over my shoulder and threw her a high pop-up. “Dad is making a landing strip for his new plane and he wants me to help him build a bomb shelter.”
She caught the ball, then looked at me like I had lost my mind. “A bomb shelter?”
“Yeah,” I said.
“A landing strip?” she asked.
“You heard me,” I said.
“So what is he going to do—dive-bomb your own bomb shelter?” she asked. “That sounds nuts.”
It did. I walked over to the dugout to get a drink.
“Get me some water,” she called, and threw the ball to another player.
I poured two cups and carried them back over to the diamond. I gave her one.
“Thanks, pal,” she said. “And by the way, I read the Slater obituary in the paper the other day. Dad and I thought you and Miss Volker did an outstanding job.”
“How’d you know I helped Miss Volker?” I asked.
“Small town,” she said as if “small town” was the answer to every question in Norvelt.
“And because I know you like Mrs. Slater so much I got you a present from her,” she said with a sick grin on her face. She dug into her pocket and tugged at something awkwardly shaped. I reached forward and she placed Mrs. Slater’s dentures in my hand.
“Here is something you didn’t know,” she said quickly before I could get a word out of my mouth. I kept staring at those coffee-stained teeth. “When the volunteer firemen found her collapsed by the beehive she was still alive, and she had her dentures in her hand and was tapping out an SOS message in Morse code— ‘Help me! Help me!’ she spelled over and over, and then she died.”
Bunny had to be lying. But if she wasn’t I wished we had used that detail for the obituary. “But didn’t your dad bury Mrs. Slater with her dentures in her mouth?” I asked.
“You don’t know anything about preparing dead people for a viewing,” she bragged. “If you’ll notice, the stiffs are always displayed with their mouths closed because my dad has to sew their mouths shut. If they don’t have real teeth you just sew their gums together which is actually easier, so we keep the dentures. Dad saves them because when he gets a boxful he donates them to the retirement home and some of those old people reuse them.”
“You really have to sew the mouth shut?” I asked. That stunned me. It seemed so brutal.
“With an upholstery needle and twine,” she added, knowing she was making me nervous. “It’s like sewing up a turkey after you stuff it, is how my dad puts it.”
I felt my blood surge like a tidal wave toward my face.
“Are you always like this?” she asked, and pointed her stubby hand at my nose.
“Yes,” I croaked, and wiped away a few drops of blood.
“You should see a doctor,” she advised.
“It’s nothing,” I said. “I have a very sensitive nose. Anything makes it bleed.”
At that moment I spotted my mother on her bicycle heading in my direction. She must have kicked in the garage door and seen I had escaped out the back, and now it looked like she was coming to scalp me because she had a long wooden cooking spoon clutched in one hand. Suddenly the water in my cup was pink with blood.
I knew I had done something terribly wrong and that I should wait for her to arrive and punish me. She got closer and closer, and as I lifted my shirttail to wipe my nose I knew I was grounded for life before she wheeled into the parking lot.
When Bunny saw the stream of blood running down over my lips and dripping off my chin she nervously pounded her fist in her glove. “What’s up?” she asked. “Why are you standing around like vampire bait?”
“I’m dead meat,” I replied.
“Then I better call my dad,” she said.
“Have him bring a coffin,” I suggested. “A small one because when my mom finishes with me I’ll be chopped into little pieces.”
I might have been joking around but Mom wasn’t. She rode the bike up to the backstop fence behind home plate and jumped off. She was close enough for me
She caught the ball, then looked at me like I had lost my mind. “A bomb shelter?”
“Yeah,” I said.
“A landing strip?” she asked.
“You heard me,” I said.
“So what is he going to do—dive-bomb your own bomb shelter?” she asked. “That sounds nuts.”
It did. I walked over to the dugout to get a drink.
“Get me some water,” she called, and threw the ball to another player.
I poured two cups and carried them back over to the diamond. I gave her one.
“Thanks, pal,” she said. “And by the way, I read the Slater obituary in the paper the other day. Dad and I thought you and Miss Volker did an outstanding job.”
“How’d you know I helped Miss Volker?” I asked.
“Small town,” she said as if “small town” was the answer to every question in Norvelt.
“And because I know you like Mrs. Slater so much I got you a present from her,” she said with a sick grin on her face. She dug into her pocket and tugged at something awkwardly shaped. I reached forward and she placed Mrs. Slater’s dentures in my hand.
“Here is something you didn’t know,” she said quickly before I could get a word out of my mouth. I kept staring at those coffee-stained teeth. “When the volunteer firemen found her collapsed by the beehive she was still alive, and she had her dentures in her hand and was tapping out an SOS message in Morse code— ‘Help me! Help me!’ she spelled over and over, and then she died.”
Bunny had to be lying. But if she wasn’t I wished we had used that detail for the obituary. “But didn’t your dad bury Mrs. Slater with her dentures in her mouth?” I asked.
“You don’t know anything about preparing dead people for a viewing,” she bragged. “If you’ll notice, the stiffs are always displayed with their mouths closed because my dad has to sew their mouths shut. If they don’t have real teeth you just sew their gums together which is actually easier, so we keep the dentures. Dad saves them because when he gets a boxful he donates them to the retirement home and some of those old people reuse them.”
“You really have to sew the mouth shut?” I asked. That stunned me. It seemed so brutal.
“With an upholstery needle and twine,” she added, knowing she was making me nervous. “It’s like sewing up a turkey after you stuff it, is how my dad puts it.”
I felt my blood surge like a tidal wave toward my face.
“Are you always like this?” she asked, and pointed her stubby hand at my nose.
“Yes,” I croaked, and wiped away a few drops of blood.
“You should see a doctor,” she advised.
“It’s nothing,” I said. “I have a very sensitive nose. Anything makes it bleed.”
At that moment I spotted my mother on her bicycle heading in my direction. She must have kicked in the garage door and seen I had escaped out the back, and now it looked like she was coming to scalp me because she had a long wooden cooking spoon clutched in one hand. Suddenly the water in my cup was pink with blood.
I knew I had done something terribly wrong and that I should wait for her to arrive and punish me. She got closer and closer, and as I lifted my shirttail to wipe my nose I knew I was grounded for life before she wheeled into the parking lot.
When Bunny saw the stream of blood running down over my lips and dripping off my chin she nervously pounded her fist in her glove. “What’s up?” she asked. “Why are you standing around like vampire bait?”
“I’m dead meat,” I replied.
“Then I better call my dad,” she said.
“Have him bring a coffin,” I suggested. “A small one because when my mom finishes with me I’ll be chopped into little pieces.”
I might have been joking around but Mom wasn’t. She rode the bike up to the backstop fence behind home plate and jumped off. She was close enough for me
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