Tunes For Bears to Dance To 

Robert Cormier



In the hush of the late afternoon, between surges of customers, they always came in bunches, like bananas, Henry approached Mr. Hairston where he stood at the window, commenting sourly as usual on the people passing by. 

"Do you know anything about monuments, Mr. Hairston?" Henry asked. 

"What kind of monuments?" the grocer asked absently, still looking out the window. 

"Monuments for a cemetery," Henry said. 

Looking with narrowed eyes at Henry, the grocer said, "What's all this about monuments? Or is it an excuse to stop working for a minute?" 

Warmth flooding his cheeks, Henry picked up the broom and began to sweep the floor, although he had already swept it. 

"Okay, okay," Mr. Hairston said. "Put down that broom. Sweeping a clean floor is a waste of energy better spent elsewhere. And I remember now, your brother is dead, and the monument is for him, am I right?" But no apology in his tone  or manner

Nodding, Henry said, "My mother and me, we're planning one for his grave. What I'd really like is to save up and buy one for him myself." Impossible, of course, but nice to think about, to even say aloud

The grocer turned back to the window, as if no longer interested. 


"Where do you go to buy a monument?" Henry persisted

"You go to a place that sells them," Mr. Hairston said, laughing that piglike laugh that was without mirth or amusement. 

"Where do you find such a place?" Henry asked, refusing to be discouraged

Mr. Hairston sighed, his shoulders lifting and falling in resignation, and turned to the boy again. "You buy a monument like anything else. You shop around. There's a place near Oak Lawn Cemetery that sells them. A man named Barstow owns it. Makes a good living at it, I guess. Must be a big markup, all you have is a stone with names and dates."

"Is his place far from here? Can I take a bus there?"

Mr. Hairston squinted at him, his eyes bright suddenly with interest. " You're really serious about this?" 

Henry nodded. "My brother deserves a monument. I think he's the only one in the cemetery without one." 

"What kind of monument are you thinking of?"

Henry wondered: Should I tell him? Will he laugh? He hated to say anything that would spoil Mr. Hairston's sudden interest. But why not go the whole way?

"Eddie was a great ballplayer. I was thinking of a ball and a bat." 

Mr. Hairston did not frown or scoff, did not make his strange squeal of a laugh, but continued to look at Henry with his deep dark eyes. 

"I know this Barstow. I'll talk to him." 

Henry felt his jaw drop open in disbelief, like in the funny pages. He blinked. Had he heard Mr. Hairston say what he thought he'd said? He dared not ask. Instead he murmured, "Thank you," having to clear his throat to utter the words, and began to sweep the same spot.