I'll Love You When You're More Like Me by M.E. Kerr

“She’s not out on the deck,” he said.
    â€œThen she’s gone to bed,” I said, “and left the tape on.”
    â€œThey’re in the living room,” Charlie said. “Let’s go for a walk on the beach.”
    We left our shoes up in the dunes and rolled up our pant legs. We walked all the way to the next town on the hardpacked sand by the surf. I don’t remember what exactly we talked about, but it wasn’t anything to do with Mama and Lamont. We didn’t mention that once.
    We were laughing and everything, but I couldn’t tell you what at. I had this knot beginning in my stomach thattold me I’d be swallowing down liquid Maalox until the sun came up.
    I took deep breaths of the salt air and tried to remember everything I’d ever learned in a Yoga class I’d once taken, to calm me down. I kept repeating “Chee chee,” which was my own secret mantra from the Transcendental Meditation course Mama and I had paid seventy-five dollars apiece for, and I said to myself, “Damn you, Mama,” over and over, too, which made me feel better than anything.
    On the way back practically all the lights were out in the large mansions overlooking the Atlantic. We watched the ones in the little beach houses go off. We passed some kids lying on blankets in the sand, and sitting around a campfire drinking beer.
    â€œHel-lo, Wally. Hel-lo, Charlie,” some girl called out.
    â€œHello, Myra,” Wally said.
    â€œWhy Myra Tuttle,” Charlie said, “I thought you were a nice girl.”
    â€œOh tell me more !” she screeched.
    When the house Mama and I were renting came into view, there were a lot of lights on, including the outside ones. The wind was blowing up harder as we trudged up to the dunes to collect our shoes, whipping the sand against our faces.
    Charlie said, “Reluctant Admission.”
    â€œI hope it’s really gross,” Wally said.
    â€œI couldn’t have made out with Easy Ethel if she had stayed with me. That was just macho talk, that was just a phony lie.”
    â€œI don’t think you missed much,” Wally said.
    â€œReluctant Admission,” I said. “Mama gave me thatcuff bracelet. I’ve never even been on a date.”
    â€œNow that is gross,” Wally said.
    â€œTonight’s my first night out. . . ever,” I said.
    â€œWelcome out,” Charlie said.
    â€œOh all right,” Wally said. “Reluctant Admission. This is for you, Sabra.”
    â€œDon’t talk so fast,” I said, “I don’t want to miss this.”
    â€œWell?” Charlie said.
    â€œWell?” I said.
    â€œI lied when I said I didn’t know what I was going to be,” Wally said. “What I’m going to be is an undertaker.”
    â€œOh that ,” Charlie said.

11. Wallace Witherspoon, Jr.
    Sunday my father had to drive to the Hauppauge morgue to pick up a new guest. That left Mr. Trumble and me to put the caskets back in the Selection Room. This is the room where relatives come to pick out the coffin and finalize the financial arrangements for a funeral.
    My father got the idea to do ours over because of an article in The Knell . That’s a monthly magazine published by The American Funeral Directors’ Association. According to the article, the Selection Room was the most important one in a mortuary. It could make the difference between a funeral selling for under a thousand dollars and one going for three thousand or more, depending on lighting, decor and ambiance. (On the front cover of The Knell, there is an hourglass with the sand running out.)
    Our Selection Room had just been newly wallpapered with violet fleurs-de-lys on a white background. While the interior decorating had been going on, the caskets were stacked in the garage. Mr. Trumble and I had to lug them back in and arrange them so that the expensive ones were in prominent positions under the