“Girls!? Where are all the spoons? And the cheese grater!? Girls?” The mother making her way to the open back door had her confusion doubled when she got there. “What is going on?! Who died? WHAT died?!”
From their positions in front of ten small dirt mounds in the back yard grass, one tall head and three tiny ones turned to her at once. “Do you mind? This is a solemn occasion” Snubbed Alice through her makeshift black veil. “Yeah! Show some respect!” April chimed in and gruffly turned back to face the mounds. Her sisters and most remarkably, the father, all turned their heads back as well. The services continued as the mother quietly stood, arms folded, and waited on the back porch.
Alma spoke to the mounds in the mourners united voice: “We are gathered here . . . and one over there on the porch too, but she doesn’t know it and is being rude, to honor and commemorate the passing of these kitchen utensils. May they rest in peace. Or peaces. It could be plural and then it would be like a funny pun too. Pieces and peaces. You get it? Okay. Amen.”
The foursome turned to the house and began to walk heavily toward it. “You didn’t deliver that joke very well. No solid punchline.” Alice criticized and April agreed, “When you try to be funny I get sleepy.” The Father put a hand out and stopped his daughters with one motion, “Girls. Have you forgotten why we came here? This is a funeral.” The three black clad bowling pins stood still, heads lowered as the father went inside followed quickly by the mother.
“I thought I had it all figured out until I saw you had joined them. Why did you get out of bed and into your good suit to mourn over what are apparently all of my cooking tools? And if you think I want to hear a joke about my cooking, you have another think coming.” The mother plopped down on the bed while the father returned to his night clothes.
“What did you make for old Ed’s funeral reception?” Questioned the father.
“Potato salad. Why?” The mother looked at him intently waiting for the joke.
“And you make something for every funeral reception. That’s nice but it’s been a busy year. How many potato salads have you had to make?”
“Five. Oh. I see. Five. They think . . . nope. I still don’t understand.”
The father sighed and explained, “They really liked old Ed. The other funerals we’ve gone to were for people the girls did not know. Ed used to give them pennies to throw into the wishing pond at the church park. He did that for all the kids but I guess we adults never caught wind of it. So without our knowing, our girls have experience death for the first time. But true to form they did not shed a tear but went searching for the killer. Alma wasn’t buying the heart attack story she read in the obituary. They came to the conclusion that right after each time you make potato salad, we have to go to a funeral like Ed’s. Apparently generosity won the day and they decided that you were innocent but that your utensils needed to learn a lesson about being dead. I made sure they kept them all wrapped and they can dig them up later. No harm done.”
“Oh. Okay then. What did they say when they woke you?” The mother asked clearing up one last question mark.
“April pulled up my eye lids and Alma said that you were a murderer. Alice nodded behind her so I thought I better check things out. After a bit of talking, they concluded that I would never marry a death dealer.” The father trying very hard not to smile got under covers and asked the mother, “Could you turn the light out on your way down?”
The mother headed back downstairs where the girls were still mumbling in the lawn.
“Her shoes were much shinier. And she had a matching purse and a bracelet.” April noted gravely examining Alma’s shoes. “No. You will not do like this. We may have to have a do over. Your socks are inside out and your hair is a mess.” Alma’s brows creased with anger, and just in time Alice jumped in, “Shhh you two. The mother is watching.” All three girls resumed staring at their feet and walked past their mother into the house. April being the smallest took the longest to climb the stairs. She stopped to face the mother. Looking up to make eye contact, April confided, “You know the only problem with the fashion at funerals is the lack of color. They’ve got the accessories down well.”
The mother raised a single eyebrow, “I thought you were all sad about Ed’s dying?”
April put a finger to the air as if to add something and turned running up to her bedroom. Pausing briefly at the head of the stairs she called one last observation down to the mother, “Now if jeans and t-shirts were good for funerals we would not have to change right now! You see my point?!”
