Mr. Was Read Online Free PDF

mushy-looking face, took us down the hall to a little chapel. Mom was walking funny, like she had a board strapped to her back, and Dad, who was feeling better after a few cups of coffee, wore the same dreamy, faraway look that he gets when he mows the lawn. The chapel had several rows of hard wooden chairs, some of them occupied. We had to sit in the front row, so I couldn’t get a good look at the other people in the chapel without turning around.There were only ten or twelve of them. Mom later told me that Grandpa hadn’t had a lot of friends, and those he did have were mostly dead. Dad said something about it looked to him like they were all dead.
    The coffin, a huge wooden thing with all kinds of brass hinges and stuff, sat on top of a platform with big vases full of flowers on each side. The top was closed. He had requested a closed coffin funeral and, even though he was dead, he got what he wanted.
    The service only lasted about twenty minutes. A tall, thin-faced man with shoulders as wide as a doorway stood up and introduced himself as the Reverend such-and-such. He talked for a while, but I didn’t hear much he was saying because some guy behind me kept whispering to himself. At first, I thought he was praying, but after a while I started to hear the words. It sounded like he was saying, “. . . around comes around what goes around comes around what goes . . .” over and over, like a chant. I could feel his breath on my neck. It smelled of licorice and dust. I finally couldn’t stand it anymore, so I turned around to look at him.
    There was no one sitting behind me. The pew was empty.
    But I could still hear the words, echoing in my brain: . . .
comes around what goes around comes around what goes around comes around what goes
. . .
    â€¢ • •
    Later, at the cemetery, we stood in a little group in the cold snow, everybody wearing long dark coatsexcept me. I had on my red nylon parka with the Chicago Bears logo on the back. I don’t know who all the other people were. They all looked old and cold and the same. The mushy-faced undertaker mumbled a final prayer.
    We watched them lower Skoro’s coffin into a hole in the frozen ground. I asked Dad how they could dig a hole when the ground was hard as rock and he said, “They use coals to warm the ground, then they dig with a backhoe.”
    The wind blew across the snow and cut up under our clothes. When we finally left, I was shivering. My mom’s face was red, and my dad had his chin tucked so far down in his collar that all you could see were his blinking eyes and the white bridge of his nose.

The Metal Door
    D ad came into the kitchen holding his notebook under one arm. He threw it on the counter, grabbed a beer out of the refrigerator, sat down at the table, helped himself to a salami-and-Swiss sandwich, picked up the squeeze bottle of mustard. Dad liked lots of mustard on everything.
    â€œThat looks like an old Amish quilt up in the blue bedroom,” he said, making a bright yellow mustard scribble on his sandwich.
    Mom stood with her back to the sink, watching us. She shook her head.
    â€œCould be worth a lot of money,” Dad said, biting into his sandwich. All afternoon he had been wandering around the house with a notebook, writing down all the stuff he saw. “We got a key for that third floor?” he asked.
    â€œIt’s around here somewhere,” Mom said. “I haven’t found it.”
    â€œWe don’t need it,” I said.
    They both looked at me.
    â€œI know how to pick the lock,” I told them.
    Dad laughed. “Studying to be a burglar?” he asked.
    â€œIt was just something to do.”
    He pushed the last of his sandwich into his mouthand stood up. “Let’s go check it out, champ. Maybe the old man left us a chest of gold or something.”
    I caught a look at my mother’s face. I couldn’t tell if she was mad or ready to cry. I didn’t want