Kansas . . .’ ” He hurried through the factual information, then slowed down as he read the more personal
copy written by the family members: “ ‘Bob, nicknamed Ramblin’ Randall, and not just for his rushing
feats on the football field . . .’ ” Addison frowned at
Jim. “I don’t get that part.”
Through thick lenses that made his eyes look like
oversized coat buttons, Jim peered at Addison. “What
do you mean?”
“Okay,” Addison said sharply, “this sounds like
you’re talking about your brother’s off-the-field exploits. In particular, his love life.”
Jim nodded once. “That’s right.”
Addison stared at Jim. “You can’t do that. Nobody
SUTURE SELF
211
ever criticizes the deceased in an obit. Upon occasion,
they’ll make excuses, especially if it’s a suicide. But
criticism—never.”
Jim took umbrage. “I thought you dealt in facts.
Isn’t that what you told me the other day when we
spoke? That’s a fact—my brother was a philanderer.
Margie had to put up with a lot. Read the rest of it.”
“No.” Addison’s bearded jaw set stubbornly.
Judith leaned forward in the wheelchair, and before
the journalist could realize what she was doing, she
plucked the sheets of paper out of his hand.
“If it means so much to you, Jim,” she said, looking
sympathetic, “I’ll go over it with you. During the
years, I’ve helped write several obituaries for relatives.”
“Hey!” Addison cried, attempting to retrieve the
pages. “Don’t do that!”
But Judith had managed to move herself just beyond
Addison’s reach. “Please, we must see what can be salvaged here, or the family will have to do it all over
again.”
Jim was hovering over Judith’s shoulder. “Do you
see the part where we said he drove Margie to depression? And ruined his children’s lives?”
Judith did, and despite Addison’s professional reservations, she read the sentences aloud:
“ ‘Bob Sr. was so selfish and self-absorbed that he
could offer his wife of twenty-five years no sympathy
or understanding, even when her emotional problems
threatened to undermine her physical as well as her
mental health. His legacy to his children is not that of
a loving, caring father, but a cold, conceited athlete
who demanded excellence from Nancy and Bob Jr. but
who never gave them the slightest word of encourage-212
Mary Daheim
ment, much less any sign of real love. He will be
missed by some of his cronies from the sports world,
but not by his family.’ ” Judith was appalled, and could
hardly blame Addison for looking outraged. But she’d
had to know what was in the scurrilous obituary.
“Here,” she said, handing the sheets of paper back to
