Read Online The Transcendental Murder by Jane Langton - Free Book Online

two gun — fire! ” BOOM … BOOM … BOOM. John was beside himself with joy. It was like a war, a real war.
    What was the matter? The cannon had stopped firing, and the men were standing in one attitude, looking at someone. It was Philip they were looking at. Mary saw him turning his head stiffly from side to side, while the others stared at him. Ernest Goss stood in front of the Number One gun, his ramrod still halfway down the barrel. He, too, stared at Philip. Harvey Finn strode over to Philip and gripped him by the shirt. “What are you trying to do, kill somebody?”
    Philip said nothing. Then Harvey let go and went back to his post. Ernest Goss, looking shaken, pulled his ramrod out of the cannon and stepped to the side. Philip looked at his father, and then hesitantly at Harvey. “Well, Philip,” bawled Harvey, “you ready or not?”
    Philip stuttered something inaudible, and Harvey yelled, “ Number one gun — fire! ” BOOM. “ Number two gun — fire! ” BOOM. The regular rhythm began again, and the salute ended with another double firing of both guns together … BABOOM.
    Then the Honor Guard stepped up stylishly and hoisted the flag. Annie, sagging down in Mary’s arms, saluted patriotically with the Honor Guard. A clergyman came forward and called on God. His prayer was long, and the teenager’s blue knees knocked together with the cold.
    It was all over. Mary looked for Philip, but he avoided her and walked away across the field by the Old Manse, alone. Homer consulted his newspaper. “What’s this about a Lions Club Pancake Breakfast?” he said.
    The cornflakes were rattling around inside Annie and John. “Oh, yes,” they shouted, “pancakes!”
    â€œWell, just one apiece,” said Mary. “We’ve got to go home so you children can get ready to march in the parade.”
    In Monument Hall the Lions were struggling heroically with a fantastic bottleneck in the shape of a tide of hungry people and one small grill. The line of would-be pancake eaters doubled across the hall, idly paddling the air with their paper plates, their insides clapping against their backbones. Apologetic Lions moved up and down the line, passing out cups of coffee. Annie chewed her fingernails. Homer told Mary about his Ugly Word Collection, which included pianola, bowlarama, oleomargarine and frenchified words like shaze lownge, brazeere and neglazhay.
    â€œYour neckties must be an inspiration to you,” said Mary, admiring the phosphorescent diatoms he was wearing.
    Homer looked down at his necktie proudly. “It glows in the dark,” he said.
    â€œI’ve got a word game, too,” said Mary. “I look for words that sound alike and more or less rhyme. It’s kind of a nuisance because you can’t stop. I wandered around the house yesterday for five minutes with a saucer in my hand, going from bashful flyswatter to gasfitter’s daughter, to tiptoe, please, the Antipodes, to noisy gales, glassy knees, gluey noise, noisome grails.”
    â€œAre you bragging or complaining?” said Homer, stepping on the flowers.
    â€œBragging, bragging. Banjo band, bangled hand, newfangled strand.”
    Homer picked up newfangled strand. “What stout Balboa said when he gazed at the Pacific. ‘This ain’t the Indies, by God, it’s some newfangled strand.’”
    â€œAnd Emerson, too. That’s what he said. ‘This is a newfangled strand, this country, and why doesn’t some newfangled man come along to match it.’”
    John began to whine. He was tired of waiting, and tears came easily. He had discovered in first grade that life was essentially tragic, and it had come as a blow. He pulled at Mary’s skirt. Then Mary and Homer began to bicker. She had gone so far as to say that Emily Dickinson was the newfangled voice that Emerson was looking for. Homer bridled at that and