slung over her wrist. She waved, he waved and watched her walk the length of the deck toward the garage. A moment later, between the two buildings, he saw them drive away for church.
When he got home the light was blinking on his telephone answering machine. He pushed the message button and Lee Reston's voice came on.
"Christopher, this is Lee. I just wanted to tell you one thing.
Funerals aren't bad, Chris. If you think about it, they're really for the living."
He tried to bear that in mind that afternoon as he showered, shaved and dressed in a suit and tie for the wake of his best friend. But when he was in the Explorer with the air-conditioning turned on high, driving toward Dewey's Funeral Home, the stream of cold air couldn't quite dry the sweat on his palms.
The funeral home was one of the prettiest buildings in town, on a shaded corner, looking like a stately southern mansion with white pillars and Palladian windows. Walking toward it, he felt a knot of dread in his stomach. Inside the shadowed building, it was nappy and gloomy, the windows mostly covered to hold out the summer light. But where one might expect to hear recorded organ music, he heard instead--very softly as a background to murmured voices--the sound of Vince Gill's album "I Still Believe in You."
His mouth twisted into a disbelieving half-smile as he smoothed his tie and stepped toward a lectern holding a memorial book.
Lee's mother and father were there signing, then whispering together, scowling as they cast their eyes toward the ceiling as if in search of the speakers.
He caught a snatch of their conversation ". . . what in the world she was thinking of!"
"I can just imagine what Aunt Delores will say."
He signed and followed them toward a cluster of people, watching Lee separate herself from them to come forward and greet her parents.
"Hi, Mom. Hi, Dad. I know what you're going to say, but please .
. . let's celebrate his life, not his death."
"Oh, Lee, people are whispering."
"Who?" she said, gaing straight into her mother's eyes, gripping Peg Hillier's hands in both of her own. "I talked it over with the kids and it's our choice. It makes our memories happier."
Peg withdrew her hands. "All right, have it your way. Orrin, let's go say hello to Clarice and Bob."
When they'd moved on, Christopher took their place. He and Lee hugged briefly.
"I walked in and heard that music and all of a sudden I could swallow and breathe again. Thanks."
She smiled and squeezed his fingers. "Did you get my message?"
"Yes."
"Then why are your palms damp and trembling?"
He released her hands, making no reply, still uncertain of protocol.
"There's no reason to be afraid."
"I don't know what to do."
"Go up and say hi to him, just like you did in your Explorer.
That's all."
He glanced at the casket and felt his insides seize up. She rubbed his sleeve then gave him a gentle nudge. He approached the coffin with his heart racing, dimly aware of the multitude of flowers surrounding the dais like a forest, so strong-smelling it seemed there wasn't enough pure oxygen left to sustain life. He stood between two huge bouquets, looking down at the framed photographs of Greg that smiled up at him from atop the closed metal box. There were two: one in his police uniform and cap, the other a very informal shot of him in a striped polo shirt and the green Pebble Beach cap.
Christopher put his hand on the smooth metal beside the picture.
"Hi," he said quietly. "Miss ya."
How inconsiderate life was. It taught you how to deal with everything but the most important parts--marriage, parenthood, death. These eople just stumbled through, making plenty of mistakes along the way.
Christopher felt himself stumbling and wished again for family, someone whose hand he could hold, who would understand with no further words at this moment.
He dropped his hand from the casket and discovered he felt better.
Behind his shoulder someone said "Hi."
He turned and there stood
When he got home the light was blinking on his telephone answering machine. He pushed the message button and Lee Reston's voice came on.
"Christopher, this is Lee. I just wanted to tell you one thing.
Funerals aren't bad, Chris. If you think about it, they're really for the living."
He tried to bear that in mind that afternoon as he showered, shaved and dressed in a suit and tie for the wake of his best friend. But when he was in the Explorer with the air-conditioning turned on high, driving toward Dewey's Funeral Home, the stream of cold air couldn't quite dry the sweat on his palms.
The funeral home was one of the prettiest buildings in town, on a shaded corner, looking like a stately southern mansion with white pillars and Palladian windows. Walking toward it, he felt a knot of dread in his stomach. Inside the shadowed building, it was nappy and gloomy, the windows mostly covered to hold out the summer light. But where one might expect to hear recorded organ music, he heard instead--very softly as a background to murmured voices--the sound of Vince Gill's album "I Still Believe in You."
His mouth twisted into a disbelieving half-smile as he smoothed his tie and stepped toward a lectern holding a memorial book.
Lee's mother and father were there signing, then whispering together, scowling as they cast their eyes toward the ceiling as if in search of the speakers.
He caught a snatch of their conversation ". . . what in the world she was thinking of!"
"I can just imagine what Aunt Delores will say."
He signed and followed them toward a cluster of people, watching Lee separate herself from them to come forward and greet her parents.
"Hi, Mom. Hi, Dad. I know what you're going to say, but please .
. . let's celebrate his life, not his death."
"Oh, Lee, people are whispering."
"Who?" she said, gaing straight into her mother's eyes, gripping Peg Hillier's hands in both of her own. "I talked it over with the kids and it's our choice. It makes our memories happier."
Peg withdrew her hands. "All right, have it your way. Orrin, let's go say hello to Clarice and Bob."
When they'd moved on, Christopher took their place. He and Lee hugged briefly.
"I walked in and heard that music and all of a sudden I could swallow and breathe again. Thanks."
She smiled and squeezed his fingers. "Did you get my message?"
"Yes."
"Then why are your palms damp and trembling?"
He released her hands, making no reply, still uncertain of protocol.
"There's no reason to be afraid."
"I don't know what to do."
"Go up and say hi to him, just like you did in your Explorer.
That's all."
He glanced at the casket and felt his insides seize up. She rubbed his sleeve then gave him a gentle nudge. He approached the coffin with his heart racing, dimly aware of the multitude of flowers surrounding the dais like a forest, so strong-smelling it seemed there wasn't enough pure oxygen left to sustain life. He stood between two huge bouquets, looking down at the framed photographs of Greg that smiled up at him from atop the closed metal box. There were two: one in his police uniform and cap, the other a very informal shot of him in a striped polo shirt and the green Pebble Beach cap.
Christopher put his hand on the smooth metal beside the picture.
"Hi," he said quietly. "Miss ya."
How inconsiderate life was. It taught you how to deal with everything but the most important parts--marriage, parenthood, death. These eople just stumbled through, making plenty of mistakes along the way.
Christopher felt himself stumbling and wished again for family, someone whose hand he could hold, who would understand with no further words at this moment.
He dropped his hand from the casket and discovered he felt better.
Behind his shoulder someone said "Hi."
He turned and there stood
Similar Books
