The two looked enough alike to be identical twins on whom the years had made a few minor modifications. Henryâs face was narrower; Williamâs chin and forehead, more pronounced. When William reached the table, he asked permission to join us, and Henry gestured him into the remaining chair.
âEvening, Kinsey. Hard at work, I see. Rosieâll be out momentarily to take your supper order. Youâre having calfâs liver pudding and kohlrabi.â
âYouâre really scaring me,â I said.
William opened his paper, selected the second section, and flapped the first page over to the obituaries. Though his lifelong hypochondria had been mitigated by marriage, William still harbored a fascination for those people whose infirmities had ushered them out of the world. It annoyed him when an article gave no clue about the nature of the final illness. In moments of depression or insecurity, he reverted to his old ways, attending the funeral services of total strangers, inquiring discreetly of the other mourners as to cause of death. Key to his query was identifying early indications of the fatal illnessâblurred vision, vertigo, shortness of breathâthe very symptoms he was destined to experience within the coming week. He was never at ease until heâd solicited the true story. âGastric disturbances,â heâd report to us later with a significant stare. âIf the fellowâd only consulted medical authorities at the first hint of trouble, he might be with us today. His brother said so.â
âWe all have to die of something,â Henry invariably said.
William would turn peevish. âWell, you donât have to be such a pessimist. Vigilance is my point. Listening to the bodyâs messagesââ
âMine says, You are going to die one day regardless so wise up, you old fart.â
Tonight, Henry glanced at Williamâs paper politely. âAnyone we know?â
William shook his head. âCouple of kids in their seventies; only one with a photo. Couldnât have been taken much later than 1952.â He squinted at the page. âI hope we didnât look that smarmy when we were young.â
âYou certainly did,â Henry said. He took a sip of whiskey. âIf you go first, I know exactly the picture Iâm going to give the paper for your obit. You in those knickers the summer we toured Atlantic City. Your hairâs parted down the center and it looks like youâre wearing lipstick.â
William leaned closer. âHeâs still jealous because I took Alice Vandermeer away from him. She could jitterbug like the dickens and had money to burn.â
Henry said, âShe had a wen on her cheek the size and color of a small Concord grape. I never knew where to look so I palmed her off on him.â
William turned several pages to the classified ads, where he compared descriptions of âfoundâ dogs and cats with those reported missing, often spotting a match. While Henry and I continued to open and file Klotildeâs medical bills, William entertained us with all the livestock currently being offered for sale. He glanced up at me. âWell, hereâs something. Still need office space? You should check this one out. Five hundred square feet, newly renovated, downtown. Two fifty a month, available immediately.â
I stopped what I was doing and tilted my head in his direction. âYouâre kidding. Let me see that.â
William handed me the section, pointing to the item, which read:
For lease: 500 sq ft in newly renovated Victorian, heart of downtown near courthouse; private bath and separate entrance w/ private deck. $250/mo. Call Richard after 6:00 pm.
The phone number was listed.
I read the lines twice but they didnât seem to change. âIâll bet itâs a dump. They always embellish in these ads.â
âIt wonât hurt to call.â
âYou really think
Kent Flannery, Joyce Marcus