Twenty-Four Seconds from Now: Chapters 7–8

The obituary said more, but that was my favorite part.

After reading it, Reverend Creeks gave a sermon about love and respect, which my grandfather stood for, but also how his work as a beloved and disciplined door-knocker maker was finally over.

After reading it, Reverend Creeks gave a sermon about love and respect, which my grandfather stood for, but also how his work as a beloved and disciplined door-knocker maker was finally over.

“Yes, what a noble job to be a maker of door knockers on this earth,” the reverend said, dabbing sweat from his forehead.

The organ player began to play.

“I said, in heaven…” More organ, and more moaning from the congregation.

For me, there was a strangeness to the permanence of it all.

And the black sheep of the family would be standing far away from everyone else, looking on, taking swigs from a pint bottle.

Or when we’d go to the gas station to get five dollars’ worth of gas, five dollars he’d pull from that old sweat-worn wallet bursting at the seams.

“Getting all you can, and canning all you get,” Grandy said, gruff.

“So I’d be a fool to wait for the urge to go away before I start monitoring my sugar. Gotta exercise some self-control. Understand?”

While my feet crunched under the fallen leaves, the sound of cracking seemed like an appropriate soundtrack.

While Reverend Creeks read Scripture and said the Lord’s Prayer.

First around the canopy where my grandfather and family were.

Because my grandfather prided himself on good customer service and my mother prides herself on it even more, once the funeral was over and everything was wrapped up, Ma went into the shop, pulled Mr. Wright’s name from her records, called him and apologized for not being open when he came by for his door knocker—Mr. Wednesday passed away—and told him that to make up for the inconvenience, she would have it delivered.

Aria dipped the brush in the yellow paint, pressed it against the edge of the can to skim the excess.

I tried to tamp my embarrassment.

Not because I wanted to learn how to defend myself—though that was part of it—but because I wanted people to know I was on the wrestling team and that I was engaged in combat daily.

I was wrestling in the 160-pound weight class (was having a growth spurt), but the Washington kid’s 160 looked much different than mine.

I stepped out on the mat, made sure my headgear was tight, got in my stance, shook his hand.

She gave me an ironic thumbs-up.

“Thanks,” I said, clawing at the fries, her sense of humor making the cold and gummy consistency bearable.

I’d be one and done, thrown off my square by being surprised by my own charisma.

She’d call me selfish and unfair.

If this were a movie, this is when the subplot would take over.