your temper around him. I know at times that must have been a real challenge.”

  I couldn’t stop the hot tears—they spilled out automatically. It was so aggravating. I don’t think I ever cried as much as I did that year. I hated to cry, especially in front of other people. Mrs. Goldwyn scooted a chair beside me and rested her hand on my arm.

  “It’s OK, Kevin. I know it’s been tough.”

  “It’s not that,” I said, wiping my eyes with my fist. “It just was so horrible—his dad talking to him like that, beating him like that. I don’t understand it.”

  “I don’t understand it either. But I hate to think what might have happened if you hadn’t been there and hadn’t been willing to help him.”

  On the wall behind Mrs. Goldwyn’s desk was an old photo of a young Cletus McCulley in his military fatigues. I could see his straight, white teeth. It was a black-and-white photo, but you could tell by the gray shade of his eyes that in real life they were sky blue. I reached into my pocket and pulled out the purple worm.

  “Your grandpa liked to fish, didn’t he?”

  Mrs. Goldwyn seemed puzzled by the sudden shift in conversation. “After he retired, he and my grandmother fished almost every day,” she said. “He once said his goal was to fish every lake in Arkansas. But as he got older and Grandmother got sicker, he did well to fish here in Sherman County. Why?”

  “I wish I could have known him,” I said, and stuffed the worm back in my pocket. But even as the words came out, I realized they were wrong. I did know Cletus McCulley. I couldn’t explain how, but somewhere inside me I knew I did.

  I excused myself and went back to class.

  Chapter Twenty

  When Mom picked me up from school that afternoon, she had this big, weird, I’ve-got-a-secret grin.

  “How was school?” she asked.

  “OK.”

  She strummed her fingers on the steering wheel. “Weather’s supposed to be good this weekend. No rain, warm, plenty of sun.”

  “That’s nice.”

  “It would be a great weekend to do some stuff outdoors, wouldn’t it?” She was trying not to tell me something, but I hadn’t slept well since the episode with Stiller’s dad, and didn’t feel like getting excited over anything but a few hours of good sleep.

  When we got to the Paramount, Mom pulled the S-10 around back. A big yellow pickup truck—diesel, I could tell by the sound of the engine—was idling in the parking lot. Hitched to the truck was a bright red trailer, and on top of the trailer was a massive, mossy-green Bass-Catcher float boat.

  I jumped out of the S-10 and ran over to get a better look. The diesel truck was a fine piece of work, but the boat. . .

  Two padded seats, beverage holders at both ends, neat little compartments tucked around the edges to hold all kinds of gadgets—the boat was a dream. There were at least ten different fishing poles stashed in the bottom. And two tackle boxes. One was a beat-up old metal box; the other was shiny new plastic with clear amber sides.

  Mom grabbed my arm and pulled me toward the home. “You’ll have time to look at that later. You need to hurry.”

  We went in through the guest kitchen entrance and up the stairs to the apartment. I could hear Dad talking to someone.

  When we reached the top of the stairs, Mom shoved me through the door. “We’re back!” she shouted. “Sorry we took so long, Mr. Conrad. Traffic was a little heavy this afternoon. It always is on Fridays.”

  “Not to worry, Mrs. Kirk,” Herb Conrad said as he reached out to shake my hand. His eyes crinkled. “The fish won’t start bitin’ good ’til dusk anyway.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Halfway to Herb Conrad’s fishing cabin, we stopped at an old brick building that served as a combination roadside grocery store and bait shop. The dilapidated sign out front said Mom and Pop’s General Store, but the paint was so faded it was almost unreadable. Mr. Conrad gave me ten dollars and told me to go in and buy some snacks.

  “Spend the whole ten. And make sure you get me a Dr Pepper,” he said, shaking his finger. “I don’t drink nothin’ but Dr Pepper. Don’t try to fool me with none of that generic slop, either.”

  The sodas were in a big case that looked like a freezer. I lifted the lid and got out four bottles. I grabbed some packaged peanut butter crackers, beef jerky, peanuts, and some candy bars that were on sale three for a dollar. It all totaled to $9.02, so I threw in several pieces of nickel bubble gum to make up the difference.

  Then we were back on the road again. I couldn’t believe I was sitting in Herb Conrad’s truck, eating his peanut butter crackers, and going to his cabin for an overnight fishing trip. Just as amazing was the secret Mom told me while we packed.

  When Mr. Conrad said the fish wouldn’t start biting until dusk, Mom dragged me to my room. “Come on, Kevin! Do you want to go fishing or not?”

  “Well, yeah,” I answered. “I’m just surprised, I guess. What do I need to bring?”

  Mr. Conrad scratched his chin. “Old clothes, a change of underwear, a toothbrush. I’ve got the gear. Oh, and wear old shoes, not your good ones.”

  I ran to my room. Mom followed. I dug through my pile of grubby work clothes and found some old camouflage pants and T-shirts. Mom got the duffle bag from the closet and the shoes I mow the lawn in.

  “Do you know why Mr. Conrad is here?” Mom asked as we stuffed the clothes in the bag.

