Gravedigger's Cottage Read Online Free PDF Page A

toured, well, that was big effort for Dad. And the thought that the whole process was kind of jammed up here, with Carmine and whatever suspended in the innermost, private-most part of Dad’s private world…that would be a lot for him.
    Dad stood there, anxiously awaiting an outcome. In the bathroom, Carmine took forever, waiting for the tank to refill, then flushing again. You know the way TV kidnappers clamp a hand over the victim’s mouth to shut them up? Dad was doing that to himself. For as long as he could manage.
    “Is everything all right in there?” Dad finally called when he could bear the wait no longer. He was also knocking at the bathroom door, as if Carmine could have simply forgotten to come out and just needed a reminder.
    Finally, a heartier push on the handle, and I think the job was properly done.
    It was like a surprise party, a parade for a returning war hero. When Carmine came out that door and saw us huddled around him, I thought he was going to run right back in. But before he had the chance, Dad took him literally under his wing. With a little excess of enthusiasm, he wrapped an arm around Carmine’s slim shoulders and charged him through the remainder of the microtour.
    “Here’s the kitchen,” he said, pulling him out of the kitchen. “These are the stairs. They used to have these stairs over there, but apparently a few years ago they moved them over here. I think that was a good move, don’t you?”
    Dad was gibbering; Carmine was spluttering out answers, half words, and grunts. And Walter and I were following, trying not to giggle.
    Because we loved this bit of Dad. We loved all the bits, truly, but the bits of mad Dad were the best bits of all.
    When he was good, he was good. But when he was not so good, he could be great. If some people thought he was a little nuts, we never minded, too much. We were happy, mostly. We were odd maybe, but we knew it, we dealt with it, and, at some level, we embraced it.
    Upstairs, Carmine was treated to a lightning view of what Dad called “Dad’s study” but we called more accurately the computer room since nobody studied anything in there and Dad was lucky to get any time in the room at all. In fact, he was far more likely to see the inside of his study because he was invited by me or Walter into a computer game than he was to be working on his own work. He really didn’t enjoy doing his own work anyway, so really we were doing him a favor.
    The tour wound up with a quick peek into Walter’s neat, comfortable bedroom, all carpeted and gabled and warm, and an even quicker peek into mine.
    “Oh god,” Dad said, closing the door as quickly as he could, like there was a leaping lion on the other side.
    He was exaggerating. The thing is, I find it personally offensive that girls are just naturally expected to be neater than boys. My bedroom is my statement.
    “You’re a pig, Sylvia,” Walter said.
    “No, I’m not, I’m a social commentator.”
    “Then you make filthy comments,” he said.
    By the time we got back to the door, Dad had excused himself, clearly bent on a mission involving the house, his notebook, and some mumbling. I myself thought we had come through our first house tour pretty well, for people who didn’t do this sort of thing.
    I loved the house more than ever. I loved its kinks and quirks and its us-ness.
    And I was confident my bedroom had helped to finish off my little Carmine problem.
    “So, still want to be my boyfriend?” I said to the visibly shaken boy who was standing in my doorway staring at his feet.
    He looked up, first at Walter, then at me. He looked at me intensely, powerfully, like he was singing in a boy band.
    “No,” he said, high drama, “now I want to be your husband.” He grabbed himself in a furious, celebratory hug.
    I guess I had misunderstood the trembling.
    He stood there hugging; Walter stood to the side of me laughing.
    “Shut up, Walter,” I said.
    “I just thought of something funny,