By Kim Edmunds
The shop, old and alone in its trade, had been picked nearly clean; only one tuxedo remained. Although it was a dated style, the price was reasonable. Jeanette, new to town, was relieved.
Cleon, working outside, saw her leave with the garment in hand. He told her about the last few “poor sonuvabitches” who’d worn it and how the people, afraid, now left it alone.
But Jeanette didn’t buy into curses. She was sure, thank you, that the tuxedo didn’t “up and kill folks.”
She would later decide to make very certain of that by burying her son in it.