Going to the Chapel by Janet Tronstad Page A

will do any of it. He and I both appreciate that. It keeps things running smooth.”
    “I like reading the forms to see who’s coming up for their viewing.”
    Miss Billings nods as she turns back to face the door again. “I’ll see what I can do about your cousin’s wedding.”
    I start to feel a little alarmed. “No, that’s fine, really. I know there’s always a funeral going on.”
    “It doesn’t hurt to ask,” Miss Billings says. “That’s always been my motto.”
    Okay, so I’m having a little trouble breathing. I look up at the ceiling just in case my dad is looking down at this one.
    Miss Billings comes back out of the office. “Mr. Z has a minute to talk to you. Why don’t you go in?”
    I take a deep breath and tell myself I can do this. Mr. Z has always seemed like a nice person. I certainly don’t need to be afraid to ask him my question.
    I take a few steps and I am inside Mr. Z’s office forthe first time. Mr. Z doesn’t spend a lot of time in his office so I usually see him out and around pointing out the features of a casket or something. He is partial to the caskets that are lined with that new ultrasoft satin.
    “Miss Billings tells me you’d like to use the facilities here,” Mr. Z says as he looks up from his desk. He has a catalog lying open on top of a folder or two.
    “Oh, I know it won’t work,” I say in a rush. “I just promised my aunt that I would ask you. You see my cousin’s wedding plans got messed up and now she doesn’t have anyplace to hold her wedding and it’s for Thanksgiving weekend and that’s so soon everything else is booked and none of the hotels will take her and, well, I promised my aunt I would ask if we could use this place. You don’t have to worry about it. I know it won’t work. I just wanted to be able to say I had asked.”
    I take a deep breath when I have finished.
    Mr. Z nods. “Is this the aunt you told me about? The one who raised you?”
    I nod. “Aunt Inga is great.”
    “She’s out in—what is it—Blythe?”
    “That’s east of Palm Springs. It’s not too far from here.”
    Mr. Z is looking thoughtful and a little sad. “It’s important to stay close to your family,” he says. “If I had one thing I could do over in my life it would be to stay closer to my family.”
    I never thought about Mr. Z’s family. “Where is your family?”
    “Most of them are buried in the village in Italy where I grew up. Only my brother is still living andhe’s in Florida. I haven’t talked to him in over twenty years.”
    Mr. Z has a long face and he sort of looks mournful most of the time anyway, but when his eyes look sad, too, I don’t like it.
    “I’m sorry.” I think back to the Cameron brothers, you know the ones who were not talking because they had a fight over who was supposed to be the executor of their mother’s estate.
    “I’ve thought a lot about my brother this week,” Mr. Z says, so I know I wasn’t the only one touched by the brothers’ story. Mr. Z might have even talked to Robert Cameron more than I did. Mr. Z continues, “I can’t even remember why we got mad and stopped calling each other on the telephone. We used to talk every week.”
    “Maybe if you talked to him now,” I say, and then stop myself because twenty years is a long time and maybe his brother is…well, you know, departed from this world. As I’ve said before, more people die than you would think—or, at least, more than I ever thought did. I mean, I had my dad die, but that was a long time ago.
    “I called directory assistance this morning and got his telephone number,” Mr. Z says as he shuffles the folders on his desk and pulls out a small piece of paper with a number scribbled on it. “Do you know I didn’t even have my brother’s telephone number anymore? How could I not have my brother’s telephone number? How did we ever get that far apart?”
    I don’t think an answer is required, but I’m glad he got the number. I’m sure