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Pif Magazine
Pif Magazine |
Last Rights : Page 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6 The next few weeks were happy ones. Gene worked hard at cleaning out the basement and organizing our parents’ things in the attic. Dale Veeth replaced the rotting floor boards on the side porch and stole our mother’s jewelry. "If he didn’t need it, he wouldn’t have taken it," Gene made me repeat with him over and over. But sometime in late August, Gene came across Tim’s death certificate which I’d haphazardly shoved into a shoe box many years before. Then he found the clippings and printouts Hammy’d made at the library and got the book bug back. "Independence Day, 1961," Gene began. "‘Tim locked Kathy Prig and me in a wicker trunk and said he wouldn’t let us out until we agreed to blow on his sparkler.’ Could you explain?" "I thought I’d make a grilled skirt steak," I said. "With a coriander garlic sauce and a side of herbed tomato chutney..." "November 7, 1964... ‘Fortunately, we had Indian Summer while I was tied to the old Maple behind the Neilsons' garage.’ Where was I during all this?" "For dessert, fresh plum parfaits sprinkled with Amaretti crumbs and Ruby Port..." "New Years Day, 1966..." "And for starters, a nice cold vichyssoise." To hell with my dentures. I call the hotel from the car and ask the concierge to have a warm slice of their scrumptious blueberry pie waiting in my room s'il vous plait. "Thirty Rock," I tell my driver. "Wait, Harvey. Pull over." "You sure, Ms. Humford?" "Of course I’m sure. They’re children." I press down the window switch. "Ms. Humford?" A small towheaded boy tiptoes up to the car with a much larger boy. "Will you sign our book?" "Certainly, boys." "I’m Edward and he’s Petey. He’s shy. Our brother Gary killed a nun." "Oh, for heaven’s sake. Petey," I say. "I’m willing to bet 15% of my royalties you’ve got a set of dimples a fairy princess could eat custard out of." This gets to him. He tries to fight it but breaks out in a wide grin exposing the dimples I predicted. "Could you do that thing you did on that TV show?" Petey asks in a voice that's tiny for a boy his size. "From Planet of the Apes?" "Oh, all right. But then we’ve got to dash." I take out my teeth and crane my neck towards the roof of the car. "Cornelius!" The boys laugh so hard they fall down on the sidewalk, their book on the ground, back cover up with a picture of me!, spittle airbrushed, false teeth twinkling through a star filter, hair like Kathleen Turner. Tell us what you think. Email talkback@pifmagazine.com Julia Slavin is the author of The Woman Who Cut Off Her Leg At the Maidstone Club and Other Stories.
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