Out of Sorts Read Free Page B

only get what you deserve!’ But you didn’t deserve that.
    “I don’t understand: if there’s a God, how could he let this happen? Yes, I know I don’t believe in God, but I don’t know how to imagine what comes next. I guess we both knew what was coming. The calendar’s just sped up, that’s all. See you in a few days. I just need to square away the last details, my Daisy.”

Chapter Six
    Pushing Up Daisies
    On a lovely winter’s day, after a week of talking to himself and rejecting reality, Ferdinand rouses from his stupor. It’s a lovely day to go for a walk. A lovely day to make a fresh start.
    Ferdinand finishes cleaning his nails. Dark green corduroys have taken the place of his old worn-out pants. The creases are sharp. He puts on clean underwear and socks without holes. The old man is dressed to the nines: hair combed, face freshly scrubbed, shoes shined. He’s ready. And precisely on time. He writes a few words in his notebook and puts on his overcoat. The walk will be pleasant , he tells himself. In the courtyard, the birds chirp at him in greeting. Blackbirds, most likely.
    Outside, he looks at the world around him. The Earth didn’t stop turning in Daisy’s absence. Everyone goes about his or her business: the baker makes change, the florist prepares a bouquet, the bus driver waves to his colleague. Everything seems lighthearted.
    The clock strikes ten, and Ferdinand looks at his watch: right on time.

    On Rue Garibaldi, a woman sits at the bus stop with a newborn nestled in her arms. An old lady begins to offer advice: “If I may, since, you know, I’m a grandmother . . .” The young mother simply nods, smiling. All of a sudden, she stands up and screams. The old lady also stands up suddenly. The bus . . . it was pulling up when . . . a man, an older gentleman . . .
    The baby cries. A crowd gathers. The bus has stopped. The bystanders, like bamboo shoots, lean this way and that for a better view. The young mother is on the phone: help is on the way. She bounces her baby to calm him. Crows settle in the trees along the street. People whisper and speculate.
    EMTs arrive at the scene. They move the passersby aside and bring in the stretcher. Everything goes very quickly. A body is lifted from the ground and taken away. There’s blood—on the victim’s overcoat, on the pavement—in front of the bus—and a little farther up on the sidewalk. The ambulance leaves the scene. The passengers from the bus are asked to exit the vehicle, and the bystanders are asked to be on their way.
    At the corner of Rue Bonaparte and Rue Garibaldi, there’s nothing left to see. Just a police officer who has taken up position near the large dark spot, keeping away the crows that are waiting for the lane to be free. Next to the brown stain are minute shards of glass from a watch. Mr. Brun’s watch.

Chapter Seven
    A Bitter Pill to Swallow
    There’s a very thick white fog. Noises, too, in the distance. Noises that repeat, endlessly.
    Where am I? Am I already there? I can’t see anything. I feel like I’m rolled in cotton. Like the inside of a cloud. I hear voices, like a choir, and those pings, those electronic sounds. Beeps. Beeps like the cash register at the mini-mart. But where am I?
    Ferdinand’s mouth feels full of paste, with an aftertaste of iron. His tongue passes over his teeth, one by one. A hole. The lower left canine has vanished. A bottom tooth is missing!
    I’ve always had all my teeth! All except the wisdom teeth. Could this be a toll of some kind? I don’t understand. I can’t see anything. I don’t recognize my mouth, or my body. I want to holler but no sound comes out. Yoo-hoo! Is anybody there? Help me!
    As if out of nowhere, a blurry white shape appears, without distinct features. The long immaculate dress comes near and leans over. Then he hears a kind voice. “Mr. Brun. Everything’s OK. You’re with us now. You’ve certainly taken your time. You gave us quite the