appreciate the opportunity to sound like I know what I’m talking about.” He cleared his throat.
Pulled up his baggy trousers. The spotlight was his. “Technically, he died from exhaustion.”
“Exhaustion? You’re kidding. I thought you said he was poisoned.”
“He was. Strychnine has that effect. You know all those convulsions he had?”
“God, they were terrible.”
“They literally wore him out. Yes, he was poisoned, and that asphyxiated him. But the convulsions were so severe he also had a
heart attack brought on by sheer exhaustion.”
“God, what a terrible way to go.”
“Been better poetic justice if one of his vipers got him. But the vipers wouldn’t have done half the damage the poison did.”
“But doesn’t poison like that taste terrible?”
“Yeah, but the way he worked himself up during those ceremonies … He might have swallowed it and not realized it. He wouldn’t have had to drink a whole hell of a lot of it. Cliffie talked to one of the churchgoers who said Muldaur was always guzzling Pepsi. Somebody coulda put it in that.”
“I need to talk to his wife.”
“Cliffie said she wasn’t any help.”
“Yeah, she probably didn’t respond
well to when Cliffie clubbed her.”
Doc grinned. “I shouldn’t put up with you making fun of my beloved cousin that way. Without him I wouldn’t be medical examiner of this here county. And I wouldn’t be permitted to wear my stethoscope in public, either.”
“Now, that would be a shame. You look very good strutting down the street in your stethoscope.”
He giggled. “That’s what the ladies tell me, counselor.”
“Exhaustion, huh,” I said, thinking about everything he’d told me. Then an image of Muldaur convulsing came to me. Seeing something like that diminished our entire species. I’d always known we were vulnerable. I just didn’t like to be reminded of it in such a grotesque fashion.
Five
I guess I should explain about our dunking.
It’s one of our darkest family secrets.
Everybody in my family dunks. We dunk doughnuts, we dunk coffee cake, we dunk sandwiches, my kid sister, at least before she moved to Chicago, dunked her French fries in her Pepsi. In moments of great excitement I’ve been known to dunk a slice of pizza in my glass of beer. Maybe it’s genetic. You don’t want to know about family reunions, believe me. The inclination to dunk affects multiple generations. Eighty, ninety McCains planted at various picnic tables in a public park. Dunking. All at the same time.
Anyway, after visiting Doc, I
stopped over to ask my dad about a guy who used to work at the plant and then all of a sudden there were three of us at the kitchen table, dunking long johns in our coffee.
My dad’s three biggest dreams had come true. He produced a kid who became a professional man, he bought a house, and he paid saved-up cash for a 1958 Plymouth that has the fin-length of a shark.
My mom’s three biggest dreams have come true, too. My dad returned safely from the war, her sister survived breast cancer, and she finally got the Westinghouse washer-dryer combination she’s always wanted, thanks to the way Betty Furness hawks them on Tv.
My dad was mid-dunk when I said, “So did Walter ever tell you why he dropped out of Muldaur’s church?”
“He sure did.”
“How come?”
He held up his finger, meaning please let him finish swallowing. He’s a little guy, which is where I get it, and when Mom’s in high heels they look sort of funny together, not mother-son but more like big sister-ll brother, but when they get out on the dance floor to Benny Goodman, their musical tastes having ossified around 1946, they are dazzling, gray hair, girdle, shoe lifts, bald head, and all.
“Muldaur tried to get frisky with his wife.”
“What? You’re kidding.”
“Oh, no,” Mom said. “One of the women at the beauty parlor said that the same thing happened to her daughter-in-law. Apparently, he was a frisky
Pulled up his baggy trousers. The spotlight was his. “Technically, he died from exhaustion.”
“Exhaustion? You’re kidding. I thought you said he was poisoned.”
“He was. Strychnine has that effect. You know all those convulsions he had?”
“God, they were terrible.”
“They literally wore him out. Yes, he was poisoned, and that asphyxiated him. But the convulsions were so severe he also had a
heart attack brought on by sheer exhaustion.”
“God, what a terrible way to go.”
“Been better poetic justice if one of his vipers got him. But the vipers wouldn’t have done half the damage the poison did.”
“But doesn’t poison like that taste terrible?”
“Yeah, but the way he worked himself up during those ceremonies … He might have swallowed it and not realized it. He wouldn’t have had to drink a whole hell of a lot of it. Cliffie talked to one of the churchgoers who said Muldaur was always guzzling Pepsi. Somebody coulda put it in that.”
“I need to talk to his wife.”
“Cliffie said she wasn’t any help.”
“Yeah, she probably didn’t respond
well to when Cliffie clubbed her.”
Doc grinned. “I shouldn’t put up with you making fun of my beloved cousin that way. Without him I wouldn’t be medical examiner of this here county. And I wouldn’t be permitted to wear my stethoscope in public, either.”
“Now, that would be a shame. You look very good strutting down the street in your stethoscope.”
He giggled. “That’s what the ladies tell me, counselor.”
“Exhaustion, huh,” I said, thinking about everything he’d told me. Then an image of Muldaur convulsing came to me. Seeing something like that diminished our entire species. I’d always known we were vulnerable. I just didn’t like to be reminded of it in such a grotesque fashion.
Five
I guess I should explain about our dunking.
It’s one of our darkest family secrets.
Everybody in my family dunks. We dunk doughnuts, we dunk coffee cake, we dunk sandwiches, my kid sister, at least before she moved to Chicago, dunked her French fries in her Pepsi. In moments of great excitement I’ve been known to dunk a slice of pizza in my glass of beer. Maybe it’s genetic. You don’t want to know about family reunions, believe me. The inclination to dunk affects multiple generations. Eighty, ninety McCains planted at various picnic tables in a public park. Dunking. All at the same time.
Anyway, after visiting Doc, I
stopped over to ask my dad about a guy who used to work at the plant and then all of a sudden there were three of us at the kitchen table, dunking long johns in our coffee.
My dad’s three biggest dreams had come true. He produced a kid who became a professional man, he bought a house, and he paid saved-up cash for a 1958 Plymouth that has the fin-length of a shark.
My mom’s three biggest dreams have come true, too. My dad returned safely from the war, her sister survived breast cancer, and she finally got the Westinghouse washer-dryer combination she’s always wanted, thanks to the way Betty Furness hawks them on Tv.
My dad was mid-dunk when I said, “So did Walter ever tell you why he dropped out of Muldaur’s church?”
“He sure did.”
“How come?”
He held up his finger, meaning please let him finish swallowing. He’s a little guy, which is where I get it, and when Mom’s in high heels they look sort of funny together, not mother-son but more like big sister-ll brother, but when they get out on the dance floor to Benny Goodman, their musical tastes having ossified around 1946, they are dazzling, gray hair, girdle, shoe lifts, bald head, and all.
“Muldaur tried to get frisky with his wife.”
“What? You’re kidding.”
“Oh, no,” Mom said. “One of the women at the beauty parlor said that the same thing happened to her daughter-in-law. Apparently, he was a frisky
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