Life Expectancy

door to the courthouse, had also perished.
        Eight is a heavy toll in human life, but considering the extent of the destruction, scores of victims might have been expected. Lives were spared because the explosions were two stories underground, and some of the force vented into the subterranean tunnels. The library, the mansion, and the bank imploded, crashing down into their cellars and subcellars as though brought to ruin by the precise formulations of a demolitions expert.
        The courthouse largely imploded, as well, but its bell tower toppled into the building next door, bringing sudden fury into the quiet life of the Widow Jeeter.
        Her two cats also were squashed. Some citizens of Snow Village seemed to be angrier about this outrage than about either the human or the architectural losses.
        Punchinello had expressed regret that hundreds hadn't died. He told police that if he could do it all over again, he would add packages of napalm to ensure a firestorm that would devastate many square blocks.
        Portions of the street and the park subsided into Cornelius Snow's secret passageways. My fine black sporty coupe with yellow racing stripes had been swallowed by one of these sinkholes.
        Remember when I said that I hadn't met a young woman whom I could love as much as I loved that seven-year-old Dodge Daytona Shelby Z? Funny thing-I didn't mourn the loss of it, not for a minute.
        Although Lorrie would have looked good in the Shelby Z, she would look even better in a 1986 Pontiac Trans Am, not black but maybe red or silver, a color to match her exuberant spirit. Or a 1988 Chevy Camaro IROC-Z convertible.
        My problem, however, was one that any young baker on a bread-and-cake wage could appreciate. There were men in the world who, upon getting one look at her, would buy Lorrie a Rolls-Royce for every day of the week. And not all of them would look like trolls.
        "You don't think they'll send the bugger to some asylum and let him off the hook?" Dad asked.
        "He doesn't want that himself," I said. "He's saying he knew exactly what he was doing, and it was all about revenge."
        "He's crazy in his way," Lorrie said. "But he knows right from wrong as sure as I do. Maddy, Rudy-this soup is fantastic even if it causes flatulence."
        Grandma Rowena had a relevant story: "Hector Sanchez, lived over near Bright Falls, killed himself with a fart."
        The rationalist in my father was stirred by Grandma's assertion.
        "Weena, that's just not possible."
        "Hector worked in the hair-oil industry," Grandma recalled. "He had beautiful hair but not much common sense. This was fifty-six years ago, back in '38, before the war."
        "Even then it wasn't possible," Dad declared.
        "You weren't even born yet, Maddy, neither, so don't tell me what wasn't possible. I saw it with my own eyes."
        "You've never mentioned this before," Dad said, suspecting a fabrication but not ready to make the accusation. "Jimmy, has she ever mentioned this before?"
        "No," I confirmed. "I remember Grandma telling us about a Harry Ramirez who boiled himself to death, but not this Hector Sanchez."
        "Maddy, do you remember ever hearing this before?"
        "No, honey," my mother admitted, "but what does that prove? I'm sure it just slipped Mother's mind until now."
        "Seeing a man fart himself to death doesn't just slip your mind." To Lorrie, Dad said, "I'm sorry, dear. Our table talk isn't usually this low."
        "You don't know what low is until you're eating canned ravioli while listening to stories about snake cankers and the smell of a tornado that's sucked up the contents of a sewage-processing plant."
        Impatiently, Grandma said, "Hector Sanchez never slipped my mind. This is just the first time we've been in a conversation where the subject came up naturally."
        "What was Hector's job in the hair-oil industry?" Mom asked.
        "If he blew himself up with a fart fifty-six years ago," Dad said, "who cares what he did in hair oil?"
        "I'm sure his family cared," Weena said. "It put food on their table.
        Anyway, he didn't blow himself up. That isn't possible."
        "Case closed," my father said triumphantly.
        "I turned twenty-one, and my husband, Sam, took me to a tavern for the first time. We were in a booth. Hector was on a bar stool. I ordered a Pink Squirrel. Do