Summer 1952 • Vol. XIV No. 3 Fiction |

Two Mortuary Sermons

My lord, it is a great art to die well, and to be learnt by men in health.               —JEREMY TAYLOR I. SKIP'S DEATH Things, as Eddie would have said, were slow that morning, so Skip sat downstairs at one end of the long bar, instead of upstairs in his office, trying to check his previous day's receipts. To check the previous day's receipts was important to Skip, it had something to do with the honor of being a businessman. And he often liked to draw a distinction between himself, a businessman, and people who, as he said, were just in business. Kendle Avenue was not what one would ordinarily consider as an avenue, but in respect to Councilman Kendle's memory, the city now chose to call it an avenue. However, it was only a dingy, narrow, traffic-clogged street that ran for some distance through Eastwick, one of the poorer outlying sections of the city. If Kendle Avenue belonged to anyone, it belonged to Skip: he owned most of its stores,

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