  “To take me fishing. I can’t wait.”

  Mom stopped and took my hands in hers. Her eyes were big with excitement. “Kevin, Mr. Conrad is here because your father called him. We’ve both been worried about you, being depressed and all that. He knew this was something you’d wanted to do for a long time.

  “I didn’t know I was that obvious.”

  Mom laughed, and pointed to the copy of A Beginner’s Guide to Fishing in Arkansas in the bag.

  “Don’t you see what this means, Kevin? Mr. Conrad is a member of the Church. Your father called him on his own, without prompting from me.”

  “So you think he’s having a change of heart about God and the Chur
ch?”

  Mom crossed her fingers and held them up under her chin. “Oh honey, I hope so. I’m praying for that now. You pray too, OK?” Then she put her hand on my cheek. “I love you, Kevin.”

  “I love you too, Mom.”

  “Well,” she said, “we’d better hurry.”

  I put Volume X, two mechanical pencils, and my binoculars into the bag and zipped it shut. Mom and I walked together to the bedroom door. But before I could open it, I had to tell her something too.

  “I’m sorry for the mean things I said to you about Kelsey, Mom.”

  She smiled.

  “And I’m proud of you,” I added.

  “Thank you, Kevin.” Her eyes glistened. “I’m proud of you, too.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Herb Conrad’s fishing cabin was really the walk-out basement of a house that sat on the bank of Morpheus Lake, about a ninety-minute drive from Armadillo. He had a permanent rental agreement with a wealthy businessman in Little Rock who vacationed on the top floor during the summer. “Nice extra income for me and the missus,” Mr. Conrad said.

  When we arrived, Mrs. Conrad was there. It took a full day of dusting, sweeping, mopping, fresh sheets on the beds, and a couple of cans of disinfectant spray to chase the musty smells of winter away, she said. She was a big-boned woman who would have been anyone’s first pick when choosing sides for a neighborhood football game. She had a pretty good grip, too. My hand tingled for several minutes after she shook it.

  Mrs. Conrad sent us off to the river with a Playmate cooler full of bacon sandwiches, potato salad in individual serving bowls, and two big hunks of homemade pecan pie wrapped in foil. Mr. Conrad and I didn’t catch any fish that night, but we sure ate good. And he taught me about the different kinds of rods, reels, and bait, plus some rules of basic boat safety.

  That night I had my own small room to sleep in. The room was an afterthought—plain, with nothing in it but a hide-a-bed and a floor lamp for light. Mr. Conrad and his wife slept in the one real bedroom. Both rooms opened up to the combination den and kitchen.

  It took me a long time to go to sleep that night. It was a little chilly, so I burrowed down under the clean sheets. Mr. and Mrs. Conrad snored really loud—so loud it sounded like he had backed his diesel truck up to my door and left it running.

  I fell asleep sometime, though, because Mr. Conrad banged on the door about 5 A.M. “Hop up, Kevin. Let’s go!”

  Normally, I would have dropped back on the pillow at that hour, but Mrs. Conrad was frying sausage, and the smell was fantastic. I jumped up and dressed quickly.

  Mr. Conrad sat in front of a big plate of sausage, eggs, and gravy. A ton of biscuits were piled up on a platter beside him. Mrs. Conrad bustled around the tiny kitchen, moving jars from the cabinets to the table.

  “Come on, Kevin. Your biscuits are getting cold.”

  My plate was piled up as high as Mr. Conrad’s. “This is a lot of food. I don’t think I can eat it all.”

  “You’d better eat it, Boy,” Mr. Conrad said. “Imogene ain’t no woman who can stand seeing good food go to waste. You can tell that by lookin’ at her.”

  “Herbert!” Mrs. Conrad’s laugh was loud and boisterous. “By the looks of that gut, you don’t waste much yourself. I fixed enough so you boys could take sausage biscuits to eat on the lake. So don’t feel bad, Kevin, if you can’t eat it all.”

  I was glad she said that, because by the time I finished eating I was afraid I’d sink the boat. But I figured if Mr. Conrad could eat two platefuls and not be worried, the boat must be pretty sturdy.

  We pushed off from the bank just as the sun filtered through the tops of the trees. For a long time, we just sat in the boat and floated with the current. We didn’t talk. It was nice just to be outside where everything was still and to feel the sun gradually warm my shirt.

  Finally, Mr. Conrad said, “Do you still have that bait I gave you?”

  I pulled it out of my right pocket. “I carry it with me every day.”

  I could tell that pleased him. He took it and rolled it between his fingers. “You left it in your pocket once, didn’t you?” he said. “And your mom accidentally washed and dried it.”

  “How’d you know?”

  “I do it all the time. Makes Imogene so mad. Especially when one falls out in the dryer and she reaches in for the clothes and there’s a squirmy feelin’ thing in there.” He chuckled. “That Imogene, she can be a real hellcat when she’s mad.”

  Mr. Conrad picked up his rod, checked the artificial bait on the end, and then cast it. The bait made a graceful arc across the bright spring sky, then dropped down until it disappeared beneath the water’s surface. The water rolled in quiet, glassy ripples from one side of the lake to the other. The air smelled like the blue-green algae that separated the water from the shore.

