passed, putting homemade ice cream in the freezer.
It had not been a tactless conversation with the Blumbergs, by any means. In fact, I had brought up selling the house, stating a longtime fantasy of owning one of the little condos down in the meadows. We ended with Mr. Blumberg saying that when I was ready, he would buy the property and add twelve thousand dollars to the market value to make sure I would "have enough." He was a stockbroker, ridiculously wealthy, Oma had always said. And the fact that he couldn't wait to get our little ranch shoveled away to extend his property didn't seem offensive to me. I understood.
I signed for Mr. Glenn. Paper after paper. First and foremost, I signed emancipation papers proclaiming me an independent for the three months until I was eighteen, so I could legally make decisions concerning Aleese's cremation, my finances, and the future. I read the fine print of most of the documents and understood more than I thought I would.
"Mr. Blumberg says to make sure you understand you can
stay and finish the school year. Take your time. Find a condo or something you really like. I will help you. He will help you."
I watched Mr. Glenn, curious about his doe-eyed look. I noticed that all the people who stopped in for brief visits at the house had had this same gaze, as if they were feeling something I couldn't quite understand.
"I'll ... um ... keep in touch about my search. I'm definitely staying in Trinity Falls, so...," I babbled, signing the last page. I could imagine the little condos quite clearly because I'd dreamed about having one all to myself since I was about eight years old. I took long walks to watch the construction and the young couples move into them. They were probably expensive with their view of the islands, but our property value was more than enough to buy a condo, even if all a new owner wanted to do was knock down the "eyesore."
I could go to college, too, at Astor College, fifteen minutes away. All the while, I could be a part of this Trinity Falls I had attached myself to through a lens. I could do it as a person with a clean house, as a respectable person. No matter who was to hear stories about Aleese from the police or the paramedics, I could prove I was different. That had become important while I was cleaning.
"Great. Well, let's go to the service," he said, standing up and looking at his watch.
"Oh! Um..." I shot up. "You don't have to come. It's just ... me and the minister. It's private. I mean that's nice of you, but um—"
"Not what the newspaper said," he mumbled, grabbing a copy of the
Atlantic City Press.
I hadn't called any newspaper. I'd had one conversation with the coroner's office about a "straight-to-the-crematory" and one conversation with Oma's minister, whom I had called.
Must have been the minister,
I decided, staring at this obituary. It said some things I didn't even know about Aleese, like that she had attended the University of Missouri. I had only heard Oma refer to her as "a dropout who couldn't even stay long enough to find a husband and have me ten grandkids." It contained the exact name of the newspaper in Beirut she had worked for, but not the dates. It seemed to me Oma had mentioned that Aleese had only kept a full-time job for six months of her adult life, "because she was out of her element, should have been having kids." Oma had always been a little nutty about her own missed dream of ten kids. Oh well. The obituary made Aleese sound respectable.
At the bottom, sure enough, were the time, day, and place I'd arranged with Reverend McNaughton at the little Methodist church on Main Street that Oma and I used to go to sometimes. It said nothing about the service being private, and I realized I had not mentioned that to Reverend McNaughton, not that it would matter.
"May I keep this?" I asked Mr. Glenn.
"Absolutely."
"And don't worry about coming. Honestly. In spite of this ... it's private."
No one would come.
I agreed to let
It had not been a tactless conversation with the Blumbergs, by any means. In fact, I had brought up selling the house, stating a longtime fantasy of owning one of the little condos down in the meadows. We ended with Mr. Blumberg saying that when I was ready, he would buy the property and add twelve thousand dollars to the market value to make sure I would "have enough." He was a stockbroker, ridiculously wealthy, Oma had always said. And the fact that he couldn't wait to get our little ranch shoveled away to extend his property didn't seem offensive to me. I understood.
I signed for Mr. Glenn. Paper after paper. First and foremost, I signed emancipation papers proclaiming me an independent for the three months until I was eighteen, so I could legally make decisions concerning Aleese's cremation, my finances, and the future. I read the fine print of most of the documents and understood more than I thought I would.
"Mr. Blumberg says to make sure you understand you can
stay and finish the school year. Take your time. Find a condo or something you really like. I will help you. He will help you."
I watched Mr. Glenn, curious about his doe-eyed look. I noticed that all the people who stopped in for brief visits at the house had had this same gaze, as if they were feeling something I couldn't quite understand.
"I'll ... um ... keep in touch about my search. I'm definitely staying in Trinity Falls, so...," I babbled, signing the last page. I could imagine the little condos quite clearly because I'd dreamed about having one all to myself since I was about eight years old. I took long walks to watch the construction and the young couples move into them. They were probably expensive with their view of the islands, but our property value was more than enough to buy a condo, even if all a new owner wanted to do was knock down the "eyesore."
I could go to college, too, at Astor College, fifteen minutes away. All the while, I could be a part of this Trinity Falls I had attached myself to through a lens. I could do it as a person with a clean house, as a respectable person. No matter who was to hear stories about Aleese from the police or the paramedics, I could prove I was different. That had become important while I was cleaning.
"Great. Well, let's go to the service," he said, standing up and looking at his watch.
"Oh! Um..." I shot up. "You don't have to come. It's just ... me and the minister. It's private. I mean that's nice of you, but um—"
"Not what the newspaper said," he mumbled, grabbing a copy of the
Atlantic City Press.
I hadn't called any newspaper. I'd had one conversation with the coroner's office about a "straight-to-the-crematory" and one conversation with Oma's minister, whom I had called.
Must have been the minister,
I decided, staring at this obituary. It said some things I didn't even know about Aleese, like that she had attended the University of Missouri. I had only heard Oma refer to her as "a dropout who couldn't even stay long enough to find a husband and have me ten grandkids." It contained the exact name of the newspaper in Beirut she had worked for, but not the dates. It seemed to me Oma had mentioned that Aleese had only kept a full-time job for six months of her adult life, "because she was out of her element, should have been having kids." Oma had always been a little nutty about her own missed dream of ten kids. Oh well. The obituary made Aleese sound respectable.
At the bottom, sure enough, were the time, day, and place I'd arranged with Reverend McNaughton at the little Methodist church on Main Street that Oma and I used to go to sometimes. It said nothing about the service being private, and I realized I had not mentioned that to Reverend McNaughton, not that it would matter.
"May I keep this?" I asked Mr. Glenn.
"Absolutely."
"And don't worry about coming. Honestly. In spite of this ... it's private."
No one would come.
I agreed to let
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