Part II: Journeys (Chapter 28)
“When
I die,” Aunt Sal says, “I want something important for my obituary.”
She looks up, her eyes
following the electrical lines, running directly over the swimming pool in her
backyard.
I used to dream about those
wires crashing down while I swam laps, and, for a while, I refused to swim in
Sal’s pool. Now, I figure that I’m more likely to pick up an exotic disease
there than have an electrified wire snap apart and fry me to death.
Sometimes, you need to narrow
your fears down to a few major ones. Otherwise, life gets too damned
complicated.
My fears narrowed down to the
big four: flying, chiropractors, death, and Sheldon catching me with Ian.
“That’s why I decided to join
the Board of Eminent Domain. That’ll look good in my obituary when my time
comes.”
“What d’y’ll do on this board?”
Ruby asks, taking a drag on the ever-lit cigarette.
Sal shrugs. “I don’t know. I
was just appointed. My first meeting’s next week.”
“They condemn your property,” I
say, “And then they snatch it from you for a song for government purposes.”
“Over my dead body!” Sal says.
“Not on my board.”
“That’s the general idea, your
reason for being, Sally-baby.”
Ruby leans her head back and
closes her eyes. “Hardly seems fair government officials coming in willy-nilly
and taking your land.”
“Well, all I can say, I’m gonna
be a watch dog. See that no one gets ripped off.”
“Like the Winnehaha deal?”
“Well, at least they built
something fun, not just another old road!”
Ruby sits up. “What’s
‘Winnehaha’?”
“Long story. Indian tribe
claimed some land and a lake out by the airport.” I explain about the casino
and theme park.
“Oh. Isn’t that where we’re
going for the reunion?”
“That’s it,” Sal says, rubbing
her hands together. “Maybe we can get in a little slot action.”
“I don’t gamble,” Ruby says.
“Might as well throw money into the gutter.”
Sal and I look at each other.
A person with Mallory blood who
doesn’t gamble?
No way!
Awkward silence.
What can the three of us
possibly talk about? I could always rib Sal about something, but I don’t really
want her getting started on the weight thing, not with Ruby around.
“Well, it sure does sound like
important work, this Eminent Domain stuff,” Ruby finally says.
“I like that: E-m-i-n-e-n-t
D-o-m-a-i-n. Should look real good on
the obit page.”
“They always leave out the
really interesting stuff,” I say.
“Like what?” Sal asks.
“Well, you know. Like old
Charlie Simms having three wives at one time.”
“That’s libel!” Sal says.
“Not if it’s the truth.”
“Well, it just isn’t right,
airing someone’s dirty laundry out in public.”
“But it’s interesting. God, can
you imagine opening up the paper every day, just knowing that something juicy’s
going to be printed, like when they dug up old Mrs. MacIntrye’s dead baby in
the basement? Fifty-five-year-old corpse. Remember that?”
“Ma was beside herself,” Sal
says. “She still thinks the old bag should have gone straight to jail for
murder.”
“Except that Mrs. MacIntyre was
in a coma, hooked up to a respirator.”
Sal gives me the look. “Don’t
get Ma started on that today.”
“Not a chance. I’ve got better
things to do.”
“Well, good.”
“The point is, when she died,
there was nothing in her obituary about the dead baby. It was all very dry. She
was born, she married, she had a surviving son, the husband died, was a
homemaker for 65 years, blah, blah, blah. Not even a mention of a baby that
died.”
“Sam, you’re sick.”
“I think it sounds like a good
idea,” Ruby says. “I mean, why not lay out the bad with the good? Show life
like it is.”
“Because you gotta show respect
for the survivors. Their last memories should be good ones. Say, I’m working
hard on getting together an outstanding obituary. I’ll kill anyone who farts
with it.”
Ruby and I snicker.
I rub my hands together. “I can
see it now:
SALLY MALLORY MILLHOUSE
Champion of the Oppressed,
Board of Eminent Domain,
Slot Players Association
Sally Mallory Millhouse, 99, died at 12:01
a.m. Sunday morning just after hitting big at the Winnehaha casino. She hit
quadruple sevens for a total of $150,000. Family members were slot-side and
were helping to count out winnings when Mrs. Millhouse, widow of the late
Phillip Millhouse, was stricken.
Mrs. Millhouse was born on
December 24, 1936, in Sioux City. She was the daughter of Charles Wickham
Mallory, notorious bootlegger of the 1930s and local bookie before his death in
1974 –
Sal jumps
up from her chair. “Where’d you hear that?”
“I –”
“You just
strike that last bit right now –”
“Lots of bootleggers where I
come from,” Ruby adds.
“Well, I want it out – NOW! I
don’t want my kids knowin’ about all that old stuff.”
“I used to go with Pappa when
he collected his bets.”
“So, what! I tended bar when I
was 10. Look, Samantha, long after you go back to Pennsylvania, I gotta live
here. Dad’s shenanigans might be cute to you, but I gotta live with ‘em. So,
cut it out.”
“Okay, okay, we’ll edit that
last piece –”
“Forget it, Sam. Save it for
your psychedelic wake.” Sal pauses and frowns.
“I’ll write my own obituary.”