I Short
Continued from Page 7
home drunk like Whitey had,
waking up the next morning along
side the road, next to a woman he
hadn't remembered ever being
introduced to. Evan was begin
ning to feel fortunate to still be
alive at 36. It seemed to him that
only the young people were dying
anymore.
As he'd listened for some words
of wisdom in the minister's tum
blings, Evan had thought about
Monk Simon, an old fnend who
had left town with a broken heart,
going to Hollywood with dreams
of playing private detectives in
the movies. But recent legend had
it that Monk killed himself in a
Warding house just months ago
For years Evan had pictured Monk
lounging around swimming pools,
sipping wine from hand-blown
glass, wearing silver rimmed sun
1 glasses and his hair slicked back
as he leaned against vine-coiled
columns. But now he could only
picture Monk as Whitey had looked
I in the casket — a sunken face, his
eyes forced shut, his lips manipu
lated to express content. Before
the funeral Evan had stared at
Whitey's face as he stared at the
faces of dead men on the movie
screen, watching for the actors to
flinch.
To redirect his thoughts, Evan
swept his shaking fingers through
the pages of the hymnbook, watch
ing the black dots connect and
create soundless music. And the
music made him think of the
woman he'd been finding some
comfort with lately — the wait
ress at the poolhall who seemed to
wear her needs and frustrations
like perfume. As he had riffled
through the hymnbook, he'd made
himself see her, hear the mellows
of her voice, and his stomach had
I eased.
Everyone stepped out onto the lawn
the service was over, preparing to
move on to the cemetery. Evan
took off his jacket and tried to
loosen his tie, but only pulled the
knot tighter and further from his
neck. Though the sun had gotten
hotter, the breezes were still cool
and they blew his sweat-soaked
shirt on and off his back, sending
chills across his skin.
He decided to go on home where
he could change into a pair of baggy,
thinning trousers and a vacation
shirt, like those Harry Truman
wore, shirts with large, unfamiliar
flowers or brightly feathered, stilt
legged birds. Evan had one with
many small palm trees and vari
ously positioned monkeys, and
whenever he wore itand he would
speak to people, he'd notice how
their eyes would drop to the de
sign and would bounce from
monkey to monkey, as though they
were reading a comic strip.
After he crossed the road he
noticed Fay Jean Cooper coming
toward him, her youngest grana
son at her side. Sne smiled briefly
at him, breathing heavily and
sweating, as though about to
smother beneath her fat. Every year,
the day it started getting warmer,
Fay Jean would look about to col
lapse and Evan would wonder if
she'd live to see another Septem
ber.
"How was that funeral?" she
asked, wiping sweat away with a
ratted pink handkerchief. Her
hands were as dark and creased
and as tough-looking as leather
gloves. "The family doing all right?"
"I guess," Evan saia, glancing
back toward the church. ”1 mean,
I don't know, they just kind of
left."
"Well, any way," Fay Jean said.
"If you're going on home, would
you mind walking a ways with
Louie? You don't have to take him
all the way to the house, he'll know
the way from your place." Fay
Jean lived about a quarter mile
from Evan. "I have a few more
errands to run." Evan nodded and
Fay Jean turned away. "Well, all
right," she said. Fay Jean rarely
-M -----
Whitey McKeelen back there, he died a boy, just a
boy, he never did nothing in his life. Never even was
married, doesn't have a child with his name, no one
to grow up with and ask questions about him.
said goodbye, just 'all right.'
Evan ana Louie sauntered down
the road lined with houses, then
storefronts, then trees. Louie car -
ried on a conversation of his own,
occasionally breaking out into song,
off-key, sometimes making up the
words or even the tune. He sang
about the rocks in the road, about
squishing bugs, about a stick of
cinnamon gum he had in his pocket.
Evan wasn't really listening, but
the singing, the tune, made him
think of the morose-eyed woman
again — the waitress who drank
tomato in tier beer and who chewed
at sticks of black licorice. Evan
stopped a second to light a ciga
rette. Louie stoppied too, mid song,
and looked up at him.
"Why do you smoke them ciga
rettes?''he asked Evan when they
resumed walking. 'They don't taste
good, do they? Do they taste gpod?"
Evan signed and shrugged his
shoulders.
Louie found a small, grease
stained paper sack along the road,
he picked it up and held it open,
then clutched the top of it closed
with both hands. "You stay in there,
you nasty wind," he said, holding
the bag up in front of his face.
"You been bothering me all day.
You just stay in there."
"You ever been to a funeral
before?" Evan suddenly asked, not
looking down at Louie.
"Maybe."
"What do you mean, Maybe?"
"Well, I don't know what one
is," Louie said. "What a funeral
is."
"Weil... when you die ... do
you know what it means to die?"
"My grandpa died. Before 1 was
born.'
ww
"When you're dead," Evan
explained, squinting, rubbing his
forehead, "they go to church for
you and pray over you and sing
over you, then they take you off to
the cemetery and they bury you.
So what do you think about all
that?" Louie shrugged his shoul
ders. "What do you think?" Evan
asked again, somewhat angrily like
a man will sometimes do, demand
ing answers from a boy that he
himself wouldn't be willing, or
prepared, to give. "Whitey
McKeelen back tnere, he died a
boy, just a boy, he never did noth
ing in his life. Never even was
married, doesn't have a child with
his name, no one to grow up and
ask questions about him. What do
you think about that?"
"I don't know," Louie said.
"Now ... you're how old?"
"Seven."
"Seven," Evan said, sighing.
"Well, what would you think if
you were walking down the road
tomorrow, just catching wind in
that bag like you are now, and all
of a sudden you just keel over
dead, what woula you think of
that? You wouldn't like that, would
you."
"No, I guess not," Louie said.
He looked up at Evan with a squint.
"You expecting to die, or some
thing?"
"No," Evan answered immedi
ately, with a laugh. "I was just
talking about . . . just asking . . .
shit, never mind." He laughed
again. "Never mind." He reached
down and patted at Louie's back,
then gripped his shoulder. "Guess
you doot know everything yet,
do you? You don't got it an fig
ured out."
Louis slowly crumpled up the
paper bag and sneered. "I know I
ain't never going to smoke ciga
rettes 'cause smoke tastes like dirt."
Evan slowly nodded and let go
of Louie's shoulder. He patted him
on the back again, sighed, then
brushed ashes from his jacket.
High Heel &
The Sneakers
FRIDAY APRIL 19
ELMS BALLROOM
SYRACUSE
(30 easy miles east of
Lincoln on Highway 2)
All ages welcome.
Doors open at 8 p.m.
| Celebrate
1 Earth Day
I Aprii 22
Then see next week’s
* ’Tareen" Diversions
YOU STILL HAVE TIME!
1991 SUMMER READING
COURSE PROGRAM
Registration ends Friday,
May 10,1991 at 4:30 p.m.
Space still available in Classics, English,
Geology, History, Human Development,
Political Science, Psychology, and
Sociology courses.
Hln person at the Division of Continuing
Studies, Registration Office, Room 271,
33rd and Holdrege Streets
Monday - Friday, 8 a.m. to 4:30 p.m.
CE3 By Mail: Division of Continuing Studies
Registration Office-Rm 271
Neoraska Center
33rd and Holdrege Streets
Lincoln, NE 68583 0900
For details, call 472-1392
UNL is • nondiscriminalory institution.
I Bud Light I
Presents:
CHI
FRIDAY, APRIL 19, 1991
4-H BUILDING
STATE FAIRGROUNDS
Tickets on sale now .
Available at the NE Union
for $3.50 or at the door for $4.