  Mr. Conrad offered me a can of soda. I took a Dr Pepper, since that’s all there was in the cooler. I popped the top and fizz sprayed my face, making me flinch. Mr. Conrad laughed. I stuck my tongue out and licked off some of the spray. It was sticky and cold, but tasty on what was becoming a hot day. I wiped the rest of it off with the back of my hand.

  Mr. Conrad fingered through the pile of rods at the bottom of the boat. He picked out a black graphite beauty and handed it to me. It looked new compared to the rest of the bunch.

  “This is for you, Kevin,” he said. “To keep.”

  “But I—”

  “Now listen. Boy. No arguments. The misus and I got this for you, and the tackle box, too.” He nodded to the plastic one with the clear amber lid. “Think of it as my way of thankin’ your father for doin’ Cletus right at his funeral. Your father’s a good man. I hope he comes back to church someday.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Conrad,” I said quietly. How did he know about Dad? Then I thought maybe he’d believe me if I told him about Cletus McCulley. For a second, I wanted to. But I chickened out.

  “Now what should we bait Kevin’s hook with?” Mr. Conrad rummaged around in my new tackle box. “This spinner looks good. Perfect for catching largemouth bass.”

  “You mean Micropterus salmoides. That’s the scientific name.”

  Mr. Conrad snorted. “If you’re so good at readin’ about fish, then show me how good you are at catchin’ ’em.”

  And all at once the dream came back to me. The dream I’d had about fishing with Cletus McCulley. The dream that didn’t seem like a dream at all. This lake, Morpheus Lake, was the same as the lake in my dream. The boat was the same, the rod and reel, the tackle box, the fizzy soda, the heat of the sun, and the smell of the algae.

  “Mr. Conrad,” I asked, my heart racing, “do you miss fishing with Cletus?”

  He never looked up from tying the spinner. “Every day, Kevin. Every single day of my life. Cletus lived as Christlike a life as anybody on earth could. That man was like a brother to me.”

  The question just blurted out of my mouth. But I had to know. If anyone knew, it had to be Cletus McCulley’s best fishing buddy. “Can a dead man go fishing?”

  Mr. Conrad finished tying the spinner, then looked at me with a grandfather-knows-best kind of smile.

  “I believe he can, Kevin,” he said. His eyes searched deep within mine, as if he had just found a kindred spirit. “After all, there’s more to life than what we see.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  I was glad when the last bell rang on the last day of school—and the last day of seventh grade at Armadillo Middle. But I still had to go back one more time, for Awards Night. I wore my skunk tie, since it was Dani’s favorite. She looked pretty in her black-and-white-striped dress with the yellow sweater. A few of the teachers asked us if we dressed that way on purpose, because we looked like a matched set. Dani blushed and said that it wasn’t unusual for best friends to dress alike.

  The faculty gave out several awards, probably because they didn’t want anyone to feel left out. Dani got a U.S. History award, a writing award, a citizenship medal, and a
certificate for perfect attendance. I got an award for having the highest grade point average in the seventh grade, which I hadn’t expected at all. Mom, Dad, Marcy, and Marshall were my cheering section. When I went up on stage they hollered and Marshall whistled really loud. I should have been embarrassed, but I liked it.

  When we got home that night, Marcy had a surprise for me in the guest kitchen. She opened the freezer and pulled out a big ice cream cake. She apologized for the decoration—an ugly mallard duck done in brown and green gel. The only other cake at the Dairy Queen big enough had Cinderella on it. I told her the duck was fine, since all that mattered to me was whether or not the cake tasted good. But I did think the writing on the cake was strange:

  CONGRATULATIONS UNCLE KEVIN

  “Oh, Marcy,” Mom slapped her hands over her mouth. She grabbed Marcy’s arms. “Are you—”

  Marcy grinned. Then she and Mom hopped up and down. All Mom could say was, “Oh, Marcy! Oh, Marcy!”

  Dad slapped Marshall on the back. “Good job, Marshall! We’re all so happy for you!”

  Happy for what? I looked at the cake again. CONGRATULATIONS UNCLE KEVIN. The only thing strange was the uncle part. Why would Marcy do that?

  In the instant I thought the question, I knew the answer. Mom and Marcy were still bouncing, so I grabbed Marcy’s arm to make her stop. “Marcy, are you gonna have a baby?” Marcy laughed and wrapped her arms around me. “Uncle Kevin, I thought you’d be the first one to figure it out!”

  We sat down to eat the cake before it melted. Dad said I should get the first piece, so I had him cut the chunk off the side that said UNCLE KEVIN. We stayed up late that night in the guest kitchen, eating cake and making plans for the new baby. By the time we went upstairs to bed and Marcy and Marshall went back to their apartment, it was after midnight.

  Before I opened my eyes the next day, I could tell by the heat of the sun on my face that it was after eight. I got up and ate a bowl of cereal and drank a glass of juice. Mom and Dad were still asleep, so I dressed, put the worm in my pocket, and left a note for them on the table: