Crusader by Edward Bloor Read Free Book Online Page B

Oh, that's sad. Now, what happened to her?"
    "She died when I was eight." I should have left it at that, but I never can. I added, "Of a heart attack."
    "Oh, how tragic. That really is. My Joe died when he was sixty-nine years of age. But you can't call that tragic, not when you almost make it to seventy. Not when you were a man who both smoked and drank." She asked Mrs. Weiss, "Did your husband smoke?"
    "He smoked. It helped kill him."
    Mrs. Roman turned back to me. "I hate to tell you how my husband died. He died during a medical procedure." She leaned toward Mrs. Weiss and half whispered, "I don't know if it's appropriate to tell a young girl about this."
    "You can tell her. She's a news reporter. She needs to hear."
    "Well, he died during a barium enema. Do you know what that is, Roberta?"
    "I think so, ma'am."
    "I hope to god you never learn about it firsthand, because it is a horrible thing. It is a horrible thing even to talk about. Joe had problems, intestinal problems, and the doctors said he needed to get this barium enema so they could get a good look at his colon. Well, they never got their look, because his colon exploded with all that barium in it." Mrs. Roman paused, her voice quickly filling with emotion. "And Joe died. Just like that. It was a routine procedure, they said."
    We drove on in silence for a minute.
    Then Mrs. Roman resumed her story. "Right away, my son and daughter said, 'You sue them, Ma. You get a lawyer. You get an autopsy before Papa's body ever leaves that hospital.' So I did. And do you know what they found? Joe even had barium in his brain." She paused for emphasis. "Anyway, long story short, they settled out of court for eighty thousand dollars, and the lawyer took ten thousand. I sold the house and bought a condo at Century Towers. I couldn't believe the deal! They were practically giving them away. Long story short."
    I felt the big Lincoln turning right and realized we were at the Eternal Rest Cemetery. We pulled up to our usual spot and prepared to get out, but suddenly Mrs. Weiss screamed, "Look! Look at that! I caught him!"
    A young guy in a groundskeeper's shirt was walking toward us with a golf club and a bucket of balls. When he saw Mrs. Weiss he froze in his tracks.
    She rolled down the window and leaned out. "You get off these graves! Do you hear me? If I ever catch you again, I'll wrap that club around your scrawny little neck!" The guy spun around and started off at a brisk walk. Mrs. Weiss rolled the window back up and assured us, "That infuriates me. I need to talk to the manager."
    Suddenly the storm that had been stalking us closed in and struck. The day turned as dark as nighttime. The winds howled, pelting the car with such force that it bounced up and down on its springs.
    All we could do was sit in the driving rain, in the noise and the dark. Not even Mrs. Roman spoke. The storm battered us for fifteen minutes. Then, as quickly as it had hit, the storm moved on, to do the same thing to the people east of us. The sun came out, and steam started to rise. I grabbed the stepladder, opened the door, and got out.
    The cemetery roads were puddled, and the grass was wet, but the air was rosy all around us, and fresh to breathe. We set out on our separate missions. Mrs. Weiss walked up and to the right, to an all-Jewish section of the cemetery.
    Mrs. Roman and I walked to the left, to the Guardian Angel section. I watched her kneel down on the soggy grass of a grave, panty hose and all, and start to pray.
    I kept walking another twenty yards, past the statue, to the walls of the mausoleum area. My mom is in the first section, in Crypt #109E. The walls are fifteen feet high, and they are covered with polished black marble. You can have a crypt placed in the wall at five different levels—A, B, C, D, or E, in ascending order. That means my mom's crypt, #109E, is on the level that the cemetery calls the Heaven Level. And that's why I needed the stepladder.
    Unfortunately,