Sweet As Cane, Salty As Tears by Ken Wheaton

Author:Ken Wheaton
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Published: 2014-06-22T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER NINE

The parking lot of the funeral home is three-quarters full when I pull into Ville Platte at 9:45 on Sunday morning. I steer the Prius between the mountain range of SUVs and minivans to a spot in the row farthest from the front doors, the one facing the road. Across the highway sits a field chock-full of rust-colored cows penned in by three strands of barbed wire.

Mirror check. Eyelids a little heavy still from the Ambien sleep, but otherwise not overly swollen or puffy from yesterday’s crying. I expect that will change today. The hair is my hair, less something to be styled or controlled than managed—and just barely. The wrinkles I can’t do much about. Mood-wise, I’m as good as I’m going to get, which isn’t bad considering I’m pill free.

Cars whiz by, heading to church or Walmart. Not that there’s much of a difference.

I’m quite pleased with the observation. Maybe I can share it on Twitter or Facebook.

Phone check.

“Oh dear God.” I say this out loud. A prayer. A lamentation.

No bars. Not one. And the battery has already lost a quarter of its juice, meaning the phone’s been overexerting itself in a valiant attempt to acquire a signal. My hand goes to my mouth. This is what I get for trying to save a few bucks a month by going with a third-rate carrier. Sure, it has excellent coverage in New York, other major cities. How would I know it wouldn’t work out here? Maybe none of the carriers do.

As if in answer, a shaggy-bearded man, wearing torn jeans and layers of clothes, walks by on the shoulder on the highway, talking on a cell phone. He’s carrying a cardboard sign that reads, “Vietnam vet. Will work for food.” Has he wandered into the wrong decade?

“I’m gone out to the red light by the Walmart,” he’s saying. “Yeah. Okay, Mama. I’ll be careful.” Pause. “Yeah, I’ll pick up some milk after I’m done. Yeah, and a box of wine. Okay, Mama. You want the purple or the pink?”

I look back at my phone. “Seriously?” I ask, but the bars don’t light up in response. I’ve half a mind to throw it down onto the pavement and stomp it to death, but that would be like cutting off my arm. With it dead, I already feel I’ve lost a limb.

After a few deep breaths, I exit the car. Stay out here much longer and I’ll hyperventilate myself right into a hissy fit. Just get on with it and hope for the best. All these cars. And kids everywhere. Already bored, they’re weaving between the vehicles, playing in the parking lot unattended. What would the Brooklyn Mommies say about that?

This must be a double-parlor funeral home, like those wedding factories with movable walls and multiple dance floors. Except with death. Twice the mourning at half the price.

Worse comes to worse, I can seek refuge with the other family.

A voice shouts out. “Mais, look what the cat dragged in. What you so dressed up for?”

Kurt Junior.

Download

Copyright Disclaimer:
This site does not store any files on its server. We only index and link to content provided by other sites. Please contact the content providers to delete copyright contents if any and email us, we'll remove relevant links or contents immediately.