The Trees

by Percival Everett

“Obviously, the African-American individual was not dead,” Ed said. “You didn’t see him,” Jetty said. “I’ll grant you he looked dead in the photo,” Jim said. “But looking dead is not the same thing as, well, being dead.” “Thank you for that,” Jetty said.

“Smart-asses,” Jetty said. “He wanted to say uppity. Didn’t he want to say uppity? I could hear it even though he didn’t say it,” Jim said to Ed.

“Should I be scared?” the woman asked. “Who the fuck knows, Hattie? I got me two dead crackers in the morgue and a dead nigger running around maybe killin’ people and gettin’ hisself killed over and over again. What is anybody supposed to think?”

“Let me describe it to you. Your husband, Junior Junior, will be laid out in his coffin. I will personally look after all the embalming and cosmetic work. He will look just how you remember him.” “You know his face was beat to shit, don’t you?” “What?” “Oh, his face is a mess. Right now that’s how I’m rememberin’ him, and it ain’t pretty. Not that he ever was.”

“Welcome to Acme Cadaver Supply of Chicago. You kill ’em, we chill ’em. May I help you?”

“So, what do you think, seeing one of these up close and personal?” “It’s a beaut,” Hind said. “Are you feds required to take a course in sarcastic understatement at Quantico?” “No, it’s an elective.”