this place, he thought. She’d have felt at home.
An oil painting was half hidden behind a sewing machine, and though it was dusty, the colours glowed. Crimson bloomed out of darkness, soft and thick as algae on the surface of the canvas. Near the bottom of the painting was a soft, subtle strip of golden red that became, at the lower edge, the golden yellow of autumn trees. There were small black lines in the corner that resembled a signature. “Imgit,” it seemed to say. Damian bent down to look at the oil painting, pulling it out so he could see it.
Roger lets me stay here all summer if I want, said Elvis. He says I can be in charge of things. I have a bathroom too. I’ve got a shower curtain with a picture of Elvis Presley on it. And I’ve got this Winchester 30.30. It was my mother’s, but Roger said I could take care of it because my mother went to California. She took his motorcycle. He misses it because it was a vintage Harley-Davidson and you can’t buy them cheap. He misses that Harley-Davidson, even if he can’t ride it. But I have the Winchester 30.30. My mother went to California. She went all the way to the Baja Peninsula in Mexico, which is about as far away as you can get, Roger said. Now she lives in San Diego.
Elvis went around a bookshelf and Damian followed, watching as Elvis knelt down and shoved the gun under a futon on a frame. The duvet was covered with yellow happy faces, and imprinted on the pillow was Shania Twain, smiling broadly.
That Winchester Trapper Carbine, it can shoot two thousand feet per second, Elvis said, getting up.
Bouuff
. Like that. Bruce said he saw pictures of a bullet going through a pineapple. He said it looked like a head being blown apart. Bits going every which way.
Elvis stood with his head cocked thoughtfully to one side.
Who’s Bruce? asked Damian.
He’s at the workshop.
That’s where you work?
Bruce says he gets paid the big bucks so he can call himself the Big Cheese.
That must make you the mouse.
The mouse, laughed Elvis. The
mouse
.
He laughed until he grasped his crotch. I have to go, he said.
That’s okay – you go.
Elvis vanished into the bathroom, closed the door and locked it. When he came out, he stood looking at Damian, who had flopped down on the bed.
I don’t want to go to a nursing home with Roger, said Elvis.
I don’t think he really meant –
You never come out. I don’t want to go there.
You could come out.
You go in a nursing home and you never come out. That’s what happened to Bruce’s grandmother. She went ina nursing home and she never came out. She died in her bed, Bruce told me. Right in her bed.
Lisa shouldn’t have been in a coffin that looked like a bed, thought Damian. The casket that his parents had rented for the visitation and funeral service was made of poplar, and it opened like a Dutch door so they could only see the upper half of her body. The casket had a honey-coloured sheen. It had a crepe interior and a large white pillow, edged with lace. It didn’t matter that they were not putting it in the ground, it still cost a fortune, not to mention the cost of the urns that would hold ashes after the cremation, and a keepsake box.
People could kneel by the casket, if they wished, and offer up a prayer. Or they could stand in silence, thinking about how tragic it was –
How are you doing? Ingrid murmured to Damian.
All right.
The open casket bothered him; he couldn’t look at it.
The first group of people was clustered tentatively around the guest book at the threshold. Ingrid drew herself up. So did Greg. Damian, between them, tried to do the same. He knew his mother wanted them to do everything well for Lisa’s sake.
Ingrid put her hand gently against Damian’s back.
Then it began. Here was Mrs. Sullivan, who had arranged for Lisa’s summer job as a cashier at the grocery store. And girls from high school: Breanna, and someone whose name Damian forgot, though it ended with “issy” or
An oil painting was half hidden behind a sewing machine, and though it was dusty, the colours glowed. Crimson bloomed out of darkness, soft and thick as algae on the surface of the canvas. Near the bottom of the painting was a soft, subtle strip of golden red that became, at the lower edge, the golden yellow of autumn trees. There were small black lines in the corner that resembled a signature. “Imgit,” it seemed to say. Damian bent down to look at the oil painting, pulling it out so he could see it.
Roger lets me stay here all summer if I want, said Elvis. He says I can be in charge of things. I have a bathroom too. I’ve got a shower curtain with a picture of Elvis Presley on it. And I’ve got this Winchester 30.30. It was my mother’s, but Roger said I could take care of it because my mother went to California. She took his motorcycle. He misses it because it was a vintage Harley-Davidson and you can’t buy them cheap. He misses that Harley-Davidson, even if he can’t ride it. But I have the Winchester 30.30. My mother went to California. She went all the way to the Baja Peninsula in Mexico, which is about as far away as you can get, Roger said. Now she lives in San Diego.
Elvis went around a bookshelf and Damian followed, watching as Elvis knelt down and shoved the gun under a futon on a frame. The duvet was covered with yellow happy faces, and imprinted on the pillow was Shania Twain, smiling broadly.
That Winchester Trapper Carbine, it can shoot two thousand feet per second, Elvis said, getting up.
Bouuff
. Like that. Bruce said he saw pictures of a bullet going through a pineapple. He said it looked like a head being blown apart. Bits going every which way.
Elvis stood with his head cocked thoughtfully to one side.
Who’s Bruce? asked Damian.
He’s at the workshop.
That’s where you work?
Bruce says he gets paid the big bucks so he can call himself the Big Cheese.
That must make you the mouse.
The mouse, laughed Elvis. The
mouse
.
He laughed until he grasped his crotch. I have to go, he said.
That’s okay – you go.
Elvis vanished into the bathroom, closed the door and locked it. When he came out, he stood looking at Damian, who had flopped down on the bed.
I don’t want to go to a nursing home with Roger, said Elvis.
I don’t think he really meant –
You never come out. I don’t want to go there.
You could come out.
You go in a nursing home and you never come out. That’s what happened to Bruce’s grandmother. She went ina nursing home and she never came out. She died in her bed, Bruce told me. Right in her bed.
Lisa shouldn’t have been in a coffin that looked like a bed, thought Damian. The casket that his parents had rented for the visitation and funeral service was made of poplar, and it opened like a Dutch door so they could only see the upper half of her body. The casket had a honey-coloured sheen. It had a crepe interior and a large white pillow, edged with lace. It didn’t matter that they were not putting it in the ground, it still cost a fortune, not to mention the cost of the urns that would hold ashes after the cremation, and a keepsake box.
People could kneel by the casket, if they wished, and offer up a prayer. Or they could stand in silence, thinking about how tragic it was –
How are you doing? Ingrid murmured to Damian.
All right.
The open casket bothered him; he couldn’t look at it.
The first group of people was clustered tentatively around the guest book at the threshold. Ingrid drew herself up. So did Greg. Damian, between them, tried to do the same. He knew his mother wanted them to do everything well for Lisa’s sake.
Ingrid put her hand gently against Damian’s back.
Then it began. Here was Mrs. Sullivan, who had arranged for Lisa’s summer job as a cashier at the grocery store. And girls from high school: Breanna, and someone whose name Damian forgot, though it ended with “issy” or
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