Free Death of a Toy Soldier by Barbara Early

in his honor, while a number of those in attendance did the sign of the cross.
    “May he rest in peace,” another said.
    I sent a panicked look toward Dad. We’d crashed a wake.

Chapter 7
    Dad seemed quick to catch on to the real reason for the gathering. Soon, he was buzzing from one mourner to another like a bee collecting pollen, offering sympathy with a pat on the hand and a consoling expression.
    “I’m sorry about your Uncle Sy,” I said to Jack.
    “My great uncle, actually,” Jack explained. “My mother’s uncle. I’m surprised you knew him at all. He was a bit of a hermit. I think his picture was in the dictionary under ‘curmudgeon.’” Jack leaned an elbow against the top of an upright piano wedged just inside the living room. If he’d worn a suit coat, he ditched it at the same time as his overcoat. But he’d kept the teal-and-gray tie, which looked kind of snazzy, as Dad would say, against his freshly pressed dress shirt. He’d even shaved his ordinarily scruffy face. With his olive skin, intense brown eyes, and hair freshly combed, Jack had only gotten better looking with age. In high school, a lot of girls weren’t interested in smart, gangly, geeky Jack. Their loss. Although he’d also picked up a bit of a paunch, probably fromsampling a little too much of his own food, it didn’t take away from his appeal. The man was just reaching his prime.
    And he was waiting for a response. From me. What were we talking about? Oh, yes, Uncle Sy. “I didn’t know him,” I admitted.
    When Jack raised a jaunty eyebrow, I added, “I’m here for Dad, mainly.”
    “Huh,” Jack said. “I didn’t know they were acquainted either. Small town, I guess.”
    “I gather he’d met your Uncle Sy on more than one occasion. Was he sick long?”
    “Only all his life. Here.” He grabbed my hand. “Come see the shrine.” He led me to the fireplace mantel, not that there was a fireplace, at least not anymore. The opening had been sealed and wallpapered over, an apparent victim to central heating, but at least they’d kept the wood mantel. Several framed pictures there showed Uncle Sy. He was alone in all but one of them, a grumpy expression on his face and his arms crossed in front of him. The lone exception was a black-and-white photo of a group of men, dressed in military uniforms, standing stiffly. I caught that signature grumpy look on a man in the back row.
    Jack tapped the photo. “Korea. Uncle Sy fought at the Battle of Triangle Hill. If you want to know any more about it, ask anyone in the room. I’m sure we all know it by heart.” He leaned toward my ear. “But be warned. Uncle Sy never had a kind word for anyone. Everyone here today is here either because they’re expected to be or to stake their claim on their share of the estate.”
    “And you are . . . ?”
    “Expected to be here, although Mother asked me specifically to bring the truck.” He winked. Moments later, however, his smile dimmed. I followed his line of vision to where his mother sat, also with her arms crossed, with that same icy stare. Maybe it never had anything to do with me. It seemed to be hereditary. The Wallace glare. I bet it had its own chromosome. She gestured for her son to join her.
    “Sorry. Gotta go.” He squeezed my arm. “Try the deviled eggs. They’re my special recipe.”
    I found the punchbowl perched on a corner of the dining room table. The recommended deviled eggs were nearby, so I snagged one and nibbled on it. While it tasted amazing, I hoped Dad would be ready to leave soon.
    One nice thing about the punch bowl was the absence of company. One of the Wallaces’ relatives—my guess, since she had that same glare—was hovering over the desserts. She was fully engaged in that activity, so I didn’t have to carry out any coherent conversations or answer any sticky questions, such as how I knew Sy or what I was doing there.
    I stopped to inspect a curio cabinet; every shelf was jammed full of