"That's not him, that's not Daddy" Over and over Lafe repeated the words which he now remembered his father had said to him when his mother died: that's not your mother, it's just a shell, he’s gone somewhere else now.

Lafe sat in the parlor, looking at the body laid out on the bed in the corner of the room. He could not take his eyes off the silver dollars covering his father’s eyelids. That's not him.

They would be coming soon to take him away. That's not Daddy.

They were going to the church first and then the cemetery. That's not you, Daddy.

Lafe was wearing his school clothes. They were the best he had. Beatrice had spent half a day washing and ironing for him and his brothers. She had spent a good hour on their shoes. That's not him.

Kurt and Mark were seated next to him. They had hardly spoken since the body was brought home. The Mexia druggist had loaned his wagon and had driven Lafe home with the body, Lafe burst into tears when they came in sight of the houses with the smoke coming from the kitchens a normal day for Beatrice and he could see his brothers out in the field. He had wanted to shout but the tears kept him from it. They had driven up and Beatrice, who must've seen them out a windows came slowly onto the porch.

''Oh dear Lord," was all she said. She lifted Lafe from the wagon and held him very tight. The druggist, Mr. Moore, carried the body into the house. Lafe noticed that it was already stiff.