Funeral Home Evenings

By Patricia Wiles

Winner of the 2005 Young Adult Fiction Award from the Association for Mormon Letters.

As Kevin helps his parents with the family mortuary, his dream of working for National Geographic seems a million years away—until he and his friends are picked for a special science class at Armadillo Middle School. The class is taught by Dr. Alfred Leopold Wallace, the pompous proprietor of the local Arkansas Marsupial Museum and Discount Souvenir Outlet. Kevin’s friends aren’t keen about the doctor or his possums, but Kevin’s sure that Dr. Wallace can help him become the youngest biologist in history. All he has to do is get Dr. Wallace to notice his scientific genius! The harder Kevin tries, however, the worse his projects flop—including the midterm tarantula project that escapes and terrorizes the funeral home. The class trip to Seven Devils Swamp is Kevin’s last chance—if he doesn’t let his pride get in the way of his final project.
 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Feb 2, 2016
• ISBN: 9781504029384

Patricia Wiles

Patricia Wiles is a member of the Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators and the Authors Guild. Her essays have aired on public radio and appeared in magazines, and she’s received awards from the Kentucky Press Association for her work in print journalism.

Book preview

Funeral Home Evenings

Kevin Kirk Chronicles

A Novel by Patricia Wiles

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Acknowledgments

About the Author

BOOKS IN THE KEVIN KIRK CHRONICLES

MY MOM’S A MORTICIAN

FUNERAL HOME EVENINGS

EARLY-MORNING CEMETERY

THE FINAL FAREWELL

To my best friend, Tim,

and our first twenty-five years of eternity together.

Author’s Note:

In this edition of Funeral Home Evenings, some typographical errors were corrected and some trademark names were updated.

Prologue

September

The big, yellow truck turned onto the final stretch of blacktop leading to Morpheus Lake. Brother Conrad was behind the wheel, humming along with the diesel engine.

Will we be having fish for dinner tonight? I asked.

What else would two old fishermen eat? Brother Conrad answered.

You’re looking forward to a big mess of fish to clean, aren’t you, Sister Imogene? Sister Conrad had ordered me a long time ago to call her Sister Imogene. One thing I’d learned about Sister Imogene over the summer—if she ordered you to do something, you’d better do it or else.

Brother Conrad knew Sister Imogene would rather shovel manure than clean a fish, he just liked seeing her get all huffy when he teased her about it. He leaned over and patted her knee. I’ve always said nobody guts a fish as good as you, Genie.

When Brother Conrad was in a playful mood with his wife, he called her Genie. Sister Imogene hated that name and was capable of doing serious damage to anyone who called her something she didn’t like. But instead of punching Brother Conrad’s lights out, she’d pretend to stew over it until he pretended to apologize. It was an odd way to flirt, but I guess when you’ve been married for fifty years you have to do something to make flirting more interesting.

Even if I was willin’ to clean your catch—which I’m not, Sister Imogene said with a sarcastic snort, I’d be waiting for a long time. The only things to clean when you fish are the clothes and dishes you dirty up.

I’d spent so much of my eighth-grade summer on the lake with Brother Conrad, his fishing cabin was like a second home. We lugged in the groceries, then Sister Imogene put a vinyl Loretta Lynn LP on the ancient hi-fi stereo and shooed us out the door. She said she didn’t need a couple of worthless men like us getting in her way while she tidied up the kitchen.

As we carried our gear to the lake, Brother Conrad said it was a typical liar’s morning; Friday’s dawn had dressed up to look like Saturday. The air was still cool from the night just past, but the sun was fast becoming a red-hot cinder. The smooth water smelled of small animals and sweet grasses. We had our gear, a cooler full of snacks, and two whole days ahead with nothing to do but fish.

We scooted the boat off the trailer and onto the edge of the water. I used the paddle to push us off the bank, and by habit, the boat floated on its own to the spot Brother Conrad liked to fish first.

The boat glided around the bend until the cabin was no longer in sight. The leaves were beginning to show the warm undertones of autumn. A few had dropped early, revealing glimpses of bony limbs clothed since April. We passed a chunky turtle sunning on a hunk of driftwood and an otter sliding down a high muddy bank.

I’d learned to tie and bait my own hooks, so Brother Conrad didn’t have to help me anymore. I was eager to try a new artificial bait I’d found: Fish-Trap CheeZee Worms, the easy cheesy bait no fish could resist. I slipped the stinky fake worm onto the hook and cast out.

You’ve come a long ways since that first cast. Glad I don’t have to wear my hard hat anymore. Brother Conrad’s hard hat had ear flaps and was left over from the days when he did construction work. I had a bad habit of slinging my pole, and he was afraid his ear would end up on my hook and cast out to the lake as bait. He never let Imogene nibble on his ear, he said, so no mud-covered fish at the bottom of Morpheus Lake was going to either.

Brother Conrad and I didn’t talk for a long time. Only the occasional whir of the trolling motor and the plop of sinkers hitting the water disturbed the stillness. It’s not awkward for two people to be alone on a boat for hours and not speak. It shows you’re comfortable with the person drifting beside you. You get to use your energy for thinking rather than talking.

