The Dead Guy


I stopped adding water to the beautiful bouquet my daughter and son-in-law had sent me for my birthday, and walked to the kitchen doorway.  “What?” I asked, addressing Mom’s back as she stared out the window.

“There’s a lot of cars over there,” she said, pointing to the street that goes along the east side of our house.

“I know.  They’ve been having an estate sale.  It started yesterday,” I informed her as I turned to go back in the kitchen to retrieve my flowers.

“I guess she decided to move,” Mom exclaimed.

“Or someone died,” I added, picking up the vase and turning to go.

“Well he did,” she informed me as she tooled across the room toward her loveseat.

“He?  Who he?”

“Him.  The guy that lived there.  He died a couple-three days ago.”

“And how do you know that?” I asked, walking back into the dining room with my bouquet and standing by the dining room window.  “You don’t know anybody who lives around here.”

“Well I knew him,” she claimed with an emphatic nod.  “He’s that Japanese guy that’s always riding his bike around.”

“Mom, that’s Frank.  He’s not Japanese, he’s Hispanic.  And he lives in the cul-du-sac, not in that house over there,” I exclaimed, clutching the vase in one hand and pointing with my other across the street.

“Maybe he does and maybe he doesn’t.  It still doesn’t mean he didn’t die,” she argued.

“Well I’ll have to ask him the next time we see him ride by,” I replied.

“And find out how the estate sale went too,” she instructed.



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