Mr. Was Read Online Free PDF Page B

to know, so I followed my dad up the stairs and went to work with the coat hanger.
    This time it only took a few seconds.
    â€œWay to go, champ,” he said. “Let’s see what we’ve got.”
    We climbed the stairs, and it was just like Mom had said. One bedroom was crammed with a bunch of junky old furniture, a trunk stuffed with motheaten clothes, and a wooden toolbox containing a bunch of bent nails and a rusty hammer with one broken claw. The other bedroom had nothing in it but a saggy iron bed. I found a yellowed
Life
magazine with Franklin Roosevelt’s picture on the cover. We checked all the closets. One of them contained a dried-up dead bat, but we found no chest of gold, no mysterious doors.
    Back in the kitchen, my mother was sitting at the table nibbling at a sandwich. Dad grabbed another beer for himself and sat down across from her.
    â€œJust a bunch of junk up there,” he said. “All the good stuff is downstairs. I figure an estate sale could net us about nine or ten thousand. We’ll have to talk to a realtor about the house and property.”
    â€œRon, he’s only been dead three days,” Mom said. “Let’s not be counting his money so soon, okay?”
    Dad glared at her and licked a bit of foam from the corner of his mouth.
    I said, “Can we go home pretty soon?”
    Mom’s shoulders dropped. “First thing in the morning, Jack.”
    â€œThe sooner the better,” Dad said. He tipped his beer and poured half of it down his throat.
    Mom said, changing the subject, “It was good to see Mr. and Mrs. Wahl at the funeral. I haven’t seen them since I was in college. Mrs. Wahl looks good for her age, don’t you think?”
    Dad belched. “Which one was she?”
    â€œThe elderly woman sitting across from us.”
    â€œThey were all elderly. I never seen such a collection of walking dead. I thought that one old guy was going to die right there in the chapel. You see him? With the patch on his eye? Who was he?”
    Mom shook her head. “I don’t know. He looked like he’d been in an accident, didn’t he?”
    Dad laughed harshly. “He looked like his face met up with a lawn mower is what he looked like.”
    I didn’t know who they were talking about. There had only been a dozen or so people at the funeral, and I hadn’t seen anybody with an eye patch or a messed-up face. I asked who they were talking about.
    â€œThere was an old man there, Jack,” my mom said. “You didn’t see him? His face was horribly scarred. He was wearing a black suit.”
    â€œI didn’t see anybody like that.”
    My dad said, “Sometimes I think you can’t even seethe nose in front of your face, champ. The guy was sitting right behind us, talking to himself.”
    That night they had another fight. I couldn’t sleep. My father would start yelling, and then they would both be yelling, and then their voices would lower, and then they’d be quiet for a few minutes, and then Mom’s whine would start up and my father would start yelling again. I couldn’t understand most of what they were saying, but eVery now and then I’d catch a few words.
    â€œYou want me to leave you? You want us to be poor? Is that what you want? Huh? Is that what you want? Huh? Is that what you want?” One of the things my father would do when he got really mad was to scream the same thing over and over again. I could see the scene in my mind’s eye. She would be sitting down, he would be leaning over her, beating her with words.
    â€œIs that what you want? Huh? Is that what you want? Huh? Is that what you want? Huh?”
    Her head dropping lower and lower until he stopped, then she would say something and her whine would lash him into a renewed attack.
    â€œYou want me to hit you? Huh? Is that what you want? Huh? Is that what you want?”
    The argument ebbed and flowed. It had