Mr. Was Read Online Free PDF Page A

the computer. “It wants a code word, I think. Five letters or numbers.”
    â€œTry his name,” Dad said, leaning in over myshoulder. “Type in S-K-O-R-O.“
    I tried that, then hit the enter key. The disk drive buzzed, the screen flickered, and a line of type appeared on the screen:
    OUND COMES AROUND WHATGOES AROUND COMESAROUNDWHATG
    At first I couldn’t read it, then the words snapped into focus.
What goes around comes around.
    â€œWhat’s that?” my father demanded.
    As if in answer, the disk drive squawked and the screen went dark. A curl of smoke rose from the vents on the side of the computer.
    â€œWhat happened?” my father asked.
    â€œI don’t know. I didn’t do anything.”
    â€œYou must have done something! Start it up again.”
    I tried flicking the on/off switch, but the machine was dead.
    My father snorted and said, “Now you’ve done it, champ.”
    â€œI did what you told me.”
    â€œGet out of here. Leave me alone.”
    After that, the only sound in the house was the clinking and scraping sounds of my mother cleaning the kitchen. When she had finished, she sat at the kitchen table with a pen and a book of crossword puzzles.
    I tried to read an old newspaper by the light of the chandelier, but I couldn’t concentrate. The problem, I realized, was the quiet. There was no traffic or airplanenoise, no sound of neighbors’ voices, and most of all there was no TV. There wasn’t even a radio. This, more than anything, creeped me out. How had old Skoro lived without a TV or radio? I tried to imagine him there, an old man alone, sitting in his living room in the silence. The thought raised the hairs on my arms.
    It took a long time to fall asleep that night. The mattress was squishy, the sheets were scratchy, the air in the room tasted cold and stale and dry. I kept hearing strange creaks and pops from the ancient radiators. I hoped that I wouldn’t do any more sleepwalking.
    As near as I could tell, I didn’t.
    I didn’t get a chance to explore the upstairs the next morning.
    â€œWe have to get going as soon as we’re done with breakfast,” my mom said. “The service is at ten o’clock.” She was dressed in a dark blue dress with all her makeup on.
    Dad wasn’t talking. He looked pale, with a few extra lines on his face. I think he’d sat up drinking beer for most of the night. He hadn’t shaved, and his hair was sticking out funny on top. Mom acted casual, like it was no big deal, but she had that tight-eyed look that told me she was holding on to herself. Like if she spilled a drop of coffee on her dress she would start bawling.
    I wasn’t happy about going to a funeral, but I knew better than to make a fuss. I kind of knew what to expect because my dad’s great-aunt Beatrice had diedthe summer before. Her funeral had been in a big, echoey cathedral that smelled like old wood, candles, and perfume. Most of the two or three dozen people at Aunt Beatrice’s funeral had been old ladies. I had asked Mom about that, and she told me that there were always a lot of old ladies at funerals. When I asked her why, she said it was because the men died first.
    Later, I found out that that wasn’t always true.
    Anyways, the part I really hated about that funeral was when I had to look at Aunt Beatrice dead. She’d been sort of ugly when she was alive, and being dead didn’t improve her. Her face looked like wax, with some kind of pink stuff rubbed into her cheeks. Her mouth, which I remembered as being a wrinkly, lipless frown, had been turned into a red lipsticked smile. For weeks after her funeral every time I saw an old lady I imagined what she would look like in a coffin, red-lipped and smiling.
    Grandpa Skoro’s funeral was nothing like that. Instead of being in a big church, it was held at the funeral home in Lake City. The undertaker, a pale old man with a