The Last Word

THE LAST WORD


It happened on July 4, 1957. The day that Mrs. Robert R. Remberton III did not get the last word and Mrs. Robert R. Remberton III always got the last word. Especially when it came to her son, Robert R. Remberton IV.

The Rembertons were the richest family in town and came by their wealth the old fashion way. They inherited it.

In 1830, the first Robert R, Remberton tried his hand at everything; farming, trapping, fishing, logging, prospecting and, according to some people, robbery. But, it didn’t matter. He wasn’t any good at any of them and he went broke each time, until the cholera epidemic of 1836.

The epidemic left some sixteen folks in need of burying, but no one would touch them for fear of the plague. The town fathers offered twenty dollars a head to anyone who would bury them. Being desperate, Robert R. Remberton snapped up the offer. As he buried them, he realized the obvious. Everyone dies and since one of the sixteen he buried was the undertaker, he might as well take the job. Now on this July 4th, one hundred twenty-one years later, there were three funeral parlors with state of the art preparation for the after life.

The women sat on benches lining Main Street and waited for the parade to begin. All of the school children would be in the parade and the mothers were there with their Brownie cameras, ready to record the event. Mrs. Remberton III had a sixteen millimeter movie camera, complete with light bars, to record the event. Of course the fact that little Robert R. Remberton IV was out front carrying the American flag had a lot to do with it.

“My Johnny and Katie are excited about playing George and Martha Washington,” Mrs., Cooney said with pride.

“Oh, I know,” Mrs. Franks said. “My Billy is thrilled to be Thomas Jefferson.”

On it went. The mothers talked excitedly about their children and their portrayals.

Then Mrs. Remberton III spoke. “Yes, little Robert will be dressed as Abraham Lincoln and after the parade he will recite the Gettysburg Address from memory.”

It was during these discussions that Harth Nanley awoke. Harth was considered by most to be the town drunk, a title he never denied. Harth never said were he was from, but as long as he’d been in town he’d always been drunk. He did odd jobs; cut grass, washed dishes, washed cars, or whatever it took to buy his daily allotment of booze. Slowly he sat up on the park bench that had been in bed the previous night. He held his pounding head in his hands, groaned and gradually returned to the land of the sober. Through bloodshot eyes he looked at the ladies as they continued to discuss their offspring.

“I hope Andy’s asthma doesn’t act up. He was so excited today,” Mrs. Gorch said

“Has he had his tonsils out? I understand that can help quite a bit,” Mrs. Cooney offered.

“Not yet,” Mrs. Gorch replied. “The doctor wants to wait until next year.”

“Did I ever tell you about Robert’s tonsils?” Mrs. Remberton III stated.

At the sound of Mrs. Remberton III’s voice, Harth attempted to focus his attention on her. He had worked for her husband, once, washing the parlor’s vehicles, until they discovered him drunk in one of the hearse’s on the day it was to be used.

“Why.” Mrs. Remberton III intoned, “My Robert was ten years old when we had his tonsils removed, but guess what? They grew back, and we had them removed again. Then of all things, they grew back again. Well, I can tell you, Mr. Remberton and I were extremely upset when we had them removed a third time.”

“Really,” Harth belched loudly and all eyes turned to him. “Tell me, Mrs. Remberton, how many times did you have him circumcised?”