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them run-ning off to-get-her.
"Where did they go?" he as-ked.
"Nobody knows for su-re," Do-ug whis-pe-red. "Ca-li-for-nia, may-be?"
Timmy won-de-red if his fri-end was ba-sing that on so-met-hing he'd
he-ard, or on his own wish ful-fil-lment re-gar-ding his fat-her.
Somebody sob-bed lo-udly ne-ar the front of the church. The boys fell
qu-i-et.
"Sorry abo-ut yo-ur grand-pa, man," Barry fi-nal-ly sa-id, sta-ring at the
flo-or.
Doug nod-ded. "Me, too. He was co-ol."
Timmy mumb-led his thanks, and then glan-ced aro-und the church for his
pa-rents. They we-re ne-ar the front, sha-king hands with mo-ur-ners. His
fat-her was dab-bing his eyes with a hand-kerc-hi-ef. As he watc-hed, the
crowd par-ted, and Timmy got his first re-al glimp-se of his grand-fat-her's
cas-ket. He bit his lip, dra-wing blo-od, and his hands clenc-hed in-to fists.
The thing in-si-de the cof-fin didn't lo-ok li-ke the man he re-mem-be-red.
That man had be-en full of li-fe, even in old age. He' d be-en funny, al-ways
smi-ling or tel-ling jokes. The pa-le, waxy fi-gu-re lying in the cof-fin
wasn't smi-ling. It lo-oked li-ke a de-part-ment sto-re man-ne-qu-in. Even his
grand-fat-her's ha-ir was com-bed dif-fe-rently. His Fre-ema-son' s ring
ador-ned his hand, the sto-ne glin-ting un-der the lights. He was dres-sed in
a su-it. When had his grand-fat-her ever worn a su-it? Ne-ver, at le-ast as
far as Timmy co-uld re-mem-ber. He wo-re slacks and but-to-ned shirts with the
sle-eves rol-led up. Even when he went to church, his grand-fat-her had
pre-fer-red swe-aters to su-its.
Doug sen-sed his fri-end's dis-com-fort. "You gon-na go up the-re? Yo-ur
dad lo-oks re-al-ly up-set."
"I don't want to. Gu-ess I sho-uld, tho-ugh."
His mot-her ca-ught his eye and smi-led sadly. Her exp-res-si-on alo-ne
bec-ko-ned him, a uni-que form of te-le-pathy sha-red only by pa-rents and
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the-ir child-ren. Re-luc-tantly obe-ying the com-mand, Timmy sto-od up.
"I'll see you guys la-ter."
He shuf-fled for-ward, we-aving his way thro-ugh the adults. They
of-fe-red con-do-len-ces as he pas-sed by them, along with con-des-cen-ding
pats on the he-ad, as if he we-re six ye-ars old rat-her than twel-ve. Timmy
did his best to be po-li-te to them, but in-si-de, he ba-rely ack-now-led-ged
the-ir pre-sen-ce. His at-ten-ti-on was fi-xed on the fi-gu-re in the cof-fin,
the thing that was sup-po-sed to be his grand-fat-her.
Barry and Do-ug watc-hed him go. Barry tug-ged at his tie. His col-lar
felt li-ke it was cho-king him, and even with the air con-di-ti-oning tur-ned
on, the church was still hot in-si-de.
Doug le-aned over and whis-pe-red in Barry's ear.
"This sucks. I fe-el bad for him, but I don't know what to say."
"Me ne-it-her. I've hel-ped my old man with do-zens of the-se. It's
al-ways we-ird, and you fe-el bad for the pe-op-le, but the-re's not re-al-ly
anyt-hing to say. 'Sorry' just do-esn 't se-em to co-ver it. Es-pe-ci-al-ly
this ti-me."
"Why now mo-re than the ot-hers?"
"Because Timmy's our fri-end. And be-ca-use his grand-pa was pretty
co-ol."
"Yeah," Do-ug ag-re-ed. "He was. I li-ked him."
"Sometimes," Barry sa-id, "I think he was the only co-ol grown-up I knew."
When they lo-oked up aga-in, the crowd of adults had swal-lo-wed Timmy
who-le.
Timmy had wal-ked the red-car-pe-ted church ais-le hund-reds of ti-mes.
