King Tut.”
“Well, we have history books,” I reminded her.
“They’ll rot like everything else,” she countered with a groan, and dropped her hands down to her side. “Nothing will be left.”
I was going to say that the presidents on Mount Rushmore would survive when she stopped me.
“Let’s change the subject,” she insisted.
“To what?” I asked, and leaned on my shovel.
“To what I came here to tell you! The ambulance just arrived and now we have a stranger in the funeral parlor,” she said excitedly. “A Hells Angel motorcycle guy who was dancing in the middle of the road early this morning and got flattened by a cement truck down by the pants factory. Guess you could say he got pressed flat as pants.”
“Ugh,” I said. “What’s he look like?”
“Like tattooed roadkill only with a long black beard on one end and crushed black boots on the other,” she said. “It’s not pretty.”
I could already feel my nose twitch from imagining what he might look like. “Is he from around here?”
“No one can tell,” she said. “He didn’t have a wallet and the police don’t recognize him. But he has amazing tattoos.”
“What kind of amazing ?” I asked, and looked around to make sure Mom wasn’t sneaking up on us.
“Depends on what part of his body you look at,” she whispered, and made her eyes get real big like she had seen something off limits. “Dad’s just now photographing them for the police, so he told me to get lost.”
“Do you think I can handle seeing him?” I asked.
“No way,” she replied. “You’d bleed out of your eye sockets if you saw this guy.”
That was probably true. But then I had a thought. “Has Miss Volker been there yet?” I asked. “She needs to make it official.”
“Nope,” she replied.
“Well, do me a favor,” I said, and put my hands on her shoulders. “Run down to her house and tell her about the Hells Angel. Then tell her to call me immediately, and that way I can get out of digging and take her down to see the body.”
“Sounds like a good plan,” she said, getting all wound up and pawing at the dirt with her sneakers. “Meet you in the back of the funeral parlor. But if you plan on looking at this guy, bring a box of tissues because of your nose problem.”
“Thanks for the tip,” I said as she bounded off like a springer spaniel.
It didn’t take long before the telephone rang and Mom called me inside. “Miss Volker needs your help right away,” she said at the door. “There was a road accident this morning and she has to examine the poor victim.”
“Oh, that’s awful,” I gasped, and imitated Mr. Huffer’s sad face, but inside I was thinking, Great, this will get me out of digging. But before I could make my escape she reached out and grabbed my shirt. She reeled me in and smelled my armpit. “You stink like an old billy goat,” she said, and wrinkled her nose. “Hop in the shower, quickly. I’ll get your clothes ready. I want you to look respectful at Mr. Huffer’s place.”
“What do the dead care if I smell?” I asked. “They are dead and they’re bound to smell worse than me.”
“Well, I’m not dead!” she snapped back. “And it is what I care that counts.” Then she nudged me toward the bathroom with her hip. “Now don’t forget to use soap.”
I took the fastest shower I could. I didn’t use soap but when I got out of the shower I splashed myself with Dad’s bottle of Old Spice. I figured it made me smell like I was Admiral Farragut at the Battle of Mobile Bay. “Damn the torpedoes,” I quoted boldly, “and full speed ahead!” I wrapped a skimpy towel around my waist and danced and pranced out of the bathroom and up the hall like I was a Union ship dodging Confederate mines.
Mom was in her room ironing a white shirt for me. “What are you doing?” I asked when I waltzed up to her. “I’m not going to church. I’m going to see a dead Hells Angel whose face looks like
“Well, we have history books,” I reminded her.
“They’ll rot like everything else,” she countered with a groan, and dropped her hands down to her side. “Nothing will be left.”
I was going to say that the presidents on Mount Rushmore would survive when she stopped me.
“Let’s change the subject,” she insisted.
“To what?” I asked, and leaned on my shovel.
“To what I came here to tell you! The ambulance just arrived and now we have a stranger in the funeral parlor,” she said excitedly. “A Hells Angel motorcycle guy who was dancing in the middle of the road early this morning and got flattened by a cement truck down by the pants factory. Guess you could say he got pressed flat as pants.”
“Ugh,” I said. “What’s he look like?”
“Like tattooed roadkill only with a long black beard on one end and crushed black boots on the other,” she said. “It’s not pretty.”
I could already feel my nose twitch from imagining what he might look like. “Is he from around here?”
“No one can tell,” she said. “He didn’t have a wallet and the police don’t recognize him. But he has amazing tattoos.”
“What kind of amazing ?” I asked, and looked around to make sure Mom wasn’t sneaking up on us.
“Depends on what part of his body you look at,” she whispered, and made her eyes get real big like she had seen something off limits. “Dad’s just now photographing them for the police, so he told me to get lost.”
“Do you think I can handle seeing him?” I asked.
“No way,” she replied. “You’d bleed out of your eye sockets if you saw this guy.”
That was probably true. But then I had a thought. “Has Miss Volker been there yet?” I asked. “She needs to make it official.”
“Nope,” she replied.
“Well, do me a favor,” I said, and put my hands on her shoulders. “Run down to her house and tell her about the Hells Angel. Then tell her to call me immediately, and that way I can get out of digging and take her down to see the body.”
“Sounds like a good plan,” she said, getting all wound up and pawing at the dirt with her sneakers. “Meet you in the back of the funeral parlor. But if you plan on looking at this guy, bring a box of tissues because of your nose problem.”
“Thanks for the tip,” I said as she bounded off like a springer spaniel.
It didn’t take long before the telephone rang and Mom called me inside. “Miss Volker needs your help right away,” she said at the door. “There was a road accident this morning and she has to examine the poor victim.”
“Oh, that’s awful,” I gasped, and imitated Mr. Huffer’s sad face, but inside I was thinking, Great, this will get me out of digging. But before I could make my escape she reached out and grabbed my shirt. She reeled me in and smelled my armpit. “You stink like an old billy goat,” she said, and wrinkled her nose. “Hop in the shower, quickly. I’ll get your clothes ready. I want you to look respectful at Mr. Huffer’s place.”
“What do the dead care if I smell?” I asked. “They are dead and they’re bound to smell worse than me.”
“Well, I’m not dead!” she snapped back. “And it is what I care that counts.” Then she nudged me toward the bathroom with her hip. “Now don’t forget to use soap.”
I took the fastest shower I could. I didn’t use soap but when I got out of the shower I splashed myself with Dad’s bottle of Old Spice. I figured it made me smell like I was Admiral Farragut at the Battle of Mobile Bay. “Damn the torpedoes,” I quoted boldly, “and full speed ahead!” I wrapped a skimpy towel around my waist and danced and pranced out of the bathroom and up the hall like I was a Union ship dodging Confederate mines.
Mom was in her room ironing a white shirt for me. “What are you doing?” I asked when I waltzed up to her. “I’m not going to church. I’m going to see a dead Hells Angel whose face looks like
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