such a place? He straightened, feeling panicky. His mother chose that moment to come over and smooth his hair down. “My,” she told him, smiling, “you’re getting so big! I can’t believe it.”
He shrank back in his seat.
“You’re getting big enough for me to start relying on,” she said.
“I’m only fourteen,” Cody told her.
He slipped off the chair and left the room. The bathroom door was closed; he heard the shower running and Ezra singing “Greensleeves.” He opened the door just a crack, snaked one arm in, and turned on the hot water in the sink.
Then he traveled through the rest of the house, from kitchen to downstairs bathroom to basement, methodical y opening every hot water faucet to its ful est. But you couldn’t real y say his heart was in it.
“Tul ?” the man asked.
“Yes.”
“Is this the Tul residence?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Darryl Peters,” the man said, showing a business card.
Cody took a swig of beer and accepted the card. While he was reading it, he sloshed the beer bottle absently to get a good head of suds. He was wearing dungarees and nothing else; it was a blistering day in August. The house, however, was fairly cool—the living room dim, the paper shades pul ed al the way down and glowing yel ow with the afternoon sun. Mr. Peters looked in wistful y, but remained on the porch with his hat in his hand. He was way overdressed, for August.
“So,” said Cody. He nudged the screen door open with his bare foot. Mr. Peters caught hold of it and stepped inside.
“Would your mother be in?” he asked.
“She’s taken a job.”
“Wel , then, your… is Ezra Tul your father?”
“He’s my brother.”
“Brother. Ah.”
“He’s in.”
“Wel , then,” Mr. Peters said.
“I’l go get him.”
Cody went upstairs and into Jenny’s room.
Jenny and Ezra were playing checkers on the floor.
Ezra, wearing shorts and a sleeveless undershirt ful of holes, stroked his cat, Alicia, and frowned at the board.
“Someone to see you,” Cody told him.
Ezra looked up. “Who is it?” he asked.
Cody shrugged.
Ezra rose, stil hugging the cat. Cody went with him as far as the stairs. He stopped there and leaned over the banister to eavesdrop, grinning. Ezra arrived in the living room. “You want me?” Cody heard him ask.
“Ezra Tul ?” said Mr. Peters.
“Yes.”
“Wel , ah… maybe there’s been a mistake.”
“What kind of mistake?”
“I’m from Peaceful Hil s Memorial Gardens,” Mr. Peters said. “I thought you wished to purchase a resting place.”
“Resting place?”
“I thought you fil ed out this mail-in coupon: Ezra Tul , your signature. Yes, I would like an eternal home for myself and/8or my loved ones.
I understand that a sales representative wil cal .”
“It wasn’t me,” said Ezra.
“You didn’t fil this out. You’re not interested in a plot.”
“No, thank you.”
“I should have known,” said Mr. Peters.
“I’m sorry,” Ezra told him.
“Never mind, I can see it’s not your doing.”
“Maybe when I’m older, or something…”
“That’s al right, son. Never mind.”
Cody climbed to the stuffy, hot third floor, where Lorena Schmidt sat on his bed with her back against the wal . She was new to the neighborhood— a tawny girl with long black hair, one lock of which she was twining around a finger.
“Who was that?” she asked Cody.
“A cemetery salesman.”
“Ugh.”
“He came to see Ezra.”
“Who’s Ezra?”
“My brother Ezra, dummy.”
“Wel ? How should I know?” Lorena said. “You mean that brother downstairs? Blondish kid, good-looking?”
“Good-looking! Ezra?”
“I liked his kind of serious face,” Lorena said. “And those pale gray eyes.”
“My eyes are gray.”
“Wel . Anyhow,” Lorena said.
“Besides,” said Cody, “he gets fits.”
“He does?”
“He’l fool you. He’l look as normal as anyone else and then al of a sudden, splat!
He’s flat on the
He shrank back in his seat.
“You’re getting big enough for me to start relying on,” she said.
“I’m only fourteen,” Cody told her.
He slipped off the chair and left the room. The bathroom door was closed; he heard the shower running and Ezra singing “Greensleeves.” He opened the door just a crack, snaked one arm in, and turned on the hot water in the sink.
Then he traveled through the rest of the house, from kitchen to downstairs bathroom to basement, methodical y opening every hot water faucet to its ful est. But you couldn’t real y say his heart was in it.
“Tul ?” the man asked.
“Yes.”
“Is this the Tul residence?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Darryl Peters,” the man said, showing a business card.
Cody took a swig of beer and accepted the card. While he was reading it, he sloshed the beer bottle absently to get a good head of suds. He was wearing dungarees and nothing else; it was a blistering day in August. The house, however, was fairly cool—the living room dim, the paper shades pul ed al the way down and glowing yel ow with the afternoon sun. Mr. Peters looked in wistful y, but remained on the porch with his hat in his hand. He was way overdressed, for August.
“So,” said Cody. He nudged the screen door open with his bare foot. Mr. Peters caught hold of it and stepped inside.
“Would your mother be in?” he asked.
“She’s taken a job.”
“Wel , then, your… is Ezra Tul your father?”
“He’s my brother.”
“Brother. Ah.”
“He’s in.”
“Wel , then,” Mr. Peters said.
“I’l go get him.”
Cody went upstairs and into Jenny’s room.
Jenny and Ezra were playing checkers on the floor.
Ezra, wearing shorts and a sleeveless undershirt ful of holes, stroked his cat, Alicia, and frowned at the board.
“Someone to see you,” Cody told him.
Ezra looked up. “Who is it?” he asked.
Cody shrugged.
Ezra rose, stil hugging the cat. Cody went with him as far as the stairs. He stopped there and leaned over the banister to eavesdrop, grinning. Ezra arrived in the living room. “You want me?” Cody heard him ask.
“Ezra Tul ?” said Mr. Peters.
“Yes.”
“Wel , ah… maybe there’s been a mistake.”
“What kind of mistake?”
“I’m from Peaceful Hil s Memorial Gardens,” Mr. Peters said. “I thought you wished to purchase a resting place.”
“Resting place?”
“I thought you fil ed out this mail-in coupon: Ezra Tul , your signature. Yes, I would like an eternal home for myself and/8or my loved ones.
I understand that a sales representative wil cal .”
“It wasn’t me,” said Ezra.
“You didn’t fil this out. You’re not interested in a plot.”
“No, thank you.”
“I should have known,” said Mr. Peters.
“I’m sorry,” Ezra told him.
“Never mind, I can see it’s not your doing.”
“Maybe when I’m older, or something…”
“That’s al right, son. Never mind.”
Cody climbed to the stuffy, hot third floor, where Lorena Schmidt sat on his bed with her back against the wal . She was new to the neighborhood— a tawny girl with long black hair, one lock of which she was twining around a finger.
“Who was that?” she asked Cody.
“A cemetery salesman.”
“Ugh.”
“He came to see Ezra.”
“Who’s Ezra?”
“My brother Ezra, dummy.”
“Wel ? How should I know?” Lorena said. “You mean that brother downstairs? Blondish kid, good-looking?”
“Good-looking! Ezra?”
“I liked his kind of serious face,” Lorena said. “And those pale gray eyes.”
“My eyes are gray.”
“Wel . Anyhow,” Lorena said.
“Besides,” said Cody, “he gets fits.”
“He does?”
“He’l fool you. He’l look as normal as anyone else and then al of a sudden, splat!
He’s flat on the
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