The Night Mr. Coleman Died

It began with a sound– a long, mournful howl. Not a bark or a growl but a drawn-out wail. It made my skin crawl and the hairs on my arm seemed to vibrate. I don’t recall before or since, hearing such a sound—primordial, more elegant and frightening than words could ever be.

Our family, Daddy, Mother, Gloria and I were just coming home from the Wednesday night picture show. There was just one movie theatre in Murfreesboro, the Princess. Twice a week it changed features and twice a week our family was there. The movie were short enough for us to eat an early supper, attend the movie, and still be home for a decent bedtime on a school night.

We were pulling into our driveway when the haunting howling began. Mother and Daddy looked at each other.

“I’d better go see.” Daddy said.

Mother hustled us into the house. The howling stopped. Our next door neighbor, Mr. Coleman, had died unexpectedly in his bed.

I loved Mr. Coleman. He was the town Fix-It Man. He was the one who, every year, climbed the tall courthouse tower and adjusted the four-sided clock that could be seen from every side of the town. He had a tiny, cluttered shop called The Fix-It Shop and the reputation around town was that he could fix anything. He had built an elaborate and ingenious glider that stood between our houses. I never saw Mr. and Mrs. Coleman in the glider but Gloria and I spent hours there. Two porch swings connected with a roof faced each other and the glider could move in many directions at many speeds. Gloria and I sat with our boy friends in that swing as we grew older.

Mr. Coleman was also my croquet partner on those summer nights when adults and children gathered in our yard to play. Mr. Coleman and my reputation was not too good. On more than one occasion, if someone “knocked Mr. Coleman away” or caused him to miss a wicket, he would throw down his mallet and storm away. As his partner I would also throw down my mallet and stomp into the house.

I don’t remember his funeral but a few nights later Gloria and I began taking turns spending the night with Mrs. Coleman and sleeping with her.

Soon after dark we would put on our pajamas and cross the side yard to her house. Her sheets were perfumed and crisply starched,but the best part was the big breakfasts she always fixed for us the next morning. Used to the same ole oatmeal and orange juice every morning, we relished the hot muffins, sliced fruit, tangy bacon and sausage and eggs fixed anyway we liked. This lasted about a week then life returned to normal for us.

The town clock ran down. The Fix It Shop was sold. Mrs. Coleman continued to live next door. I don’t know what happened to Mr. Coleman’s dog. I never saw him again after that night.