Everything but the Squeal

31

The Mountain's funeral took place on the first sunny day in weeks.

It was surprising because of the size of the turnout, the width of the grave, and the presence of Donnie in the company of a large woman who wore bright orange hair and half an inch of makeup, makeup thicker than the average circus clown's. From the way he looked at her, she had to be his mother.

Two enormously fat people, the Mountain's parents, stood next to the minister. Tommy stood in the place of second honor, on the other side of the minister. He and the Mountain's mother were weeping freely. The Mountain's father was dry-eyed, staring stolidly at the horizon. He wore a dark suit, buttoned over a plaid shirt of the type the Mountain had favored. The Mountain had worn his father's old shirts.

The minister seemed to be at something of a loss as he surveyed the crowd. I didn't blame him.

Other than Jessica, Morris, and Hammond, who'd insisted on coming as a kind of penance for Bruner, the crowd was largely made up of Oki-Burger regulars. The Young Old Woman and the Toothless Man clung to each other in the presence of death, probably the only remaining item on their once-long list of fears. Tammy and Velveeta were decked out in full Hollywood mourning. Velveeta had even found a black feather boa, while Tammy had to settle for a black leather motorcycle jacket and a miniskirt to match. They were wearing almost as much makeup as Donnie’s mother, and it was running copiously, creating long black streaks down their cheeks.

Hammond stomped out his cigar as a gesture of respect as the minister began to speak. The minister obviously hadn't known the Mountain. He did some spiritual boilerplate about the tragedy of a young life cut short, but the only time he caught the crowd's attention was when he revealed the Mountain's real name, something no one but his parents had known. At some point in his life, the Mountain had thought of himself as William Edward Dinwiddie the Third.

William Edward Dinwiddie the Second stared at the dead grass in front of him as his wife clung to his arm, her oversize frame shaken by sobs. Only Tammy and Velveeta cried louder.

But then it was Tommy's turn to speak.

“He did what he hadda do,” Tommy said in a combination of Okinawan English and pure, deep grief. “He sent da kids home. He was a big fat guy, but he sent da fuckin’ kids home.” The minister blinked. “Nobody else done it. Lotta times I hadda take care of da tables because he was workin’ da pay phone, gettin’ da kids home.” Tears rolled down his cheeks. “There's kids all over da place, they'd be dead if da Mountain hadn't sent them home.” He stepped back, squeezing his eyes into fierce little slits. Salt water dripped from his chin.

The minister mumbled the appropriate concluding mumbo jumbo and backed away as the Mountain's mother threw a handful of dirt into the grave. Then she collapsed against her husband, slipping an arm inside his suit jacket, against his plaid shirt. He looked down at the arm as though it were an anaconda curled around his middle, and the crowd started to disperse. Some of them were chattering, working on first-draft gossip that they'd refine and share later with those who hadn't been there.

There wasn't much left to do: Aimee was home and undergoing therapy in Kansas City. The Cap'n's restaurants had been closed down. Mrs. Brussels was in a jail hospital, burned and blind, and the other kids were in Juvenile Hall, waiting for someone to turn up to claim them. So far, according to Hammond, only two had been claimed.

“Your son was a hero,” I said to the Mountain's parents as the others turned their backs on the grave. Two guys with shovels were filling it up on union time, disgruntled because the service hadn't lasted longer. If it had, they might have gotten time-and-a-half.

“He was a big fat dope,” William Edward Dinwiddie the Second said. “My whole life. My whole life I worked so he could go to college.” Despite her formidable bulk, Mrs. Dinwiddie seemed cowed by the fierceness in her husband's voice. “So what was he? A fucking two-bit waiter.”

It had never occurred to me to wonder why the Mountain had hit the streets. Now I knew.

“With all due respect to your loss,” I said, “you're an asshole.”

He called something hoarse and obscene after me as I turned away from them and caught up with Tommy. Jessica, Morris, and Hammond followed.

“I've got some money,” I said to Tommy. Aimee's mother had sent me a bonus of five thousand dollars. I'd cashed the check, deposited half, and had the other half in my pocket.

“So?” Tommy said, wheeling on me. He was ashamed that we'd seen him crying.

“So here's twenty-five hundred bucks,” I said, pressing the roll of bills into his hand. “Use it to hire someone who does what the Mountain did.”

Tommy curled his hand around the wad of hundreds and then opened it again. He pressed the bills back into my hand.

“Already did,” he said. “Whassa matter, you don't think I know what's important or something?” He sounded indignant.

“I don't mean to clear tables. I mean to send the kids home.”

He glared at me as though I were subhuman. “So do I,” he said. Then he turned his back to me and stalked off toward a waiting car.

In front of me, Donnie and his mother were heading toward their car. She was hanging back, complaining that she didn't know why she'd been brought all this way to attend the funeral of someone she'd never met. Donnie kept darting ahead of her. He was restraining his impulse to run. The next time he really ran, I was wondering, who would catch him?

“For Chrissakes, hold on,” Hammond grumbled behind me, and I realized that I'd increased my pace, limping on my bad knee to keep up with Donnie. Hammond was following, pissed off and shamefaced and sucking on a new cigar. Behind him were Jessica and Morris.

They had their backs to the grave and they were holding hands.