The Alpine Obituary by Mary Daheim Page B

Monica, nicknamed Babe, and
Kate, met her at the door of the family’s small house above
the Great Northern railroad tracks.
    “Can we see the catalog, Mama?” Kate begged, trying to
elbow Babe out of the way.
    “If you behave like young ladies instead of hooligans,”
Mary replied, handing the big book over to Babe. “Here.
Don’t get any big ideas.”
    Mary sat down in a spindle-back chair by the window. She
read the postcard first: “Fine weather here, fishing tomorrow. Watched the yachts off Cowes yesterday. Will walk the
chalk downs Sunday.”
    Reluctantly, Mary opened the letter from the senior Dawsons. Did they need money again? With five children and
possibly—Mary wasn’t certain yet—another on the way, it
was hard enough to make ends meet on Frank’s salary at the
mill.
    But this time Fred and Mary didn’t want to get anything
from their kinfolk. They wanted to give. And that was worse
news than a request for twenty dollars.
    “Dearest Frank and Mary,” the letter read. “With summer
upon us, it is very difficult to keep young Vincent occupied.
We thought it would do him good to stay with you for a while
in Alpine. He is a good boy, but restless, and sometimes
makes Mary very nervy. If it is all right with you, he will arrive next Monday on the four o’clock train. We bless you for
your kindness to your poor orphaned nephew.
    “Your Papa and Mummy send their love to all.”
    Mary slapped the letter down on her apron-covered lap.
“Nervy, my foot,” Mary said under her breath. “The
woman’s crazy as a loon.”
    “What did you say, Mama?” Babe asked as Kate yanked
the catalog out of her older sister’s hands.
    Mary smiled guiltily at the girls. “Nothing.” She paused
as little Frances toddled into the room on chubby pink legs.
“How would you like to have your cousin Vincent for company?”
    Babe clapped her hands. “That sounds wonderful!”
    Kate made a face. “I don’t like Vincent. He’s no good.”
    Frances, who had just turned four, turned blue eyes on her
sisters and spit up all over her cotton pinafore.

Chapter Four
    VIDA GAVE ME the Frolands’ address, which was on Spruce Street across from the high school football field. I got there in under five minutes, recognizing Al Driggers’s black funeral car out front.
    Apparently Al had just arrived. He got out of the driver’s seat as the Reverend Donald Nielsen emerged from the passenger’s seat. Each man opened the rear door on his side of the limo. As I approached from my parking spot a few yards away, all I could see were their bent backs.
    But I could hear high-pitched shrieks coming from inside the funeral car. I was approaching with caution when Vida pulled up in her Buick. I waited for her to join me while a third man backed out of the limo’s rear compartment. As more and more of his black-suited figure appeared, I could see that his hands were gripping a woman’s ankles.
    “That’s Max,” Vida said in her stage whisper as she appeared at my side. “The son. I don’t think June wants to get out of the car. Oh, dear, listen to that! My ears are about to burst.”
    Vida wasn’t entirely exaggerating. The piercing screams cut through the smoky air as Max and Al forcibly removed the stricken woman from the limo. Her stout legs flailed, her flabby arms waved, and her vocal cords were strained with hysterical cries.
    For the first time, I noticed a half-dozen people congregated in the Frolands’ front yard. Vida saw them, too, and with one hand on her beribboned black hat, she marched up to the paved walkway.
    “What are you doing here?” she demanded of the group. “Didn’t you see what happened after the viewing?”
    Bessie Griswold, who was, to put it charitably, six ax-handles across, set her fists on her wide hips. “What do you mean, Vida? Jack’s kid said there was coffee and cookies at the house. We left the funeral parlor then. What else do we need to know?”
    “Yeah,” chimed in George