Read Cadillac Cathedral for Free Online Page B

for Arvo to do whatever he could to get his mother outside and onto the bus for her journey home.
    Good-bye!
    Arvo washed the dried mud from the hearse’s flank and the dust from the windows — pure pleasure. There wasn’t much he could do about the fine hair-line crack in a corner of one panel of glass, but he could make sure all the windows were spotless.
    He paused to admire the hearse while eating a slice of the date loaf Cynthia had left for him yesterday. She seemed to have got into the habit of bringing some of her baking with her now and then, though he was not to let the others know. In return, he sometimes gave her a loaf of his pulla , the sweet bread he’d baked from his mother’s recipe.
    When he’d got down into the pit and looked up at the hearse’s undercarriage, he could see that all moveable parts could do with a shot of grease. But first he wiped everything down to get rid of the accumulated dirt — to be expected in the circumstances.
    On his way through town tomorrow he would stop at Henderson’s Funeral Home to pick up a casket suitable for a friend who happened to be a long-forgotten one-term member of Her Majesty’s Loyal Opposition. Martin was one of those former public officials whose obituary must have been a surprise to people who’d thought he’d died long years ago. The people of Portuguese Creek may have been the only ones aware of the quiet retirement life of Martin Glass, down at the water’s edge.
    Once he was satisfied with the sound of the engine, he went insidethe house just long enough to telephone the hospital, identify himself again as Martin Glass’s executor, and let those in charge of bodies know that he would be there to pick up Martin tomorrow on behalf of the Henderson Funeral Home, probably late afternoon, in order to bring him home for burial. When he returned to the shed he carried a wool blanket his mother had brought with her from Finland, draped it over the weather-damaged seat and tucked it in where he could. Now a perfect row of little Suomi birches marched from one end of the bench to the other.
    Of course this hearse must not be allowed out on the road again without receiving a good wash and a new coat of wax, a task that kept him occupied for more than an hour. He wiped again over the head lamps and the large panels of glass, polished the chrome handles, and then washed out the interior of the chamber where a casket, and eventually Martin, would rest.
    For some time he’d been aware of the muffled sound of lowered voices outside the shed but had thought nothing of it. People sometimes chatted as they walked away from the Store. But now there was an impatient banging on the inset door, an attempt to push it open.
    “Arvo? You in there?”
    It was Matt Foreman’s voice. Running the Store and post office made him think he had the right to know everyone’s business. It was as though he wanted you to know he could read your mail if he wanted to but had generously chosen not to — so the least you could do in return was to tell him more of your business than you’d tell anyone else.
    “Who is it?”
    “It’s Matt.”
    “Who?”
    Why let him think he sprang immediately to mind? There wereother Matts in the world. After owning the store for only four or five years he was still a newcomer here.
    “It’s Matthew Foreman.”
    “Sorry Matt. I guess I’d never heard you shouting through a locked solid-oak door before. What do you want?”
    “Just checking. We heard you moving around in there but it’s not like you to work with the door closed and locked.”
    “The ‘closed’ is meant to be a hint. The ‘locked’ is for them that don’t know how to take a hint.”
    “We just want to make sure you’re okay. Maggie said you were feeling a little dizzy when she saw you Monday.”
    “I always feel a little dizzy on Mondays. The sound of everyone racing off to work on Monday mornings makes my head spin.”
    “I hope you don’t start up any motors