Collection Day
“It should have been here by now,” Henry Blanchard said over his shoulder, peeking through the blinds.
“Sometimes he runs a bit late, Henry,” replied Maggie. “You know that. You know how boys are. They get to playing ball or something and forget the time. He’ll be here. Tommy hasn’t forgotten to deliver the paper yet, has he?”
“No, he hasn’t. But you know I like to read my afternoon paper before the news comes on at six, and it’s nearly five-thirty.”
“Honestly Henry, I don’t know why you’re so intent on having that paper here anyway. About all you ever read are the obituaries.”
Henry chuckled. “I want to see whether my name is in it, so I’ll know if I should lay down and die.” Maggie rolled her eyes. It was a daily routine in the Blanchard household. Henry immediately opened the paper to the obituaries, scanned the list of names and made his remark about not being there so he didn’t need to lay down and die. Maggie swore to herself she’d probably lay down and die herself if he didn’t say that at least once a day.
“Here he comes, finally.” Henry released the blind and walked toward the front door. He would wait for his paper in the yard. That way he could get it mostly read before the news came on; besides, he always enjoyed saying “hi” to Tommy. Since they moved into the Surf and Sun Estates retirement village three years ago, Tommy was the only young person Henry usually saw.
“Lord knows our own kids don’t blaze any trails to visit us,” he would complain to any willing listener. Henry thought often about his son and daughter, both with families of their own, and their “damned Yuppie lives,” as he called them. “Just because they live a thousand miles away,” he would regularly lament, “is no good reason not to take a few days off and bring our Grandkids down so we can see how they’ve grown.”
Tommy finally rode within earshot of Henry, after slaloming from house to house. It always amazed Henry how the kid could toss a folded newspaper so far with either arm while riding a bike and never miss a porch.
“How ya’ doin’, Mr. Blanchard?” Tommy called out. “Great day ain’t it?”
“Yes it is, Tommy. I’m doing just fine, but I’ll be better once I get the paper read. Gotta check the obits to make sure I’m not in them. I want to see if I gotta lay down and die today,” he laughed.
“Mr. Blanchard, you tell me that every day.” Tommy uttered ‘day’ with a heavy breath as he heaved a copy of the Daily Journal in a perfect loop onto the Saunders’ porch. He immediately shifted his weight and angled across the street toward Henry, paper already in hand. “See if you can catch it,” he shouted as he tossed the “Journal” in Henry’s direction.
Henry made a grab for the paper, but it sailed over his head and landed with a plop on the porch behind him. If he’d stayed on the porch, he’d have made a perfect reception, just as he had done so often as a tight end in high school many years ago.
“Better luck tomorrow,” Tommy laughed behind him as he rolled down the street, still shifting from lane to lane and heaving papers. Henry didn’t answer. He was already back on the porch. He’d retrieved the Journal and began walking toward the front door, turning pages as he stepped, seeking the obituaries.
“Good news, Mag. I’m still alive. At least my name isn’t listed in tonight’s obits.”
“That’s nice, hon,” she said in a bored monotone. “Did you find out why Tommy was late tonight?”
“I completely forgot to ask him. I’ll try to remember tomorrow.” Henry turned on the evening news.
“Locally,” the attractive anchorperson announced, “Richard Mannweiler, retired owner of Mannweiler and Sons Clothiers, died earlier today. Mr. Mannweiler was a noted civic leader and was instrumental in…”
“Mag, didn’t we know Richard Mannweiler? Wasn’t he the guy who lived over on Springbrook Drive, right here in the estates? That name sure sounds familiar to me for some reason.”
Maggie stopped working in the kitchen long enough to listen to the report. “Yes, I think he is, or was, the same man. You remember him. We used to speak to him at the dinner dances. He was always organizing something or other in town.”
“…death is officially listed as natural causes. In other news…” Henry tuned out the rest of the report. He just couldn’t get over the idea he knew this Mannweiler, and not just because of some dance.
