Ghoul

possible exception of snakes and Catcher. You could shoot a snake or a neighborhood bully or a mean dog with a BB gun.

But not God…

And now, there was a new fallacy. 'It looks like Grandpa's just sleeping.' The biggest fallacy of them all, because Grampa wasn' t sleeping, he was dead. He was never going to wake up again. There would be no more walks or games or Saturday morning cartoons or long talks about things that mattered to Timmy, things his grandfather seemed interested in, too, because they were important to his grandson. His grandfather was dead, so why couldn ' t his mother just say it out loud? Why did she treat Timmy like he was a little kid?

Next, would she tell him, 'Guess what, it turns out Santa Claus is real after all'?

Of course she wouldn ' t, because it wasn 't true. Santa Claus wasn't real, U'rown Goode was actually Timmy's own good, and…

Grandpa wasn't coming back again.

Timmy opened his eyes. Tears rolled down his face. He balled his fists at his sides and wept, and his mother and father held him between them, crying as well. He cast one last glance at his grandfather's body, and then looked no more. He didn't have to. The image was burned into his retinas.

Grandpa wasn't sleeping.

After the viewing, there was a short break before the funeral service. Timmy' s parents and some of the distant family members stayed at the casket, saying their final goodbyes before the lid was closed. Timmy elected not to join them, and slipped away through the crowd. The other adults went outside to smoke, or mingled between the pews, talking softly. Timmy, Doug, and Barry wandered aimlessly around the church, ending up downstairs in one of the Sunday school rooms. Barry sat on top of the table, his legs hanging over the side.

Timmy stood in the corner. Doug had found a Hot Wheels car, left behind by a younger child, and was running it aimlessly back and forth over the tabletop.

'You guys want to do something after this… is over?' Timmy asked. 'I really need to get my mind off things.'

'Sorry, man, but I can't,' Doug apologized. 'My mom drove, and my bike's at home.'

'So? You could walk back to your house. It's not that far.' Doug shuddered. 'And go by Catcher's driveway? No thanks, man. It's bad enough when he chases me on my bike. No way I'm letting him go after me when I' m on foot. He 'd kill me. Besides, it's raining outside. I'd get wet and catch a cold. Nothing worse than a summer cold.'

'Wimp.' Timmy turned to Barry. 'How about you?'

'I can't either, man. I've got to… well, you know.'

'What?'

'I've got to help my dad with your Grandpa, after everyone else leaves.'

'Oh…' He'd forgotten about that. It seemed weird, somehow, that his best friend would help to bury his grandfather. Fresh grief welled up inside him, and Timmy sighed. Behind them, someone cleared her throat. The boys turned around. Katie Moore stood in the doorway to the Sunday school room. Timmy' s heart beat a little faster, the way it always did when Katie was around. Sometimes, Timmy hated the way Katie made him feel. It was exciting, but scary, too. On Sundays, during the sermon, he found his gaze invariably drawn to her. Next year, she ' d be starting sixth grade, and would go to the junior high school with them. He wondered what that would be like, and if they 'd see more of each other then, and if so, if the possibilities of them hanging out together more often would increase. Thinking about it made his stomach hurt.

'Hey Katie,' Barry said.

'Hey.' She smiled sadly. 'Hi Timmy.'

Timmy responded with what could only be described as a garbled squawk.

'What's up, Katie?' Doug asked.

'They sent me down here to find you guys,' she explained. 'The funeral is getting ready to start.'

'Oh.'

Timmy's apprehension returned at the thought of sitting in the front pew, staring at his grandfather's notsleeping corpse while Katie' s father droned on about ashes and dust and walking through the valley of the shadow of death. 'We 'll be right up.'

'I'm sorry about your Grandpa, Timmy. He was a nice man.' Doug's Hot Wheels car made scratching noises in the background. Barry cleared his throat and loosened his tie.

Timmy realized Katie was staring at him, and that he hadn't responded.

'Thanks.' He searched for something else to say to her before she left, anxious to keep the conversation going for just a little longer. 'I' m sorry to hear about your sister. I hope she's okay.'

'Yeah, me too. I miss her.'

'Do you guys know where she went?'

Katie's voice grew quieter. 'No. Mom and Dad are really worried. She got in a fight with Dad before she left the house. He didn' t want her going out with Pat. She did anyway. The township and state police said they 'd tell us when they heard something, but that's about all.'

'Well, I'm sorry,' Timmy said again, and meant it.

'So am I.' She smiled again, but this time it wasn' t quite so sad. Their eyes lingered for a moment. Then Katie blushed and turned away.

They heard her shoes clomping up the stairs two at a time. Timmy's face and ears were scarlet.

'You like her,' Barry teased, shoving him playfully. Grinning, Timmy pushed him back. 'Screw you. I do not.'

'Why not? She's cute, man.'

Timmy's stomach sank. Did Barry like Katie, too? He' d said hi to her first, while Timmy was still struggling to talk. And if so, did Katie like Barry more than she liked him?

'Not as cute as her sister, though,' Barry added quickly, as if sensing his friend's thoughts.

Doug stood up and slipped the toy car into his pants pocket. 'I guess we better go upstairs.'

'Yeah,' Timmy sighed. 'I guess we better.' Then he thought of his grandpa again, and started crying. It was starting to sink in that he'd never see him, talk to him, or hear his voice again. Timmy remembered the last time he' d seen him, Saturday morning when they 'd been watching cartoons together. He'd hugged him goodbye and then gone out to play with Doug. He' d been anxious to go outside and enjoy his summer vacation. If only he 'd known then what he knew now. He would have stayed behind.

Summers were endless. Life was not.

He was still weeping when he took a seat between his parents in the front pew, and when Reverend Moore began the service.

'Friends, would you please bow your heads in prayer.' The preacher's voice was soft, and the sobs echoed over it.

The tears kept falling, and Timmy wondered if they'd ever stop. They did stop, though, after the service, when the coffin was carried to the hearse. The sudden lack of tears surprised him, and for a moment, Timmy felt guilty. The emotions drained from his body as the tears dried up. Timmy felt empty. Hollow. He watched the pallbearers his father among them, tears streaming down his face load his grandfather's casket into the back of the hearse and experienced only a numb sense of finality.

The rain had stopped, too. Beams of sunlight peeked through the dissipating cloud cover. White and yellow butterflies played in the puddles. Sluggish earthworms, forced topside by the rains, crawled and squirmed on the blacktop. The mourners walked slowly along behind the hearse, following it down the cemetery's middle road. They talked softly among themselves, murmuring gossip that had nothing to do with the deceased; President Reagan and William Casey and Ed Meese, the godless Communists, the godly Pat Robertson, who was going to see the Charlie Daniels Band at this year's York Fair, what had happened on last week's episode of Hill Street Blues, how Charlie Pitts had been able to afford that big new satellite television dish when he was still on disability, and the twelve point buck that Elliott Ramsey had poached out of season in Mr. Brown's orchard, and whether or not the Orioles would make it to the World Series (even though they lived in Pennsylvania, Southern York County was close enough to the Maryland state border that most of the residents rooted for Baltimore's teams). Timmy felt like hollering at everybody to shut up, but he didn't. Instead, he tried to ignore the whispers, and looked down over the hill. Far