Mark Dunn - American Decameron

“So you’re fine with Buck having him cremated?”

“Yes, of course. Is there going to be a funeral?”

“His friends — his juggling friends — they want to do something special for him at the casino.”

“Something like what?”

“They want to put his ashes in little hollow balls and juggle them in tribute.”

“Well, that certainly sounds in keeping with the crazy kind of life our brother led. Who am I to object?”

“That’s what I needed to know. Buck doesn’t like the idea. He thinks it’s kitschy. I’ll talk to him. What is the tank doing?”

“I can look now?”

“Have they been able to stop it?”

“How do you stop a tank?”

“With an anti-ballistic missile?”

The two women hang up.

Mellie gets her youngest brother Troy on the phone. Troy lives in Oklahoma City.

“Hello, Troy. Has Buck called you?”

“Yeah. Did you know there’s a tank on the rampage in San Diego? Is Carla okay?”

“It isn’t in her neighborhood.”

“I think the whole world has gone batty. We have a little girl who lives next to us. She won’t come out of her closet.”

“Is it because of the bombing?”

“That’s what her mother says. The girl is friends with another little girl whose baby sister was in the Murrah Building when it blew up last month. You can’t keep the kids from watching all the coverage on TV. You can’t protect your kids from all the shit that’s out there these days. Nowhere is safe. Not even the heartland of America. I’m glad Taffy’s grown. I still worry about her, though. She’s in New York. There could be a sarin gas attack in the subway. She could be downtown when they try to blow up the World Trade Center again. Who’s driving that tank? Is it O.J. Simpson?”

“I don’t think they know who it is. Maybe it’s the Unabomber. That would make sense. Buck wants to have Shelby cremated. He doesn’t want all those jugglers juggling Shelby’s ashes around, though.”

“Yeah, he told me.”

“Do you have an opinion one way or another?”

“I think it would be disrespectful to juggle his ashes. Even though this is how he made his living. Mom would have disapproved. But Mom is dead. I don’t think Shelby would have minded, but Buck’s the one doing all the heavy lifting here. So I vote to let Buck have the final say. And that’s what I told him.”

“How is it there in Oklahoma City?”

“There’s still a pall over the city. You see it in all the faces. And such anger. Before they found out that it was a homegrown lunatic who did it, this East Indian who runs the convenience store in my neighborhood — somebody shot at him with a BB gun. They thought he was Muslim, like the guys who tried to pull down the Twin Towers. He isn’t Muslim. He’s a Sikh. They wear turbans too. I hate this country. Full of idiots and crazies.”

“I should call Buck.”

“Sorry.”

“About what?”

“Going off on my rant. And Clinton’s no improvement on Bush.”

“I’ll talk to you later.”

“Love you, Sis.”

“Love you too.”

Mellie phones her oldest brother Buck. Buck owns a ranch on the eastern slopes of the Pryor Mountains, south of Billings, Montana. He breeds champion Friesian stallions.

“He was a crazy sonofabitch, but he always made me laugh.”

“Are you flying down tomorrow?”

“Yep.”

“Did he have money? Do you need Artie and me to pitch in for the funeral expenses?”

“I talked to his girlfriend. Dawn. She’s helping me with the arrangements. She said he was set up okay. Shelby never lived beyond his means. Those chainsaws were probably his biggest expense. How are you doing — you and Artie?”

“I’m in shock. You’re never prepared for something like this. Although he did live dangerously.”

“Everybody seems to be living dangerously these days. How are you doing otherwise? I don’t think we’ve talked since somebody tried to burn your high school down.”

“They didn’t just try it. They actually succeeded.”

“Some literal-minded teenaged hoodlum.”

“You mean because the school’s in Burnsville? Because the name of our varsity team is the Blaze?”

“No. Because your mascot’s called ‘Sparky.’”

“This isn’t the time to make me laugh, Buck.”

“What else can you do? Troy says the whole country’s gone off the rails.”

“If you live in Oklahoma City right now, you have every right to see things that way.”

“This kind of stuff goes in cycles. We’re presently in a bad cycle.”

“I hate it. Oh, and Carla’s bonkers.”

“I’ve known that for quite a while.”

“And one of our brothers sawed his head half off.”

“The tabloids are having a field day. Some of their reporters have been calling. I guess Dawn gave them my number. But what could I tell them? I hardly knew Shelby. Dawn said he was good soul, though.”

A silence.

“Are you still there, Mel?”

“I was looking for a Kleenex. I’ve never been to your ranch.”

“It’s nothing special.”

“I’d like to see your horses.”

“Come on up.”

“I will.”

“And I wouldn’t put it off. You know that we’re in the End Times, right?”

Mellie blows her nose. “I feel sometimes like the Rapture’s already happened and we all got left behind.”

Buck laughs.

Mellie says, “I was reading something in a magazine about Christopher Reeve. He’s doing equestrian events now. When he’s not acting. Take a guess at the name of his horse.”

“I know the name of his horse. I pay attention to these things, Mel. It’s Buck.”

“The world can’t just be all doom and gloom, right, Buck? Especially now that we’ve got Superman riding around on a big, beautiful steed, ready to make things right again.”

Nine days later…oh, must I say it?

The Realtor’s name was Maggie Kessler. Bill Hollon, the newly married husband of Heather Hollon, sat in the front seat of Maggie’s 1995 Buick Century, Heather in the back.

Maggie had jowls. She wore thick mascara that made her eyes pop. She kept her hair short and feathered like Angela Lansbury when she was playing Jessica Fletcher, the mystery-writing sleuthess.

“As you can see, this subdivision is relatively new. In fact, there are several lots still for sale. But I want you to see a finished house which I feel would be just perfect for you.”

“Trees are tall,” said Bill Hollon, looking at the great leafy oaks that crowded the main entrance to the subdivision.

“You rarely see stands of old growth trees so nicely preserved in this part of Mississippi. Most of the forests that used to cover Desoto County were chopped down and converted to farmland years ago. Not that the developers didn’t have to do their own share of bulldozing and leveling off to put these houses in here. It’s always a trade-off.”

Heather hadn’t heard a word Maggie said. She was fascinated by the ducks.

“Look at the duck pond, honey,” said Heather, touching her new husband on the shoulder.

“Oh yeah,” said Bill. “Nice duck pond.”

Maggie the Realtor handed Bill a brochure from her bag on the floor. “There are ten different models in this subdivision, but the builder has been very generous with customizing allowances. I don’t work for him, though. I just thought you’d like to — do you like that one? It’s Number Seven. The Tuscany. Anyway, the one I want to show you is a resale. That’s why they’re letting an outside broker like me come in here.”

“How long did the previous owners live there?”