Funeral with a View Read Online Free PDF Page A

pound burden.
    “Here, let me help you
with that, Mrs. Franchitti.”
    “Please. It’s Beth, dear.
Nobody’s called me Mrs. Franchitti in fifteen years. Glen? Glen!” she called
over her shoulder. “Oh, where is that pain in the ass? Glen, get over here and
take this potato salad, will you?” Huge, dark sunglasses hid her eyes, and her
face was cloaked in a shadow as projected by the brim of her oversized hat,
both testaments to her love for Jacki O.
    A short, balding man with
a crooked nose and close-set eyes rushed up to us. His Bermuda shorts displayed
spindly legs, and reed-thin arms sprouted from a sweaty polo shirt.
    Glen waved. I waved back.
    “I’m here, I’m here,” he
said, a little winded. “I was trying to find a spot. Parking’s a bitch in these
big apartment complexes. Woops. Pardon my French.”
    “Don’t worry about it,”
Catherine said, amused. “My father curses with the best of them. Nothing I
haven’t heard before.”
    “Good, good.” Glen hefted
Mom’s Epic Potato Salad. “I’ll go put this inside so it doesn’t go bad.”
    Mom clucked her tongue. “Poor
man is sweating like a whore in the Vatican. I think he has a glandular issue.
He perspires in the shower … whether I’m in there with him or not.”
    “Mom! Please.” I’d made
my way over as she handed the bowl off to poor ole Glen, figuring Catherine
could use all the support she could get. Besides, I was raised to do
introductions. “Mom, this is—”
    “Yes, yes, Richard. I
know who this is. Catherine. And aren’t you a sexy little thing? Turn around,
dear. Let me see you.”
    Oh, for the love of
God.
    Confused, Catherine
humored my mother and spun in a circle. Mom appraised her, from her sandals to
her white shorts to her tank top and ponytail.
    “Do you work out,
sweetie? Such a great figure. That ass is to die for. There aren’t enough
spinning classes in existence for me to achieve that body. And I’ve never seen that
big a bust on a girl so athletically built before.”
    Danger, Will Robinson,
Danger!
    “Moooooooooom,” I said, palm
over my face.
    “Don’t be such a stick in
the mud, Richard. If you were any more uptight your ass could turn coal into
diamonds.” Beth Franchitti had stopped editing herself many moons ago. A perk
of her age, or a horribly embarrassing personality trait? My money’s on the
latter.
    Mom’s behavior never
failed to humiliate me, but Catherine thought it was a hoot. She laughed at the
lack of decorum and didn’t seem to mind being on display like a prized horse at
auction.
    “Richard, look at those
fingernails.” The inky black sunglasses hadn’t affected Mom’s eagle vision.
“You’ve been biting them again, haven’t you?” She turned to Catherine. “Such an
oral fixation on this boy. Always chewing his fingernails over anything that’s
got his dander up. Bad test grades, something spilled on the carpet … any time
he’d attempt to hide something from me” A sculpted eyebrow appeared over the
rims of her Foster Grants.
    I waved off her comment.
“How about a drink while I get some food on the grill?” That pacified her for
the time being. I dodged a bullet. Sure to be a momentary respite.
    “Glen? Glen!” A breeze almost
knocked off Mom’s massive urban sombrero. She grabbed it, saving us all from a
lengthy diatribe on how much she’d paid for it and the frequency of her trips
to the hair salon. “Where is that man? Glen, please get us a drink before we
dehydrate.”
    “Yes, dear,” came Glen’s
resigned voice from inside the house.
    “Now, Catherine,” Mom
said, grabbing Catherine’s hand. “Let’s go finish setting the table and have
some girl talk, hmm? I just have to give you all the dirt on my Richard. Did he
tell you about our trip to Miami Beach when he was five? No? Well, he walked
right to the water’s edge, took down his bathing suit, whipped out his little
mushroom cap, and started pissing right into the water! It was …” They