waited for an explanation.
Well, he wasn’t getting one. “You know, Uncle Bob, we might want to steer clear of this particular subject, you being my uncle and all.”
“Okay,” he said with a nonchalant shrug, pretending to drop the subject. He sipped from his iced tea, then added, “Swopes seemed pretty upset, though. Figured you might know why.”
“I do. He’s an asshole.”
“He’s a little moody sometimes, I’ll give you that.”
“So was Josef Mengele.”
“But in his defense,” he continued, doing his best to placate me, “this whole rift between you two is my fault. If I’d just kept my mouth shut. Darn those lagers.”
“Well, lagers didn’t turn Swopes into an asshole. I’m pretty sure he was born that way.”
Uncle Bob sucked in a long, deep breath, then dropped the subject for real. “I can see where this is not going. But dammit, Charley, I have a job to do.” I blinked in surprise, and he grinned. “I have to go harass your dad.” He rose from the table and patted my shoulder, which was his way of saying we were good.
I slipped my hand onto his. “Harass him some for me, will you?”
After a soft squeeze, Uncle Bob strolled over to the bar, claiming—loudly—to be an investigator from the CDC. I cringed. Dad found few things less humorous than the thought of the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention paying him a visit. It lay somewhere between an IRS audit and a class action lawsuit.
I glanced back at the lawyers. They were sitting around the table—Uncle Bob had pulled out chairs for them—and talking amongst themselves.
“Do you know when your funeral is?” Elizabeth asked Sussman, her voice tainted with sadness.
He lowered his head. “They’re meeting with the funeral director this afternoon.”
She put her hand on his. “How is Michelle doing?”
“Not well. I need to get back to her.”
Uh-oh. He was going to be one of those departed who stays behind to take care of his family. Similar to the idea that Barber could pale in shock, a ghost taking care of his family was physiologically impossible. I’d have to try to dissuade him from that path when all was said and done.
“What about you?” Barber asked Elizabeth. “Do you know when your funeral is?”
“I haven’t heard either.” She hedged closer to him. “So, are you going to yours?”
Barber shrugged. “I don’t know. Are you going to yours?”
“I figured I might.”
“Oh yeah?”
Elizabeth smiled and scooted closer. “I’ll make a deal with you.”
“Uh-oh.”
“If you’ll go with me to my funeral, I’ll go with you to yours.”
Barber thought about that for a moment, then gave a reluctant shrug. I tried not to crack up. They were like junior high kids trying to convince themselves they didn’t really want to go to the school dance.
“I guess we could do that,” Barber said. “You in, Patrick?”
“What?” Sussman seemed a thousand solar systems away. He forced his attention back to his colleagues. “I don’t know. Seems kind of morbid.”
“Come on,” Elizabeth said. “We can listen to all the wonderful comments about us from the relatives who hated us most.”
Sussman sighed. “Maybe you’re right.”
“Of course we are.” Elizabeth patted his hand, then glanced at me. “Don’t you think he should go to his funeral, Charlotte?”
“His funeral?” I asked, caught off guard. “Oh, well, sure. Who wouldn’t kill to go to their own funeral?”
“See,” she said, patting his hand again.
“I hope we’re not buried in the same cemetery,” Barber said. “I don’t know if I could handle an eternity with you two as my neighbors.”
Sussman snorted and Elizabeth socked him on the arm.
“I’m just saying,” he said, a wide grin spreading across his face as Elizabeth glowered playfully at him. He turned to me then. “So, Reaper, what’s next?”
I had to think about that one. “First of all,” I said, poking him with an index finger,
Well, he wasn’t getting one. “You know, Uncle Bob, we might want to steer clear of this particular subject, you being my uncle and all.”
“Okay,” he said with a nonchalant shrug, pretending to drop the subject. He sipped from his iced tea, then added, “Swopes seemed pretty upset, though. Figured you might know why.”
“I do. He’s an asshole.”
“He’s a little moody sometimes, I’ll give you that.”
“So was Josef Mengele.”
“But in his defense,” he continued, doing his best to placate me, “this whole rift between you two is my fault. If I’d just kept my mouth shut. Darn those lagers.”
“Well, lagers didn’t turn Swopes into an asshole. I’m pretty sure he was born that way.”
Uncle Bob sucked in a long, deep breath, then dropped the subject for real. “I can see where this is not going. But dammit, Charley, I have a job to do.” I blinked in surprise, and he grinned. “I have to go harass your dad.” He rose from the table and patted my shoulder, which was his way of saying we were good.
I slipped my hand onto his. “Harass him some for me, will you?”
After a soft squeeze, Uncle Bob strolled over to the bar, claiming—loudly—to be an investigator from the CDC. I cringed. Dad found few things less humorous than the thought of the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention paying him a visit. It lay somewhere between an IRS audit and a class action lawsuit.
I glanced back at the lawyers. They were sitting around the table—Uncle Bob had pulled out chairs for them—and talking amongst themselves.
“Do you know when your funeral is?” Elizabeth asked Sussman, her voice tainted with sadness.
He lowered his head. “They’re meeting with the funeral director this afternoon.”
She put her hand on his. “How is Michelle doing?”
“Not well. I need to get back to her.”
Uh-oh. He was going to be one of those departed who stays behind to take care of his family. Similar to the idea that Barber could pale in shock, a ghost taking care of his family was physiologically impossible. I’d have to try to dissuade him from that path when all was said and done.
“What about you?” Barber asked Elizabeth. “Do you know when your funeral is?”
“I haven’t heard either.” She hedged closer to him. “So, are you going to yours?”
Barber shrugged. “I don’t know. Are you going to yours?”
“I figured I might.”
“Oh yeah?”
Elizabeth smiled and scooted closer. “I’ll make a deal with you.”
“Uh-oh.”
“If you’ll go with me to my funeral, I’ll go with you to yours.”
Barber thought about that for a moment, then gave a reluctant shrug. I tried not to crack up. They were like junior high kids trying to convince themselves they didn’t really want to go to the school dance.
“I guess we could do that,” Barber said. “You in, Patrick?”
“What?” Sussman seemed a thousand solar systems away. He forced his attention back to his colleagues. “I don’t know. Seems kind of morbid.”
“Come on,” Elizabeth said. “We can listen to all the wonderful comments about us from the relatives who hated us most.”
Sussman sighed. “Maybe you’re right.”
“Of course we are.” Elizabeth patted his hand, then glanced at me. “Don’t you think he should go to his funeral, Charlotte?”
“His funeral?” I asked, caught off guard. “Oh, well, sure. Who wouldn’t kill to go to their own funeral?”
“See,” she said, patting his hand again.
“I hope we’re not buried in the same cemetery,” Barber said. “I don’t know if I could handle an eternity with you two as my neighbors.”
Sussman snorted and Elizabeth socked him on the arm.
“I’m just saying,” he said, a wide grin spreading across his face as Elizabeth glowered playfully at him. He turned to me then. “So, Reaper, what’s next?”
I had to think about that one. “First of all,” I said, poking him with an index finger,
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