Page 73 of Goodbye Days

“It’s a whoopee cushion,” she says. “Here.” She blows it up, sets it on her chair, and sits on it with a piercing, squalling fart noise. We laugh.

“I’ve read about those,” I say. “But I’ve never seen one.”

“I had to order this off the Internet.”

“You could probably download an app on your phone.”

Nana Betsy looks sheepish. “I’m too old-fashioned to have thought of that.”

“What’s it for?”

“We’re going to experience the world through Blake’s eyes. I contacted YouTube and I was able to get the login information for Blake’s site. I need you to help me make a farewell video for Blake.”

I hadn’t even thought of what had become of all of Blake’s YouTube followers. I wondered if they had any idea what had happened.

“I have plenty of experience as Blake’s cameraman.”

“Then we ought to be set. First things first, though: we need to record an introduction to the video. Might as well do that here.”

While I film, Nana Betsy stumbles and stammers her way through her message. “Hello, everybody. I’m Blake’s grandmother. Blake has passed on and we miss him. We wanted to thank all of you for supporting him. Thank you. This next video is our tribute to Blake.”

Nana Betsy picks up her keys and purse, which she empties out enough to accommodate the whoopee cushion. She inflates it and puts it inside. She does a test, squeezing it. It works. She inflates it again and replaces it. “Okay. Let’s go.”

We drive to a craft store. That was my idea. Blake loved the places with prim and proper employees, and a hobby store is sure to have a few who love flower arranging a lot more than fart noises.

“Whew,” Nana Betsy says as we sit in the parking lot. “My stomach is full of butterflies. How was Blake able to do this?”

“Blake didn’t come up with this, but he said comedy was about controlling why people laugh at you.”

Nana Betsy nods firmly. Her face is more resolute. She takes a deep breath. “Then let’s go control why people laugh at us. For him.”

We walk into the potpourri-scented store. Nana Betsy clutches her purse at her side like it contains an explosive device—which I suppose it does. Her lips are tight. Her eyes move side to side quickly, seeking our target. I have my phone at the ready.

There are more girls in their twenties with pierced noses and purple hair than I expected. They’re no good to us. I scan the store. We wander to the fabric aisle.

“There,” I whisper, and nod slightly in the direction of a matronly-looking woman with short gray hair. She has her reading glasses perched on the end of her nose, and she’s rolling up a bolt of flannel.

“Yep,” Nana Betsy whispers. She takes another deep breath. “Oh, Lord, what am I doing?” she mutters to herself.

We approach the woman. I slip my phone from my pocket and pretend to be engrossed in checking something, but I’m filming. Beside me, Nana Betsy swallows hard and steps forward.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” she says. Her voice sounds pinched; higher than usual. Like she has a whoopee cushion stuck in her throat, actually.

The woman looks up with a dour expression and raised eyebrows. Good choice of target.

“Can I help you?” she asks.

“Yes, we’re looking for—” Nana Betsy sets her purse on the table and reaches in, as if she’s about to pull out a sheet with measurements scribbled on it. Instead, she grips the whoopee cushion and squeezes, emitting a long, sonorous, flatulent squeal. And then there are a couple of moments of complete silence, which is the perfect cutoff point to stop filming. The woman’s mouth is slightly agape, and her eyes shift quickly between Nana Betsy and me.

Nana Betsy’s face looks like she fell asleep in the sun and woke up five hours later. She’s stammering an apology between nervous giggles and has her hand on the woman’s arm. “Ma’am, I am so, so sorry. I honestly did not mean to be rude. We had to—I—”

The woman looks at Nana Betsy like she’s actually ripped ass right in front of her. “I have a lot to do here, so if y’all don’t mind.”

Nana Betsy quickly composes herself. It reminds me of how she did at Blake’s funeral. She speaks more slowly and quietly. “I sincerely apologize, ma’am. I lost my grandson a few weeks ago. He was a prankster and loved stunts where he acted the fool in public.” She nods in my direction. “His best friend and I are out to have a last day to say goodbye to him. I needed to experience a little piece of his world through his eyes.”

The woman’s expression visibly relaxes. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

Nana Betsy fumbles in her purse again and comes up with a twenty-dollar bill. She holds it out to the woman. “Please, take this. We were only trying to make ourselves look foolish, not you.”