The Three Dollar Phoenix - Walt Sautter (best way to read e books .txt) 📗

the last page as it lay exposed on the table, the obituaries.
“Albert Druse, Dead at 33” it read.
He couldn’t believe it. He picked up the paper in both hands and sank back into his chair, in slow motion. He read it word by word in a trance like manner.
The article was brief and uninformative, failing even to mention his place of employment or recent hospitalization. Ed put the paper down and sat motionless. After a minute or so, he looked down at the paper once more.
“Funeral Services at Santago Home for Services, 300 Howe Avenue, Jersey City, 10 A.M., Friday, Internment at Mount Carmel Cemetery, Jersey City.”
“That’s today” thought Ed. He glanced at the clock, it read seven thirty. He went to the phone and called Mike.
“Mike, did you read the paper today. The obits?”
“Man, I’m not outta bed yet” Mike groaned.
“This will wake you up, Al’s dead.” The phone went silent. Then Mike responded.
“What are you gonna do now?” he said in a wide awake voice.
I’m going to the funeral, it’s the least I can do. I didn’t give him too much help when he was alive” Ed said sadly.
“What the hell could you have done? It isn’t your fault the guy’s dead. I hope you’re not gonna start carrying that around with you. You didn’t even get a chance talk to him. I’d say you did more for him than most people would have even considered doing” Mike fired back.
“I promised his wife, I would help her. Some help” he replied sarcastically.
“I’m going to have a tough time facing her, but I’ve got to go!”
Mike recognized sympathy, expressing itself as self recrimination, and said no more. He also recognized, that Ed was now drawn, as deeply as ever, back into the situation from which he had worked so hard to untangle him. He wasn’t so sure, that the next time, he would be as successful as the last.
“Mike, I need a car to get there.”
“You want to borrow mine?” Mike anticipated.
“Ten dollars a day and ten cents a mile, and you buy the gas. Do you want the collision wavier?” he jested.
“I’ll bring it over about nine o’clock, OK.?”
“That will be fine” said Ed gratefully.
Mike wasn’t very religious, but he mustered. all the conviction he could and whispered a silent prayer, as he hung up the phone. He had developed deep affection for Ed and although he respected and understood his motivation, he feared for what he considered to be Ed’s poor judgment.
Mike arrived promptly at nine. Ed dropped him off at the Legal Aid Office, and headed towards the Santago Home for Services.
He found it after a few stops at local gas stations for directions. The building was a large, white structure, with several tall columns at the entrance and a black wrought iron picket fence surrounding it. He pulled through the gates and parked in the back. As he walked to the door, at the front, he looked at his watch, ten minutes to ten. With that, his pace quickened. He wanted to see what Al looked like and if the service was about to begin, the coffin might be closed. He hoped his watch wasn’t slow. He should have called the funeral home for directions instead of relying on the imperfect powers of description, that seems to be the common characteristic of every gas station attendant, especially, when you’re in a hurry.
He entered the vestibule and scanned the directory.
“Albert Druse, Blue Room, Center Entrance.”
As he entered the Blue Room he saw Angie, standing beside the still form in the casket. He stopped, swallowed and walked up to her. She looked up at him, with long dark smudges of smeared mascara, streaming from her tear swollen eyes.
“Doctor Bennett, look” and with that her speech faltered, as she motioned towards Al’s motionless corpse. Ed took her hand, squeezed it, and said nothing.
He looked at the body. Al looked even older than at Caramore. His hair was almost completely gone and his eye brows and lashes were sparse. His face was drawn and the backs of his hands were bony and bore purplish discolorations, similar to age spots.
The funeral director approached them as they stood silently.
“We’re ready to begin the service, now” he said in a quiet, almost singing tone and escorted them towards the seats. With that the curtain in front of the casket was drawn.
Ed followed Angie to her place at the front with the other seated relatives and then found a seat for himself, towards the rear. The curtain reopened shortly, exposing the closed, gray box which stood in stark contrast to the sprays of flowers, that surrounded it.
The minister, a tall, thin man with black hair and wearing a black suit, moved in front of the coffin and began his oration. Within twenty minutes, his declaration of faith and the after life concluded. He walked over to Angie and those in the front row, to offer his condolences. Everyone arose and at the request of the undertaker, went to their cars for the ride to the cemetery.
It was only about half an hour away, but the twisting, turning route through the city streets, made it seem twice as long. As he followed the winding funeral procession, Ed’s mind was clouded with thoughts of Al’s cold, lifeless face. A mix of sorry and puzzlement surrounded that image and he felt uncomfortable with both.