Shaking his head, Henry returned to the paper. “I dunno. That name sure rings a bell.” He skimmed the sports section, which consisted of one full page, and decided to reread the obituaries. He’d only read the names the first time. Another part of his little game was to check the ages of the recently deceased. Henry made a mental note of those who died younger than he was. It was a bit macabre, true, but he couldn’t see the harm in it.
Henry read the first two listings in the obituary section when he froze. There, in stark black and white, was a name he now knew all too well:
MANNWEILER, RICHARD R. Born October 23, 1922. Died August 6, 1994. Mr. Mannweiler was a resident of the Sun and Surf Estates and was the retired owner of Mannweiler and Sons, a local retail establishment. Funeral arrangements are pending.
“Maggie!” he shouted.
“What is it? What’s wrong?” she ran into the living room. Henry sat staring at the paper and missed the look of alarm on her face.
“It’s Mannweiler. The guy they just talked about on the news. His name is already listed in the obits. I knew I recognized that name. It just didn’t click when I read it the first time.”
“You frightened me half to death, Henry. I thought you were having a heart attack or something. And all because you saw a name in the obituaries the same day you hear it on the TV news. He probably died early enough this morning for the paper to get it in today’s edition.”
“Yeah. You’re probably right. I suppose it doesn’t take as long to get the news into print as it did when we were young, what with all those computers and everything.”
“Henry, you’ve simply got to stop getting all worked up over those obituaries. I tell you it just isn’t healthy. All this talk about being dead. Keep it up and you really will be dead.”
“You’re right. I know you’re right. I’m sorry. I’ll try to stop doing that so much. It’s just that I can’t help but think there’s something strange about Mannweiler’s death.”
“It’s probably just a coincidence that the paper got the information so soon. That’s all it is. Supper’s ready. Let’s enjoy it and stop thinking about such depressing things.”
But Henry couldn’t stop thinking about it. All that night and into the following day, he thought of little else but Richard Mannweiler and his twice-reported death. “People die every day,” he said to himself as he worked in his rose garden. “Why should this death be any different? Why should I be so concerned about it?” The roses, lovely as they were, gave him no answers.
“Henry. How are you?” Henry turned toward the voice. It was Paul Saunders, his neighbor across the street. He got up, a bit stiffly from kneeling so long among the roses, and greeted his friend.
“I’m fine, Paul. Yourself?”
“A little touch of arthritis now and then, but otherwise not bad.” Paul always had some sort of ache or pain and rarely failed to mention it when asked how he was. “At least I’m doing better than Bob Mannweiler. I suppose you know he died yesterday afternoon.” Paul Saunders was the neighborhood busybody. He had a reputation for knowing what, and when, everyone was doing.
“Yeah, I heard all about it in the news.” Henry suddenly looked straight into Paul’s eyes. “Just a minute. Did you say yesterday afternoon?”
“Yep, right around five I believe it was. According to the story I heard, he was in the bathroom getting dressed for some committee meeting, one of those Fancy Dan doin’s he was always going to, when he just dropped over. WHOOMP! Just like that.”
“Do you happen to know what time t
he Journal is printed?”
“No, not for sure. I think it’s sometime right after noon, though. It must be early afternoon because we usually get our copy right around four. We were in town until late yesterday and it was on the porch when we got home.”
“It’s usually printed sometime around twelve-thirty or one, but it was late yesterday. Didn’t come until almost five-thirty. If Mannweiler didn’t die until five or so, how could his obituary possibly be in last night’s paper if it’s printed right after lunch?”
“Gosh, I don’t know. I didn’t know it was there. I don’t read the obits usually. Too depressing.”
“Well it was. I saw it. Then I heard about it again on the six o’clock news. Paul, there’s no way that could have been in yesterday’s paper if he died when you say he did.”
“I got the time from Gordon. He was there when it happened. I guess he and Gloria were going to the same meeting and they decided to meet the Mannweilers at their house and drive there together. They were in the living room waiting when Bob checked out. I talked to Gordon about an hour ago. He’s pretty shook.”
“I would be too.”
“Maybe the paper was late because they wanted to get his obit in before going to press.”