He' d wal-ked it for com-mu-ni-on and on Yo-uth Sun-day when it was his turn
to ta-ke the of-fe-ring and when the yo-uth gro-up put on the an-nu-al
Christ-mas pa-ge-ant. Last ye-ar, he ' d be-en Joseph and Ka-tie had pla-yed
the part of Mary and all of the adults had re-mar-ked how cu-te they lo-oked
to-get-her. Timmy had tho-ught he might die of em-bar-ras-sment, and die all
over aga-in when Ka-tie squ-e-ezed his hand whi-le they to-ok the-ir bow as
the pa-ris-hi-oners ap-pla-uded. He knew the ais-le li-ke he knew the
ce-me-tery out-si-de, but the ais-le had ne-ver se-emed lon-ger or mo-re
crow-ded than it did at that mo-ment. The he-at was clo-ying, ma-de wor-se by
the crowd, and his su-it felt li-ke it was stuck to his skin. The air was a
mix-tu-re of co-log-ne and per-fu-me and cand-le smo-ke. He pus-hed his way
thro-ugh and emer-ged at the front.
He sto-od in front of the cof-fin, lo-oked down at his grand-fat-her's
corp-se, and did his best not to cry. It was even wor-se up clo-se.
Timmy clo-sed his eyes, trying in va-in to get rid of the ima-ge. The
thing in the cas-ket even smel-led dif-fe-rent. His grand-fat-her had al-ways
smel-led li-ke Old Spi-ce af-ters-ha-ve. This still fi-gu-re had no smell. He
ope-ned his eyes aga-in and glan-ced at the corp-se 's hands, fol-ded ne-atly
ac-ross its chest. His grand-fat-her' s skin had al-ways felt ro-ugh and warm
his hands de-eply cal-lu-sed from ye-ars of hard la-bor. He won-de-red how
they ' d fe-el now. Shud-de-ring, Timmy to-ok a de-ep bre-ath and held it. His
ears rang, a high-pitc-hed, cons-tant to-ne, and his mo-uth felt dry. His
he-art thud-ded in his chest. He let the air out of his lungs with a sigh.
His mot-her put her arm aro-und him and kis-sed his he-ad. She smel-led of
li-lac so-ap and ha-irsp-ray.
"You okay, swe-etie?"
He nod-ded.
"They did a re-al go-od job. It lo-oks li-ke Grand-pa's just sle-eping,
do-esn't it?"
Timmy wan-ted to scre-am at her. No, it did not lo-ok li-ke Grand-pa was
sle-eping. It lo-oked not-hing li-ke that at all. In fact, it didn't even
lo-ok li-ke Grand-pa.
At twel-ve, Timmy was well awa-re of the fal-la-ci-es adults so-me-ti-mes
used. "Do as I say, not as I do" was a big one. Many ti-mes, he' d over-he-ard
Mr. Smelt-zer pro-mi-sing Barry that he ' d tan his hi-de sho-uld he ever
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catch Barry and his fri-ends drin-king or smo-king ci-ga-ret-tes, yet Clark
Smelt-zer star-ted and en-ded each day drunk as a skunk and smo-ked two and a
half packs be-fo-re night-fall.
"It's for yo-ur own go-od" was anot-her. When he was yo-un-ger, Timmy used
to be-li-eve that he had an in-vi-sib-le ac-comp-li-ce na-med U' rown Go-ode
who only his pa-rents co-uld see. Timmy had on-ce shot a do-ve with his BB
gun, and his fat-her had gro-un-ded him and con-fis-ca-ted the we-apon as a
re-sult (sho-oting do-ves wit-ho-ut a li-cen-se was il-le-gal in the sta-te of
Pen-nsyl-va-nia).
Two days la-ter, his fat-her had left to go de-er hun-ting in Pot-ter
Co-unty. He'd re-tur-ned ho-me brag-ging abo-ut how he' d shot three de-er,
one over the le-gal li-mit, and had gi-ven the third to a fri-end.
Why was Timmy gro-un-ded for sho-oting the do-ve wit-ho-ut a li-cen-se
whi-le his fat-her had ba-si-cal-ly do-ne the sa-me thing? It was for U 'rown
Go-ode. Had his in-vi-sib-le fri-end ac-tu-al-ly fi-red the fa-tal shot?
Santa Cla-us and the To-oth Fa-iry and the Eas-ter Bunny we-re adult
fal-la-ci-es, as well.
Grown-ups en-co-ura-ged the-ir kids to be-li-eve in them, only to yank the
wo-ol from the-ir eyes and chuck-le over the joke when they got ol-der,
kil-ling wha-te-ver be-li-ef in ma-gic the child still clung to. Kil-ling
the-ir in-no-cen-ce. So-me-ti-mes, Timmy won-de-red if may-be God was just
anot-her fal-lacy, too. Af-ter all, his pa-rents in-sis-ted that He was re-al,
just li-ke San-ta Cla-us. Both of them li-ved at the top of the world and kept [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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