FOR DINNER, GREAT-AUNT Beauregard had reserved an enormous table in the dining room. She sat in one chair, Page sat next to her, and John sat next to Page. The remaining ten stood empty.
When the menu came, Great-Aunt Beauregard ordered for all. Page and John received an assortment of peas, carrots, and potatoes. Great-Aunt Beauregard received lobster bisque and champagne.
As the plates were put before them, a thin line of mucus with a fat pearl of snot began to ooze out of Great-Aunt Beauregard’s left nostril. John shot a warning glance at Page, who was trying not to giggle, and applied himself to his potatoes. For minutes there was silence, until Great-Aunt Beauregard suddenly banged her knife on her glass.
“Right, that’s enough bonding. It’s time we come to the reason for our little celebration.”
The drop of snot swayed in excitement.
“John, I do not know if you are aware of this, but you turned eleven on Pludgett Day.”
John was distinctly aware of this, but couldn’t quite believe that they were on vacation to celebrate his birthday. They had never celebrated it before.
“On this milestone, I feel you are ready to learn an important fact about your heritage.”
John’s heart started to beat wildly. Could his prayers have been answered? Was it possible that Great-Aunt Beauregard wasn’t his great-aunt after all?
“John Peregrine Coggin, I am pleased to inform you that I have made you the sole heir to the family business.”
In the split second of an instant, the bottom dropped out of John’s world. He felt he was falling into a black pit far, far below him. He had a vision of his future self, draped in cobwebs, putting the finishing touches on his own coffin.
“Johnny, Johnny!” whispered Page. “Are you okay?”
“At eleven, you are old enough to appreciate the importance of our glorious family tradition. And unlike your nincompoop father, I know, you will not shirk from duty.”
John wanted to stand up, to shout, to bolt. But he couldn’t move.
“But I have even better news.” The bead of snot was vibrating with ecstasy. “The surplus of deaths in Pludgett has created a demand for transitional establishments that cater to the crème de la crème of society.”
Great-Aunt Beauregard paused to admire this turn of phrase, then continued.
“Therefore, for the next chapter in our history, I plan to create the
COGGIN FAMILY FUNERAL HOME
Boutique Interments for the Bourgeoisie
And since you, John, are about as tactful as a bellyful of beetles with customers, I will be working with a new assistant on this branch of commerce while you handle workshop affairs.”
Great-Aunt Beauregard raised her glass while the snot thread quivered like a plucked harp string.
“John, please welcome the newest member of the family business.”
John scanned the empty chairs in confusion. Then he lifted the tablecloth and peered underneath.
“She’s not on the floor, you dunderheaded dingbat. She’s right here.” And ever so slowly, as the drop of snot fell into her soup, Great-Aunt Beauregard laid a meaty hand on Page’s shoulder.
Page’s mouth fell open. It was full of peas. John’s mouth fell open, and a piece of his potato went bouncing across the table.
“When we return to Pludgett, Page will begin her career at the Coggin Family Funeral Home. She will start by dressing our customers.” Great-Aunt Beauregard flicked her finger under Page’s chin to close it. “You’ll enjoy that, Page. It will be like dressing up a doll.” She winked. “And if you’re very good, I’ll let you apply their makeup.”
Page looked like she was about to be sick in her lap.
“Meanwhile, you, John, will begin work on our new line of Chestnut Deluxes.”
Great-Aunt Beauregard reached into her bag and pulled out a stack of papers and a fountain pen.
“Now then, I am perfectly aware that you are not old enough to run a large business like this on your own. So I have taken the liberty of drawing up a partnership plan. I agree to lend you my considerable expertise for the next twenty years, and you promise to provide me with room and board upon my retirement.”
John stared in horror at the stack in front of him. On the top page, written in thick ink, was one word:
CONTRACT
Great-Aunt Beauregard seemed to think her great-nephew’s silence was panic about losing her. She patted the paper confidentially.
“I wouldn’t worry too much about my retiring. If my funeral home plan succeeds, as I believe it will, then the family will have decades of corpses and coffers to look forward to.” She raised her champagne glass. “To the Coggins!”
The blood in John’s veins was congealing in terror. He tried to raise his hand, but his muscles would not obey. Great-Aunt Beauregard snorted in frustration and yanked the last page from the stack.
“Apparently, there’s no need to thank me. You simply sign on the dotted line. Here.” She uncapped the pen and pointed to the . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . above his typewritten name.
John stared at the pen. A tiny blob of ink was pooling on its razor-sharp nib. He knew that this step was inevitable. He knew that it meant security for him and his sister for the rest of their days.
But he couldn’t, he just couldn’t, sign that document.
Great-Aunt Beauregard rapped her knuckles on the table.
