British Library. I
backed away and went out into the front yard. It was obviously not a good time
to ask about funerals.
It was
still warm out and the cicadas were clicking away in the night air. The Pontiac
gleamed in the moonlight. It was so powerful and sleek-looking. I didn’t think
about it. I went inside and took the keys off the hail table. It was an
automatic car. There was nothing to it. I sat on the very edge of the seat,
peering over the steering wheel, slipped the car into R for reverse and pulled
out into the street. I drove up to the Dapolitos’ and past them to the Yacht
Club, turned around and went back down to the stop sign. I didn’t think about
anything. Just drove round and round in circles. Travelling and not arriving.
Chapter
Six
I have to be honest and
say that I wasn’t that keen on Rocco when he was alive. He was really too
drippy for a pet. But now he was dead I felt bad. I kept thinking about
Sweetheart crying and I wanted to do something to help. Anyway, the funeral had
kind of been my idea so I went to the only place I could think of. I had often
parked my bike against the window at Torchinsky’s Funeral Parlour on Main (Est.
1928) while I went to get a piece of pizza from Tony’s. Tony didn’t want
bikes in front of his place because he liked to show off in the window, tossing
dough in the air and making it land on the tray. Putting your bike in front of Torchinsky’s
was okay. It wasn’t like Torchinsky’s had a big display which you could
obscure. They couldn’t exactly do embalming or whatever to bring in the
customers. The window was done in basic black with a large framed map of the
cemeteries in the area marked with their religious denominations. It made it
look as if they charged by distance of delivery.
There
was organ music playing when I entered but otherwise the place was as quiet as
you would expect for the departed. I can’t say it was exactly cosy — but it was a place of embalming. In my great Chinese order embalmed things were second
only to ‘Those Belonging to the Emperor’. The store had to be an important
place. A leatherette sofa stood against one wall with framed photographs of
floral tributes hanging all around. There was a large wooden table with several
small boxes on it which Mrs Torchinsky was polishing. She looked up at me as I
opened the door.
‘So
what do you think?’
‘About
what?’
Mrs Torchinsky
held up a miniature coffin complete with brass handles. ‘The new oak. I think
it looks nice.’
The
coffin was maybe ten inches long and three inches wide. It was perfect but I
couldn’t think what you would use it for.
‘It’s a
little small,’ I said.
Mrs Torchinsky
laughed. ‘It’s only for display. Unless maybe you have a dead gerbil. You don’t
have anything dead, I’m right?’
‘No,
but I wanted to ask about a small, you know, box. It’s for a dog.’
‘For a
dog?’ Mrs Torchinsky shook her head. ‘On this we should one day retire.
The
organ music stopped and a scratching sound started behind the curtain. The
record had finished. From the next room I could hear rhythmic banging. Maybe
someone was trying to get out of one of the oak coffins.
‘Builders,’
said Mrs Torchinsky. ‘Building a new chapel of rest. In our lifetime we should
get some rest.’ She was a comfortable-looking woman but kind of pinched in at
the waist. Her grey hair had been given the general direction of a bun but it
had rebelled and hung in wisps all around her plump face. It wasn’t a bad
thing. It sort of hid the hair which grew on her top lip. She had quite a moustache.
I had to remember to ask Sweetheart if Mrs Torchinsky looked like the bearded
lady she had talked about. I didn’t know how much beard a woman could have.
Mother got little hairs on her chin. I knew that, even though she always put
the tweezers away if I came in when she was using them. Mrs Torchinsky put down
the baby coffin and moved a black cotton
backed away and went out into the front yard. It was obviously not a good time
to ask about funerals.
It was
still warm out and the cicadas were clicking away in the night air. The Pontiac
gleamed in the moonlight. It was so powerful and sleek-looking. I didn’t think
about it. I went inside and took the keys off the hail table. It was an
automatic car. There was nothing to it. I sat on the very edge of the seat,
peering over the steering wheel, slipped the car into R for reverse and pulled
out into the street. I drove up to the Dapolitos’ and past them to the Yacht
Club, turned around and went back down to the stop sign. I didn’t think about
anything. Just drove round and round in circles. Travelling and not arriving.
Chapter
Six
I have to be honest and
say that I wasn’t that keen on Rocco when he was alive. He was really too
drippy for a pet. But now he was dead I felt bad. I kept thinking about
Sweetheart crying and I wanted to do something to help. Anyway, the funeral had
kind of been my idea so I went to the only place I could think of. I had often
parked my bike against the window at Torchinsky’s Funeral Parlour on Main (Est.
1928) while I went to get a piece of pizza from Tony’s. Tony didn’t want
bikes in front of his place because he liked to show off in the window, tossing
dough in the air and making it land on the tray. Putting your bike in front of Torchinsky’s
was okay. It wasn’t like Torchinsky’s had a big display which you could
obscure. They couldn’t exactly do embalming or whatever to bring in the
customers. The window was done in basic black with a large framed map of the
cemeteries in the area marked with their religious denominations. It made it
look as if they charged by distance of delivery.
There
was organ music playing when I entered but otherwise the place was as quiet as
you would expect for the departed. I can’t say it was exactly cosy — but it was a place of embalming. In my great Chinese order embalmed things were second
only to ‘Those Belonging to the Emperor’. The store had to be an important
place. A leatherette sofa stood against one wall with framed photographs of
floral tributes hanging all around. There was a large wooden table with several
small boxes on it which Mrs Torchinsky was polishing. She looked up at me as I
opened the door.
‘So
what do you think?’
‘About
what?’
Mrs Torchinsky
held up a miniature coffin complete with brass handles. ‘The new oak. I think
it looks nice.’
The
coffin was maybe ten inches long and three inches wide. It was perfect but I
couldn’t think what you would use it for.
‘It’s a
little small,’ I said.
Mrs Torchinsky
laughed. ‘It’s only for display. Unless maybe you have a dead gerbil. You don’t
have anything dead, I’m right?’
‘No,
but I wanted to ask about a small, you know, box. It’s for a dog.’
‘For a
dog?’ Mrs Torchinsky shook her head. ‘On this we should one day retire.
The
organ music stopped and a scratching sound started behind the curtain. The
record had finished. From the next room I could hear rhythmic banging. Maybe
someone was trying to get out of one of the oak coffins.
‘Builders,’
said Mrs Torchinsky. ‘Building a new chapel of rest. In our lifetime we should
get some rest.’ She was a comfortable-looking woman but kind of pinched in at
the waist. Her grey hair had been given the general direction of a bun but it
had rebelled and hung in wisps all around her plump face. It wasn’t a bad
thing. It sort of hid the hair which grew on her top lip. She had quite a moustache.
I had to remember to ask Sweetheart if Mrs Torchinsky looked like the bearded
lady she had talked about. I didn’t know how much beard a woman could have.
Mother got little hairs on her chin. I knew that, even though she always put
the tweezers away if I came in when she was using them. Mrs Torchinsky put down
the baby coffin and moved a black cotton
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