Suitable Precautions by Laura Boudreau Read Free Book Online Page A

lie very still on the beach towel and listen, and to make our mother happy we sometimes made things up when she asked us, “What do you hear?” In a lot of ways it wasn’t a game at all, but there was nothing else to call it. My mother said it was a game. It was just something we did.
    â€œNate, why don’t you go?” My mother passed him a cookie. “Take your shoes off before you get on the towel.”
    Nate undid the laces of his stiff black shoes and lined them up beside my mother’s high heels. He sat down and took a few deep breaths. My mother and I moved closer, perching on the edge of the towel to save our skirts, and Nate closed his eyes. My mother held out her hand to me and then we each took one of Nate’s hands in ours, closing the circle. He wriggled in his suit.
    â€œWouldn’t it be better if we just wore regular clothes?” I asked.
    â€œIt’s more respectful this way.” My mother squeezed our hands. “And people won’t bug us as much if it looks like we came from a church. Now let’s be quiet so Nate can listen.”

    My mother said that when bodies broke down and turned into grass and soil, there were vibrations. That’s all that talking was, vibrations, so being dead didn’t mean that you stopped talking, even if it wasn’t in the same language. Nate had asked his Science Club teacher what she thought about that, and she said she hadn’t heard the theory before, but there were a lot of things that still needed to be discovered in the world. That was the point of the club. Nate was convinced, or said he was.
    â€œI hear,” he paused, “I hear humming.”
    â€œThat makes sense,” my mother said slowly, but I didn’t think it made sense at all. Why would our dad’s body be humming? Was there that much to hum about when you were dead? Maybe he was just happy to see us, I thought. That was possible. Or maybe Nate was faking. That was possible, too. I faked.
    â€œCan I have a cookie?” I asked.
    â€œIn a minute, Elaine.” my mother said. “What else do you hear?”
    The three of us closed our eyes and listened hard. I saw our father’s vibrations crawling up like earthworms, tickling Nate’s back with secret messages about how much he missed us, about the things that had made him afraid and sick. Our mother said that visualization was an important part of the game, and she always seemed to hear things, grunts or mumbles. I just needed to visualize harder, and then I would hear it too. Faking wasn’t lying, it was practicing. Nate was about to say something else, but we heard a car door slam. We dropped our hands and opened our eyes.
    It was the red cemetery maintenance truck. Two guys in matching windbreakers and baseball hats were fishing
around in the flatbed. One of them grabbed a rake, and the other one hugged a giant bag of garden fertilizer.
    â€œShit,” my mother said, and the game was over.
    Nate balled up the towel and shoved it under his arm. He squashed his feet into his shoes, breaking down the backs. My mother shook out her hair. I packed the picture and cookies into her purse. My mother waved to the men as she hustled us to the car, and the one man raised his rake to us while the other one slit the fertilizer bag with a packing knife. We didn’t play the game while other people watched. It didn’t work that way, and there had been problems before. My mother told us that a lot of people have pretty un-evolved ideas about things. She had written letters to the cemetery’s managing director about the behaviour of his employees.
    â€œLet’s not worry about it too much,” she said, pushing play on the stereo. “It’s not like your dad won’t be here next Sunday. Seatbelts.” We drove past Genevieve’s grave on the way out. Nate waved.
    We were almost home before I asked about the humming. My mother said that the whole