Death Of A Dream Maker Read Online Free PDF Page A

Auntie Lil scrutinized the disgruntled
family lineup before them. They seemed to be arranged by age. At
one end, a young man in his mid-twenties sat carefully erect, his
dark gray suit peeking out from beneath a raincoat. He had angular
features, almond-shaped green eyes, and a delicately curved mouth.
His stylish clothing and feathered haircut of glossy black set him
apart from the others as an urbanite. Auntie Lil stared at him,
then gripped T.S. by the elbow. “So much like Max,” she
murmured.
    Next to the handsome man was a young woman who also
stood out, mostly because she seemed to be truly grief-stricken.
Her grayish eyes were narrowed in concentration as she stared at
the coffin and her determined chin wavered beneath trembling lips.
She had blond hair that, unlike most of the other women, was cut
short in a simple curtain.
    T.S. saw that Auntie Lil was staring at the young
woman, too. He cocked an eyebrow and his aunt shrugged back. She
could not place the younger ones, the gesture said. This was a
generation that had come after Auntie Lil in Max's life.
    A stout, balding man of about forty-five sat beside
the young blond woman, his bottom overhanging the small chair like
a mound of dough that had risen beyond the confines of its
bowl.
    “That man looks like Max's brother, Abe, except that
he's too young,” Auntie Lil whispered. “It must be one of Abe's
sons.”
    T.S. nodded and examined their subject. The man's few
wisps of hair had been combed over the bald center of his scalp.
T.S. noticed with distaste that the man had nearly as much hair
sprouting from his bulbous nose as remained on top of his head. He
was evidently suffering from a cold: every now and then his
companion, an overly ripe woman whose makeup was slowly dissolving
in the mist, would thrust a Kleenex his way. He'd take it, blow
loudly, and hand it back. The woman would then store the used
tissues efficiently in her purse while pulling fresh ones from the
pocket of her raincoat. Her streaked hair miraculously had escaped
drowning and was teased in layers of overhanging spikes lacquered
with a heavy sheen of hairspray. It looked exactly as though a pile
of Yorkshire terrier puppies had fallen asleep on her head.
    The transition from the younger to the older
generation in the family lineup was abrupt. Although the youngish
widow sat sobbing daintily into an embroidered handkerchief at the
center of the circle, she was flanked by a pair of wizened old
women dealing with age in dramatically different ways. To the right
of the widow sat a figure that resembled a cross between a brooding
vulture and an ill-tempered nun. She was a tall woman dressed
completely in black, from her long dress to her clunky, lace-up
shoes. A long piece of black cloth was draped over her head, making
her look like an Italian extra from a Mafia movie. Her face sagged
with features: her mouth trailed down in a thin and uninviting
line, her nose seemed to melt toward her chin in a mournful slope,
and her large, hooded eyes were cast toward the grave as if she
blamed Max for his own death. As T.S. watched, the old woman looked
up and spotted him. He twitched in alarm. He found her gaze
indefinably malevolent, even when he realized that she was actually
staring at Auntie Lil. Perhaps it was the right eyelid—it drooped
permanently halfway over the eye, making her look like the evil
queen in Sleeping Beauty.
    “Rebecca Rosenbloom,” Auntie Lil whispered to T.S. “I
think she's spotted me.”
    “I'd say so.” T.S. gulped. “Does she bite?”
    “Yes,” Auntie Lil replied abruptly. “Max's sister.
Never married. We were never the best of friends.”
    “Who's the old girl on the other side of the
widow?”
    “I think that's Abby,” Auntie Lil whispered back.
“She's married to Max's brother, Abe.”
    Abby was not taking the process of aging very well.
She was as stout as a beer barrel, but nonetheless packed into a
black chiffon dress that twinkled in those spots that