dressed up in a suit that was slit in the back so that it would fit. Nelson had slipped white silken socks on Ronald's feet but there were no shoes for the coffin.
Socrates had asked Topper if he could try out there for a while without pay. The first day he had helped to connect the tubes under Ronald's armpit to suck out the blood and replace it with the embalmer's fluid, the formaldehyde. He watched as Nelson put a placid visage on the boy's face and as he used makeup to replace a little of the life that Socrates had taken. He couldn't fully straighten out the dent in the boy's skull. The head was still a little lopsided.
The smell of the formaldehyde and the clammy touch of the boy's skin dismantled the hardened ex-con. The boy's deadweight did not leave his shoulders or strained heart even after laying the load down. And Ronald Logan's eyes were not fully shut. Socrates could see the dulled glimmer of his eyeballs through tiny slits. He was no longer human but neither was he gone. Socrates dreaded the three days he spent around that corpse. Every evening coming home from Bounty he clenched up anticipating the sneaky peeking of the boy he'd murdered.
Every evening he'd gone to the pay phone to tell Topper that he couldn't come in. But he never dropped the dime. He was like a dog, he knew, that needed his nose rubbed in his dirty business.
?Killin' ain't like a crap you could flush down the toilet,? he said to Darryl one day before going down to Topper's. ?The stink stays on you. Other people can smell it. I smell it in my sleep at night.?
The boy didn't know why Socrates chose that moment to lecture him about guilt but he nodded, submitting the ex-con's words to memory.
On the first day, when he was alone with the naked corpse, Socrates stared at him; even in death the mugger looked menacing. A scar across his upper lip left him with the slightest sneer. The feet were pigeon-toed and the penis was small but hard. The hair was still growing, Topper told him that.
Socrates wanted to cry but could not. The feeling he was left with was worse than prison had been. Ronald Logan was a broken promise laid out on that table.
?You will never be forgotten,? Socrates whispered. ?Not as long as I live.?
?Okay, now settle him in,? Topper said. ?You know how, Stuart. Make sure the fingers are in line, straighten out the suit. That's right. That's right.?
?We see it all in here, Mr. Fortlow,? Topper was saying. ?They all come down to death. Even that princess over there in England. They had to bury her too just like anybody else.?
Mrs. Yolanda Logan and her mother, Roxanne, came to view the body that Saturday morning at eight fifteen. Socrates stood toward the back of the little chapel and waited for some kind of sign from the grief-stricken mother. Yolanda was somewhere in her thirties but she looked as if she'd lived more years than her own mother. She was a heavy woman and her shoulders were sagging. Roxanne, a big woman too, stood near at hand in case her help was needed.
?Oh no there he is,? Yolanda said. ?There he is. It's him, Momma.?
?He looks nice,? said the boy's grandmother. ?He looks peaceful. And his suit still fits him even after all that weight liftin' he did.?
Yolanda put her hands up between her and the coffin trying to deny either the boy or his death. Topper, wearing his signature hat, came up with a stool. Roxanne guided her daughter toward the seat and then she took her turn visiting the coffin.
Roxanne's face was a study in cautious anger. She raised her head as far away as she could while still trying to see the boy. Her inspection was close and complete. When she turned away you knew that she'd have no nightmares about Ronald returning.
They stayed with the dead boy for half an hour or so.
When they started gathering themselves together, Socrates left. He went outside the chapel door and waited.
He had bought black rayon slacks and a button-up tan shirt for that day. He felt hemmed in and itchy, like a schoolboy in a new uniform.
?Mrs. Logan?? he said when the women came out.
?Yes?? Yolanda said.
?I wanted to say how sorry I am. About your son that is. About what happened.?
The poor mother was beyond speech. She wore a dark brown dress and blue shawl with dark green and yellow flowers printed on it. She also wore white tennis shoes.
Yolanda took Socrates' hands in hers and stood there as if in prayer. The big man didn't pull away.