“Time is ticking, John! We’ll take the six a.m. train tomorrow and start construction on the funeral parlor at eight a.m. sharp.”
John looked from the pen to the ink to the paper. Then he drew a deep breath and said something he had never said to his great-aunt before.
“No.”
Great-Aunt Beauregard opened her mouth to speak, but only “Whhhh?” came out.
“No,” John repeated. “I won’t sign that paper.” He stared straight into the eyes of his nemesis. “And you can’t make me.”
There was an ominous pause.
“And what will you do instead?”
RUN, a little voice in John’s head screamed. RUN!
Great-Aunt Beauregard read his thoughts.
“May I remind you what happened when your father ran away from the family business?” She stabbed the paper for emphasis. “He died”—stab—“penniless”—stab—“and diseased”—stab—“in a house infested with rodents”—stab. “Is that what you envision as your future?”
What John was envisioning was Page applying a dab of rouge to his cold, withered cheeks. He did not move, nor did he answer.
“Fine!” Great-Aunt Beauregard blasted, shoving the contract back in her purse. “If you are unwilling to seize upon the future, then you will stay in your room until YOU ARE!”
Batting a waiter out of the way, she seized both siblings by the scruff of the neck and headed for the lobby.
They were almost at the foot of the stairs when—
“Excuse me, but I wonder, Miss Coggin, if I could steal a few minutes of your time.”
It was the brass salesman, a scruffy man who looked as if he could do with a lick, spit, and polish himself.
“No,” Great-Aunt Beauregard said, stomping her foot upon the first tread.
The salesman stepped neatly in front of her.
“I wouldn’t insist, only I’ve had a letter from my supplier, and it appears that we may be able to reach some kind of”—he leaned forward suggestively—“accommodation.”
She paused. John’s blood surged into life. If Great-Aunt Beauregard was busy downstairs, maybe they could—
“I have to put these things to bed,” she insisted.
“Of course, of course,” the brass salesman mewed. “I’ll wait for you in the lounge.”
“Double whisky,” Great-Aunt Beauregard stated, “and none of your wishy-washy rocks.”
She tightened her grip on John’s collar and continued the march upstairs.
“We will finish this discussion when I return, do you understand?”
John nodded. Page would have done the same, but she was having a little trouble breathing.
“Good.” They were now at the door of their room. Great-Aunt Beauregard opened it and unceremoniously thrust them inside. “Then I will be back in one hour. Do you hear me? One hour.”
She slammed the door shut. John heard the key twist in the lock and the sound of thunderous footsteps making their way down the hall. He waited until he could hear no more, and then he dove for the knapsack he’d packed for vacation.
“What are you doing?” Page asked as he dumped the contents on Great-Aunt Beauregard’s bed and began tossing things on the floor.
“I’m packing. Quick, hand me your suitcase.”
Page was confused, but she pulled her suitcase out of the closet and handed it to John. He wasted no time in dumping that on the bed as well.
“Are we going somewhere?” Page asked. John grunted. He was too busy assessing underwear options.
“Johnny.” Page tugged on his sleeve. “Are we going somewhere?”
John nodded. “We’re escaping.”
Page gasped. “Now?”
“We can’t stay here,” John said, stuffing Page’s socks on top of Walter Hancock’s steam engine manual.
“But where are we going?” Page demanded.
“I don’t know—maybe the circus.” John pulled the knapsack cords tight. “But I’m not letting you become a dead man’s hairdresser. C’mon.” He slung the knapsack over his shoulder and grabbed Page’s hand. “We’ve got to go.”
He strode over to the balcony door and turned the knob. Nothing happened. He turned again. Still nothing.
“Johnny, I don’t think this is a good idea.”
In desperation, John tugged and twisted as hard as he could, but it was no use. “She must have locked this one too. I can’t move it.”
Page sighed, more in relief than anything else. “Then we’ll have to stay.”
John looked at Page. Her face was bloodless and her eyes were drooping. He was almost tempted to give up too. Then he remembered the rouge and the lipstick, and he set his jaw.
“No!” he said, picking up Great-Aunt Beauregard’s walking stick. “We’re leaving.”
And with that, he rammed the end of the walking stick into the pane of the balcony door. Shards of glass twinkled like snowflakes to the carpet.
“Johnny!” Page said breathlessly. “You broke the door.”
But John was already battering the rest of the glass out of the frame. “Grab the footstool in the bathroom,” he commanded. Page ran for it. In a minute, John was through the window and out onto the balcony.
“C’mon,” he urged, holding out his hand for Page. She was looking at him funny.
“Is this going to be scary?”
John paused. Then he smiled.
“Not for the bravest girl I know.”