Air from a submerged turtle bubbled up to the surface. I brushed my hand through the water. It felt cool and thick and was the same color as the Red Sea when Moses divided it in The Ten Commandments.

Dad joined a mail-order film club during the summer, and his first purchase was a deluxe collector’s edition of The Ten Commandments. The scene where Moses divides the Red Sea is the best. I heard somewhere that the Red Sea in the movie was actually thousands of gallons of lime Jell-O. In any case, I still broke out in goose bumps when the Hebrews walked through the parted waters and Pharaoh’s chariots got swamped.

The water I’d been baptized in wasn’t green like the sea Moses parted. It was the blue chlorinated water of the Armadillo Motor Inn swimming pool, just outside downtown Armadillo, Arkansas. The inn’s owners weren’t members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, but they were happy to let the pool be used for the salvation of souls—as long as no one was baptized during guest hours, 10:00 A.M. to 9:00 P.M.

Brother Conrad performed the baptism and joked afterward that I was the second biggest fish he’d ever caught. My mother bawled through the whole thing. Dad was there too, even though he wasn’t attending church with us yet. My best friend, Dani Carter, stood beside the pool and held my new set of scriptures plus a couple of extra towels. Dani’s dad, who is also our branch president, officially welcomed me as the newest member of the branch. And two little kids stood outside the pool fence with their swimsuits and water wings on, wanting to know why we could get in the pool before it opened and they couldn’t.

When I came up out of the water after my baptism, it felt good to know things were right between God and me. But making sure your life stays that way is harder than it sounds. It’s hard when you’ve never had gospel habits before to start new ones, like reading scriptures and paying tithing. If I wasn’t forgetting to keep commandments, I was putting them off, thinking I’d keep them later—or worse, I put them off because I didn’t want to keep them at all.

Whenever I watched The Ten Commandments, I wanted to be like Moses. He always did the right thing. He was sturdy and intimidating and built like the pyramids. Women adored him. Men feared him. He could whoop the tar out of the biggest Egyptian guard in Pharaoh’s court. He wasn’t afraid to stand up to Ramses. His voice echoed in the courts and boomed with authority across the Nile. When you’re like Moses, keeping the commandments is a lot easier.

I tried to think of the genuine ten commandments but could only remember two: Do Not Bear False Witness and Honor Thy Father and Mother. I cringed. Was getting annoyed with your parents not honoring them? If so, I’d never kept that one too well.

After a couple of hours, Brother Conrad’s stringer was weighted down with several fat, silver-green fish. My stringer had nothing on it but a few clumps of moss, and my CheeZee worms were half gone. Each time I thought I had a bite, my hook came up with nothing on it but CheeZee worm leftovers.

You’re not letting the fish take the bait, Brother Conrad said. Give him just enough line. Let him play with the bait for a second or two. Then when he takes it, pull back.

I slid another CheeZee worm on the hook and flicked the pole forward. The reel sounded like a windup toy as the line released. The worm sailed as graceful as any bird over the water, then penetrated the surface with a soft plop.

Brother Conrad got one of Sister Imogene’s famous fried apple pies out of the cooler. It took twenty-three years for Imogene to learn how to make a decent fried pie, but when she figured it out . . . hoo-wee. He reached in for another one and handed it to me. I’m glad she didn’t quit.

I put the pole between my knees and took a bite of pie. The crust was the right thickness and had a touch of salt, which made the filling taste even sweeter. A bit of cinnamon-apple mush oozed out onto the foil. I scooped it up with my finger, not wanting to waste a drop.

Brother Conrad patted my shoulder. You’ll figure things out too, Kevin.

I thought this would be the perfect bait, I said.

The bait’s not your problem.

I don’t know what else it could be. I’m doing it exactly like you taught me. I felt a tug on the line and jerked. Another CheeZee worm gone.

Brother Conrad licked the apple filling off his fingers. I wouldn’t be so sure about that.

I’m following your instructions perfectly. I baited my hook again and this time cast to the opposite side.

Brother Conrad stuffed the foil in the trash container and resealed the lid. Doing a thing perfectly is not the same as wanting to perfect your skill. And I’m not just talking about learning to catch fish.

I don’t understand, I said. What I really wanted to say was, Sorry, pal, but I forgot to pack my dictionary. How could he blame me when the fish were stealing my bait? It wasn’t like I didn’t want to catch one.

Brother Conrad’s line drifted out to a spot he didn’t like, so he reeled in and recast. One day, two brothers were casting their nets into the sea, hoping for a big catch. Their names were Peter and Andrew. A man walking along the beach said if they would follow Him, He would make them fishers of men. Peter and Andrew recognized Him right away as the Son of God. They dropped their nets and followed.

Laying down my pole wouldn’t have been a big deal, especially since I wasn’t catching anything.

The three walked on a little ways, Brother Conrad continued, and came across two more brothers, James and John. They were in a boat with their father, Zebedee, helping him mend the nets. When Jesus told them to drop their nets, James and John left them and followed Christ.

His Bible story didn’t have anything to do with learning how to fish. It also didn’t