“I doubt that. Robert Mannweiler might have been an important man, but not important enough to stop a newspaper from going to press. I just can’t figure out how they got that obituary printed so soon after the guy died.”
“Don’t know,” Paul said. “I gotta go, Henry. Jean wants to go to Bob’s funeral, so that means a new outfit. She needs to go shopping.” Paul began walking home. He stopped and turned back toward Henry, who was about to resume the weeding of his roses. “Don’t worry too much about that paper. They can get things done a lot faster today than when we were young, you know.” Paul walked across the yard and out of Henry’s sight.
“He’s probably right,” Henry said to his rosebush. “Everything’s faster in this day and age.”
At five minutes to four, Henry began watching for Tommy. His daily routine began. Three minutes later, Tommy rode into view. Henry dashed onto the porch to await his evening Journal.
“Tommy!” He called, waving at the paper-laden youth. Tommy waved a rolled up newspaper in the air in acknowledgement. “You’re earlier today.”
“Yeah,” Tommy replied. “I had to collect yesterday. Takes a little longer when I collect. Sorry.”
“Collect? You’ve never collected from us. I always pay my subscription through the mail.”
Tommy heaved Henry’s copy of the Journal toward him. Henry gathered it in as if it were a screen pass. “Great catch, Mr. Blanchard. Sometimes we collect door to door. It depends on the customer. Mr. Mannweiler was due, so I collected.”
“Oh, okay. Just asking was all. Nice pass, by the way. Right in the numbers.”
“Thanks,” Tommy called out over his shoulder as he continued his route.
Henry strolled back toward the front door, unfolding the paper, then stopped stone cold in his tracks. “Mr. Mannweiler!” he shouted, then turned to run after Tommy, who was disappearing down the street. “Tommy!” he yelled after him. “Come back a minute. I have to ask you something.”
“I’ll be back in a little while, Mr. Blanchard.” Tommy was several houses away and had to cup his mouth with his hand to shout. He nearly lost his balance, so he stopped pedaling and stood in the street straddling his bike. “Let me finish my route and I’ll come back by. Okay?”
Henry wanted an answer right then but waved Tommy off. He supposed he could wait a few minutes longer. Tommy began riding again and Henry returned to his paper. As usual, he immediately turned to the Obituary Section. “Gotta see if I’m in here, so I’ll know whether I should lay down and die.” He chuckled to himself, forgetting his alarm over Tommy’s having seen Bob Mannweiler just before he died. He turned to the page he knew the obits usually were listed and began scanning the names. Then he screamed.
Maggie heard the scream from the kitchen. She ran to the porch. Henry was leaning against the house. He was gasping for breath and his skin was almost pure white. Maggie was terrified.
“Henry. What’s wrong? You’re white as a sheet.”
Henry couldn’t speak. He held the paper up and pointed at it, trying to catch his breath. Maggie took the paper from his shaking hand and opened it. Then she screamed.
The first entry in the Obituary Section read:
Blanchard, Henry James: Born March 18, 1926. Died August 7, 1996. Mr. Blanchard was employed as a machinist at McDowell Tool and Die Company. He retired in 1990. He married Margaret Moran on January 20, 1947. She survives along with three children and seven grandchildren. Funeral arrangements are pending.
The Blanchards sat on the stoop. Maggie held Henry’s hand, speaking soothingly to him. “It must be some kind of terrible mistake, Henry. That’s all it is, I’m sure.”
She looked up to see Tommy park his bicycle on the sidewalk in front of their home. Carrying a small loose-leaf notebook, Tommy strolled up the walk until he stood directly in front of Henry. He opened the notebook, took a pen from his pocket and made a checkmark. When she looked closely at the boy, Maggie thought he looked different somehow. The playful, boyish face had been replaced by...something else.
Tommy slowly raised his right arm and pointed a bony finger directly at Henry’s ashen face. “Henry Blanchard,” he uttered in a raspy, echoing voice. A cold, detached voice. “You must now lay down and die. Your soul is due. I have come to collect.”