too, thus completing a silent ritual they’d gone through many times together.
Thurber produced a single sheet of paper and asked the basics. The Judge’s full name, date of birth, place of birth, next of kin. For the second time, Ray said no to an autopsy.
Ray and Reverend Palmer stepped away and took a seat at the dining room table. The minister was much more emotional than the son. He adored the Judge and claimed him as a close friend.
A service befitting a man of Reuben Atlee’s stature would draw many friends and admirers and should be well planned. “Reuben and I talked about it not long ago,” Palmer said, his voice low and raspy, ready to choke up at any moment.
“That’s good,” Ray said.
“He picked out the hymns and scriptures, and he made a list of the pallbearers.”
Ray hadn’t yet thought of such details. Perhaps they would’ve come to mind had he not stumbled upon a couple of million in cash. His overworked brain listened to Palmer and caught most of his words, then it would switch to the broom closet and start swirling again. He was suddenly nervous that Thurber and Magargel were alone with the Judge in the study. Relax, he kept telling himself.
“Thank you,” he said, genuinely relieved that the details had been taken care of. Mr. Magargel’s assistant rolled a gurney through the front door, through thefoyer, and struggled to get it turned into the Judge’s study.
“And he wanted a wake,” the reverend said. Wakes were traditional, a necessary prelude to a proper burial, especially among the older folks.
Ray nodded.
“Here in the house.”
“No,” Ray said instantly. “Not here.”
As soon as he was alone, he wanted to inspect every inch of the house in search of more loot. And he was very concerned with the stash already in the broom closet. How much was there? How long would it take to count it? Was it real or counterfeit? Where did it come from? What to do with it? Where to take it? Who to tell? He needed time alone to think, to sort things out and develop a plan.
“Your father was very plain about this,” Palmer said.
“I’m sorry, Reverend. We will have a wake, but not here.”
“May I ask why not?”
“My mother.”
He smiled and nodded and said, “I remember your mother.”
“They laid her on the table over there in the front parlor, and for two days the entire town paraded by. My brother and I hid upstairs and cursed my father for such a spectacle.” Ray’s voice was firm, his eyes hot. “We will not have a wake in this house, Reverend.”
Ray was utterly sincere. He was also concerned about securing the premises. A wake would require athorough scouring of the house by a cleaning service, and the preparation of food by a caterer, and flowers hauled in by a florist. And all of this activity would begin in the morning.
“I understand,” the reverend said.
The assistant backed out first, pulling the gurney, which was being pushed gently by Mr. Magargel. The Judge was covered from head to foot by a starched white sheet that was tucked neatly under him. With Thurber following behind, they rolled him out, across the front porch and down the steps, the last Atlee to live at Maple Run.
______
Half an hour later, Forrest materialized from somewhere in the back of the house. He was holding a tall clear glass that was filled with a suspicious-looking brown liquid, and it wasn’t ice tea. “They gone?” he asked, looking at the driveway.
“Yes,” Ray said. He was sitting on the front steps, smoking a cigar. When Forrest sat down next to him, the aroma of sour mash followed quickly.
“Where’d you find that?” Ray asked.
“He had a hiding place in his bathroom. Want some?”
“No. How long have you known that?”
“Thirty years.”
A dozen lectures leapt forward, but Ray fought them off. They’d been delivered many times before, and evidently they had failed because here was Forrest sipping bourbon after 141 days of sobriety.
“How’s
Thurber produced a single sheet of paper and asked the basics. The Judge’s full name, date of birth, place of birth, next of kin. For the second time, Ray said no to an autopsy.
Ray and Reverend Palmer stepped away and took a seat at the dining room table. The minister was much more emotional than the son. He adored the Judge and claimed him as a close friend.
A service befitting a man of Reuben Atlee’s stature would draw many friends and admirers and should be well planned. “Reuben and I talked about it not long ago,” Palmer said, his voice low and raspy, ready to choke up at any moment.
“That’s good,” Ray said.
“He picked out the hymns and scriptures, and he made a list of the pallbearers.”
Ray hadn’t yet thought of such details. Perhaps they would’ve come to mind had he not stumbled upon a couple of million in cash. His overworked brain listened to Palmer and caught most of his words, then it would switch to the broom closet and start swirling again. He was suddenly nervous that Thurber and Magargel were alone with the Judge in the study. Relax, he kept telling himself.
“Thank you,” he said, genuinely relieved that the details had been taken care of. Mr. Magargel’s assistant rolled a gurney through the front door, through thefoyer, and struggled to get it turned into the Judge’s study.
“And he wanted a wake,” the reverend said. Wakes were traditional, a necessary prelude to a proper burial, especially among the older folks.
Ray nodded.
“Here in the house.”
“No,” Ray said instantly. “Not here.”
As soon as he was alone, he wanted to inspect every inch of the house in search of more loot. And he was very concerned with the stash already in the broom closet. How much was there? How long would it take to count it? Was it real or counterfeit? Where did it come from? What to do with it? Where to take it? Who to tell? He needed time alone to think, to sort things out and develop a plan.
“Your father was very plain about this,” Palmer said.
“I’m sorry, Reverend. We will have a wake, but not here.”
“May I ask why not?”
“My mother.”
He smiled and nodded and said, “I remember your mother.”
“They laid her on the table over there in the front parlor, and for two days the entire town paraded by. My brother and I hid upstairs and cursed my father for such a spectacle.” Ray’s voice was firm, his eyes hot. “We will not have a wake in this house, Reverend.”
Ray was utterly sincere. He was also concerned about securing the premises. A wake would require athorough scouring of the house by a cleaning service, and the preparation of food by a caterer, and flowers hauled in by a florist. And all of this activity would begin in the morning.
“I understand,” the reverend said.
The assistant backed out first, pulling the gurney, which was being pushed gently by Mr. Magargel. The Judge was covered from head to foot by a starched white sheet that was tucked neatly under him. With Thurber following behind, they rolled him out, across the front porch and down the steps, the last Atlee to live at Maple Run.
______
Half an hour later, Forrest materialized from somewhere in the back of the house. He was holding a tall clear glass that was filled with a suspicious-looking brown liquid, and it wasn’t ice tea. “They gone?” he asked, looking at the driveway.
“Yes,” Ray said. He was sitting on the front steps, smoking a cigar. When Forrest sat down next to him, the aroma of sour mash followed quickly.
“Where’d you find that?” Ray asked.
“He had a hiding place in his bathroom. Want some?”
“No. How long have you known that?”
“Thirty years.”
A dozen lectures leapt forward, but Ray fought them off. They’d been delivered many times before, and evidently they had failed because here was Forrest sipping bourbon after 141 days of sobriety.
“How’s
Similar Books
