THE McWILLIAMS' COFFEE TABLE So the Joneses went out and did it: took truck and winch and crowbar and lifted a lamb-adorned delicate gravestone from country burial ground, washed dirt and roots from its base, set it on oak frame and casters to be the life of parties, the butt of jokes, the putting- down place of soda cans, iced tea and sweating daquiri glass. Wine stains the pearly limestone. Nicotine marks will not clean off. The floorboards beneath give off an ominous groan. Torn between envy and outrage, the neighbor couple lingers and gawks. Mrs. McWilliams wants to report them to the town and parish authorities. Her husband Peter writes down the name, Lilian McHenry who died in 18-- something, listens again as drunken Jones retells the hazards of late night shopping, guesses the town where he made the heist. "Hard work - and dangerous," McWilliams speculates. "Like candy from babies," Jones boasts. A new moon comes and passes. It's party time at the McWilliamses. And what should the startled visitors find sporting a Chinese vase, a Vanity Fair and a plate of brie? An oblong box of plexiglass extending the length of the oversize sofa, contains a sleeping beauty occupant - none other than Lillian McHenry, exhumed with care from her stoneless plot, her long white corpse hair intact, her long nails black, eye sockets dark as six-foot soil, her shroud a study in tatters, nose gone, gap teeth a hideous smile, an onyx ring on her skeleton fingers. Guests circle it cautiously, noses alert for that certain smell, eyeing the carpet for telltale stains, dreading the thought of a sudden motion within the griplock of polymer. Soon enough the discomfort is over. Lilian is adorned with coffee rings, a spill of gin, a cocaine dusting. The Jones parties are a thing of the past. The McWilliamses so chic and clever, so au courant in the finer art of interior decorating. - Brett Rutherford
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