Aubrey Bryant died three days later. “I can scarcely believe it,” Aunt Josie whispered. She’d called me at the beauty parlor. It was obvious she’d been crying. “He hadn’t even gone to his ball game yet this summer, had he?” I asked quietly into the phone. Mr. Bryant’s claim to fame was that every year he took the Greyhound bus by himself up to St. Louis for a Cardinals’ baseball game. He was one of Aunt Josie’s more energetic gentlemen. “No,” Aunt Josie said, sniffling. “Didn’t even get to go to his ball game.” “How’d he die?” I asked. But before I could hear the answer, Mother grabbed the phone from me. “Who died?” she barked into the phone. I couldn’t hear Aunt Josie, but I could guess from Mother where the conversation was going. “And you’re going to let him be cremated, are you?”
