A Death in the Family by George Seaton

Author:George Seaton [Seaton, George]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Mystery
Publisher: Untreed Reads Publishing
Published: 2012-01-15T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Two

Hiram Clark, baby brother to Maybelle, had, before the sun had risen, already stuffed his reusable canvas bags with the cream of his fall harvest—endive, broccoli, cabbage, brussels sprouts, zucchini, onions and cauliflower—for transport to Maybelle’s and Lowell’s house. His first cousins, having witnessed the sorry fate of the beloved Herman Clark, would appreciate the vegetables, while his second cousins wouldn’t. His second cousins, most of whom hadn’t been present to see the dramatic fall of Herman Clark, had shared lineage tinged by a detour along the familial line by an Arkansawyer Clark named Murlan. Seems Murlan had found the bloodied face of Jesus—the crown of thorns quite evident—beaming back at him from a thick cut of prime rib he’d been served but didn’t eat while visiting his own shady-side kin in Idabel, Oklahoma. He’d rushed back to Arkansas where he framed the bloody slab against black felt, and hung it upon the parlor wall where it was viewed by the congregation of the Izzard County First Heavenly Baptist Church, and was duly blessed by Pastor Bob as evidence that the Living God lived in meat. “Maybe died there, too,” Pastor Bob thought, pulling Murlan aside: “That’s beginnin’ to stink. Best you bury it in an unmarked grave, lest the God-fearin’ go lookin’ for a relic.” Pastor Bob then summed up the day’s revelation: “The Good Lord works in mysterious ways!” to which Amens were generously offered.

*

Hiram had gunned his pickup onto I25, placed his right hand over his left breast where he’d pocketed what he would later need to make all right with the world, and put God back in His heaven once Maybelle had been sent to her reward. He thought a moment about that word “reward,” and realized he’d misthought, and the word should have been “condemnation.” “Burn in hell, you pony-ridin’, lard-laden, meat-eatin’ Daughter of Bilitis!” He didn’t exactly know who Bilitis was, or if he’d or she’d had any daughters, but he’d heard the phrase spoken somewhere and knew, just knew it wasn’t anything good.

* * *

“Call it by any other name,” Hiram Clark paused in his conversation with Lowell, pulled a Bud from Lowell’s garage fridge, took a sip, turned back to Lowell only to see Lowell waiting like a mantis to finish his thought. “Cow shit is still cow shit,” Lowell bellowed with laughter, snorted beer froth from his nose.

“Well, duh,” Irene Merriweather said, turning from Hiram and Lowell, and stepping through the garage door to Maybelle’s kitchen. Maybelle was bent over, backside to Irene, pulling vegetables from a gunnysack and putting them on the counter. “Hi, Maybelle,” she said, so wanting to get the deed over and done with right here and now. Saw the good sense in waiting. She had her plan and she’d stick to it.

Maybelle raised up, turned, and—though nobody else on the face of the earth had such a, oh, squinny voice (if she was writing it, she thought, she’d put the word in italics)—she blinked her eyes in affected surprise, said, “Well, Irene.

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