C H A P T E R 1<br >Si Buckles was dead. No question about it. Si Buckles<br >was dead. He was my age， forty， and with his ruddy skin<br >and boyish smile that made him look like a plump Howdy<br >Doody， it seemed he d live forever. But we were burying<br >him now， and the thud of his casket at the bottom of his<br >grave had a very final ring to it.<br > I pulled up the collar of my overcoat. It had started to<br >snow--large， wet flakes that stung as they hit and left<br >Navoe Cemetery a pinto brown and white. Turning away<br >from the wind and the snow and burying my head a little<br >deeper in my coat， I remembered it was April， April Fools <br >Day， the most appropriate day I knew of to bury Si<br >Buckles.<br > Si had never grown up. He had a childlike sense of<br >humor， a child s penchant for practical jokes， and unfortu-<br >nately a child s simple-minded cruelty. He d been threat-<br >ened more than once by more than one of us in Oakalla，<br >but he was so much like a child it was hard to hate Si， even<br >when he was pouring salt into your iced tea. Though I<br >couldn t say I really knew him. I knew where he lived，<br >where he worked， and that he wore the same plaid flannel<br >shirt every day of his life. But he was like a fire siren--<br >someone you never noticed until he rang in your ear. That<br >bothered me. It seemed I d buried too many like Si， that<br > 0<br >
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