A Comedy of Heirs Read Online Free PDF

Brownie leader, room mother for all five children, and she made miniatures for a living. The little dollhouse furniture and stuff that you see in craft stores she made with the patience that God gave Job, and totally neglected to give to me. Two of her children were gifted musicians already and one of the boys looked as if he’d be headed to the Olympics in a few years as a swimmer. These kinds of women really do exist. She stood behind my Christmas tree to prove it.
    â€œIt’s not like I’m talking about blood and guts, Wen. I’m just talking about our ancestors who have died,” I said. I hoped it didn’t sound like I was trying to stick up for myself too much. I got a little touchy over this sort of thing. I used to take a picnic lunch and eat it in the middle of the cemetery with the dead people when I compiled the cemetery information for publication. The folks in my family thought I was a bit strange and didn’t hesitate to tell me so. Now I’m a little sensitive over it.
    â€œIt’s just that even at Christmas you still have to talk about dead people,” Wendy went on. Her blond hair bounced around her face, reminding me of those old Prell commercials.
    â€œWell, if they were alive I wouldn’t have to talk about them, I’d just go talk to them,” I said. Okay, maybe the situation wasn’t so ideal to bring this up after all. Somebody’s child came running through my living room and skidded into the wall. My record player skipped and Gene Autry went from “Rudolph” to “Here Comes Santa Claus.” I cringed. I really needed to buy this on CD. The boy smiled all precocious-like and took off into the other room.
    â€œWhose kid was that?” I asked with my hand on my hip.
    â€œLooked like one of Lester and Joanie’s kids,” Aunt Charlie said.
    â€œI didn’t even know they were here,” I answered. I swallowed my irritation and hung another ornament. The popcorn smell from the kitchen was almost more than I could bear. There was a reason I put my mother in charge of that sort of thing. I always ate more than I strung. And when I picked strawberries at my grandma’s, I always ate one for every three that I picked. “So anyway, Aunt Charlie. That hunting accident was 1948,” I said. “Do you remember it?”
    Of course she would remember it, she would have been about eighteen years old.
    â€œYeah,” she said. “Course I remember it. Grandpa had gone out hunting with his two sons Uncle Granville and my dad. Jed went along, too.”
    â€œAnd … what happened?” I asked.
    â€œTorie!” Wendy said and stuck her head out from under the tree this time. Just what was she doing anyway?
    â€œOh hush, Wendy. I want to know what happened.”
    â€œI don’t really know. I was in town,” Aunt Charlie said and pushed her thick glasses up on her nose. “Go ask Uncle Jed. He can tell you. Far as I know they went hunting and they got lost, got turned around or something like that. Grandpa Nate refused to go the way the others wanted to go and he went the other way. He tripped and shot himself with his own gun.”
    â€œOh,” I said. “How awful.”
    â€œYeah, it’s an awful way to go.” She didn’t talk about it as if she was telling a big lie. But then, if she’d been telling it since 1948 she’d have the story down pat. She didn’t seem nervous and her mannerisms didn’t change when she told the story.
    â€œCan we change the subject now?” Wendy said. She was back behind the tree again.
    â€œWendy, what are you doing back there?” I asked.
    â€œI’m hiding all the wires from the lights so that it looks like the lights are just setting on the branches.”
    â€œOh,” I said. That would never have occurred to me.
    One of Wendy’s sons came in and sat down at the piano.
    â€œOh, Kevin honey, why