Annie Freeman's Fabulous Traveling Funeral by Kris Radish Read Free Book Online Page A

the spot on the floor of her office where her own feet have become frozen. She cannot wait to hear the question.
    “Of course,” she responds. “Of course.”
    Annie G. Freeman drops her hands. She grabs them, one holding the other as if she were holding something delicate that still needed to breathe.
    “Will you help me?” she asks.
    “Help you?” Jill Matchney responds so quickly she barely realizes she has spoken.
    “Yes, help me. It may sound foolish but I want you to help me. I do not want to be challenged irresponsibly like I have been at other universities by self-righteous, pompous senior professors. I do not want to be tricked. I don’t want to have to stand on my head to get promoted or to get stuck teaching only the night classes. I want to be mentored and trained and I’d like to stay here forever.”
    The negotiations continued for hours. There was no begging or pleading, only an honest and raw discussion between teacher and student, mentor and trainee, soon-to-be comrades, focused talents.
    In the end Professor Jill Matchney agreed to help Assistant Professor Annie G. Freeman, and the agreement, an unwritten set of directions, an intersecting diagram that covered parallel and yet totally distinct ways of life, became a shared heartbeat, an enlarged passion, and a bond between two women that lasted until the very day one of them died and then beyond that moment, even beyond that moment.

6

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    Laura has had one of those feelings all day. It’s that “looking over your shoulder because you think someone is watching you” kind of feeling. It’s that “something’s going to happen” kind of feeling that has her remembering what she looked like in the morning and how she felt after lunch and the face of the man at the last corner before the post office, because one of those things, maybe two or three or fourteen of those damn things, will be a significant reminder for whatever is winging its way toward her on this particular day when her hands and mind and every single thing about her will not, could not, cannot stay still.
    When she was young, Laura knew things. She knew the exact time—almost—her father would arrive at home each evening, and she would always be there, sitting on the steps—even in the dead of winter—to greet him. She even knew his ever-changing seemingly startled response: “There’s my baby” or “Look, someone left a package on the doorstep,” or “Wow, someone is shooting a commercial and there’s a model on the doorstep” or mostly just, “Hi, baby doll.”
    Not just that for all these years, but other things too. Important things. Knowing when to stop just before an accident occurred at the bridge. Staying home and then the call comes. Turning left to see that sunset—waves of light, brilliant colors that make people stop and rush into Kmart to purchase a camera. Touching the woman in line at Albertson’s who came to the grocery store wearing her loneliness like a new hat just so someone would do that—simply touch her. Closing her eyes and seeing people she has never met, does not know except for the certain feeling that they exist. Seeing their faces, the color of their hair, the way they walk their dogs, how they forage for food, the way they tilt their heads slightly to the left just before a kiss—in places so distant they are barely dots on the international maps she keeps in her small bedroom office.
    “Crap,” Laura says to no one in particular at 8:29 P.M . when she steps into her dark kitchen and hears the phone ringing.
    Laura has to answer it. It doesn’t matter what the caller ID says. The ID could be wrong. It may not be Wells Fargo but instead some voice from the past that connects her to a lost fortune of feelings. It could be a wrong number that turns into a conversation that is as enlightening as anything she has ever experienced. It could be her wayward and often missing prodigal daughter Erin reporting in from Belize or Kentucky or