They passed through the cemetery gates, into the lush, green, tree filled landscape, which provided a sharp contrast to the dirty, concrete of the city. It was a warm, autumn day and the sun was shining brightly. The trees were beginning to drop their leaves, but still retained sufficient numbers to void the thoughts of the winter to come. Had it not been for the tombstones, it could have been a picnic ground. It was the most pleasant place in the city, reserved for the most unpleasant of tasks.
The paradox struck Ed squarely as he pulled to side of the roadway, behind the car ahead of him. As he exited the car, he noticed two squirrels, seeming to play hide and seek, as they gaily scrambled from stone to stone, adding to the surrealism of the moment.
Everyone waited, while the coffin was carried to the grave site and placed over it. Then, at the instruction of the funeral director, all proceeded to the grave.
The minister stood at the head of the coffin and resumed his dissertation on God’s will and the ephemeral nature of existence.
Ed glanced about, as the minister’s drone continued. Over to the left, about twenty feet away, three men, in work clothes, stood leaning against a pick up truck, marked ‘Mount Carmel Cemetery’. Ed noted their presence, ominously aware of the finality, of the act, which they were about to perform. He found himself staring at them, unable to alter his gaze, as if he were entranced. Several times, he successfully moved his line of vision, back towards the casket and those surrounding it, only to have his eyes drawn back to the grave diggers again. It was if a powerful, uncontrollable magnet was responsible for his stare at them.
Suddenly, he noticed something about the one on the end, near the cab of the truck. His shoes. He was wearing wing tips, not work shoes, but brightly polished wing tips.
“What the hell is a grave digger doing wearing shoes like that?” Ed thought. The other two men were shod in mud encrusted work boots. As he watched, the one with the shoes, opened the door to the truck and climbed in. Ed could just about see his outline behind the reflective glare of the window glass. He appeared to be holding something in front of his face.
Ed walked around behind some of the other mourners, in an effort to change his angle of vision. Then, all at once, a passing cloud cut off the filtering sunlight and he could see clearly into the truck. It was a camera. The guy was taking pictures.
Immediately, Ed turned away, as a vampire from the cross, and inched to a position where his back was towards the truck. It was probably too late, but there was no sense in posing. When final words had been said, everyone turned and walked towards the waiting cars. Ed did likewise, but quickly glanced over his shoulder.
Two of the three men were walking towards the grave, the third man, the one with the camera, was nowhere to be seen.
“Doctor Bennett, please come over to the house with the others” Angie implored him and reached out to grasp his hand. Ed hadn’t expected the invitation, but it would be poor manners to refuse. He wanted to speak to her anyway and this would provide that opportunity.
“Thank you” he replied immediately and followed the line of cars back to Selma Street.
A group of twenty or so people, crowded into the living and dining rooms of Angie small home. Angie’s sister, Marie and her husband, acted as host and hostess, in Angie’s behalf. A table of sandwiches and drinks was set up in the kitchen and people moved back and forth between it and the other two rooms.
Ed felt a bit out of place, not being a relative. Most of those present were relatives or close friends. Angie made it a point to introduce him to the majority of them and told each how kind he had been to her and Al. She remained exceptionally composed, in light of the circumstances. She was probably too drained to be anything other than tranquil, Ed reasoned.
In about an hour, people started to leave, and soon the group thinned to a half dozen hanger-oners. Ed remained. He wanted to talk to Angie, but hadn’t had the chance. He stood in the kitchen, by the coffee urn, almost listening to one of Al’s cousins, incessantly ramble on about his recent success in the dog food business. After ten minutes, or so, nature mercifully called the man away, to a challenge worthy of his intellectual abilities. As he left the kitchen, Angie entered.
“Doctor Bennett” she began apologetically.
He interrupted her with “Ed, please.”
“I’m sorry, I forgot, Ed, about two weeks ago, before Al died, a man named Mike called and told me that you couldn’t take me up to see Al, like we had planned. He never said why and then I didn’t see or hear from you, until today.”
Mike must have been so upset by the occurrences of that day that he didn’t even explain the situation to her. Maybe it was best that he didn’t. She certainly wouldn’t have understood at the time with only the benefit of a two minute telephone explanation. She continued nervously.
“I know you’re a busy man and I’m not trying to be pushy, but..”
Ed smiled and interrupted, so as to spare her obvious embarrassments.
“Where the hell was I, right?”
She smiled weakly. Angie listened in amazement, as he explained the happenings of the previous two weeks. Several times, the cousin poked his head through the door opening, obviously hoping to resume his tale of the dog food trade. Somehow sensing their need for privacy, however, he remained with the others in the living room.
“What did Al die from?” Ed asked in a less than delicate manner, after concluding his story.
“The report said, a heart attack” replied Angie.