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Show •116 more who had been r e s t i n g came down to help; they hoisted the body into a s o r t of basket, folded the p l a s t i c over him and slowly walked out of the water, each holding a corner. The incongruous procession had by v i r t u e of i t s oddness a peculiar d i g n i t y : four b l a c k - s u i t e d masked men walking across t h i s cheerful Oregon landscape carrying a f i f t h one who was dead. I f e l t as if I were watching a hangover from some darker e a r l i e r time, when ceremony and r i t u a l were true safeguards against e v i l s we d i d n ' t pretend to understand. But also in the same moment I wanted to laugh. I only held myself back from r o a r i n g by snatching the r a i l in front of me and grinding my t e e t h . All the best jokes begin with death. When I reached the other s i d e , a f t e r a long walk across the shaky bridge and under dusty t r e e s , I f e l t more like myself again. A policeman in a soft gray Western hat and cowboy boots stepped forward. "I'm here for the family," I said. "What's the matter with your kid brother? He could have drowned. Is he crazy?" "Do you know me?" I said. "How do you know that was my brother?" "You've been gone a long time, i t must be what, ten years? I'm chief of p o l i c e here now." "I remember," I said. "You're Laszlo Brady. You used to come to our house to see Jacob." |