pulled out of his space and drove away.
MRS. HOFSTETTLER’S FUNERAL was Monday, quick work even for Shakespeare. She’d planned the service two years before; I remembered the Episcopal priest, a tiny man almost as old as Marie, coming by to talk to her about it.
I hadn’t entered a church in years, so I had a long struggle with myself. I’d already said good-bye to Marie, but it came to me very strongly that she would have wanted me to be at the funeral.
Stiffly, reluctantly, I called two of my Monday afternoon regulars to reschedule. I brushed and pressed my long-stored expensive black suit (which I’d retained from my former life as being all-purpose). I’d bought a pair of pantyhose, and now I wriggled into the nasty things. Grimacing with distaste, I slid my feet into high-heeled black pumps. Two of my scars were visible, thin and white, because of the square neckline of the suit. I was so pale that the scars weren’t conspicuous, I decided; anyway, there was nothing to be done about it. I wasn’t about to buy another dress. This one still fit, but not exactly the way it used to. Working out so consistently had resculpted my body.
The black suit seemed dreary unadorned, so I put my grandmother’s diamond earrings in my ears, and added her diamond bar pin to the ensemble. I still had a good black purse; like the suit, it was a relic of my former life.
Shakespeare police always escort local funerals, and one of the cars is always stationed at the church. I hadn’t anticipated this, especially that the police car attending to the church traffic would be manned by Claude. He watched me get out of my Skylark, and stood drop-jawed as I came down the sidewalk to enter the church.
“Lily, you look beautiful,” he said, unflatteringly amazed. “I’ve never seen you dressed up before.”
I shot him a glance and passed in to the warm dimness of tiny Saint Stephen’s. The dark old Episcopal church was absolutely jam-packed with friends and connections from Marie Hofstettler’s long life; her contemporaries, their children, other members of the church, volunteers from her favorite charity. Only two pews had been marked off at the front for the family. Chuck, now in his late fifties, was Mrs. Hofstettler’s only living child.
It was obvious what sitting room there was left should be saved for the older people who formed the majority of the mourners. I stood at the back, bowing my head as the coffin was brought in draped with the heavy church pall, staring at the sparse hair on the back of Chuck Hofstettler’s head as he followed behind the coffin. He was looking at the embroidered pall with a kind of grieved fascination. To me, the container and its contents were uninteresting. The essential Marie was elsewhere. The casket was only there to provide a focus for grief and meditation, the way a flag provided a focus for patriotic upswelling.
Marie’s best friend, Arnita Winthrop, was seated near the front of the church with her husband, Howell Sr., her son, and his wife. Old Mr. Winthrop was holding his wife’s hand. Somehow I found that touching. Beanie, chic as always, had lightened her hair a couple of shades, I noticed. Beanie and Howell Jr. were not holding hands.
The unfamiliar service progressed slowly. Without a prayer book, I was at a loss. There were quite a few of us standing, and more people crowded in even after the service began. It took at least five minutes for me to realize who was a little behind me. As if some inner radar had blipped, I turned my head slightly to see the man who’d come down the apartment building stairs the day Marie died, Howell’s mysterious friend.
He was as duded up as I was. He was wearing a suit with a vest, a navy-blue pinstripe. Instead of Nikes, he was shod in gleaming wing tips. His shirt was white and his tie was a conservative navy, green, and gold stripe. The black ponytail and the puckered scar contrasted oddly with the banker’s costume.
As I located
MRS. HOFSTETTLER’S FUNERAL was Monday, quick work even for Shakespeare. She’d planned the service two years before; I remembered the Episcopal priest, a tiny man almost as old as Marie, coming by to talk to her about it.
I hadn’t entered a church in years, so I had a long struggle with myself. I’d already said good-bye to Marie, but it came to me very strongly that she would have wanted me to be at the funeral.
Stiffly, reluctantly, I called two of my Monday afternoon regulars to reschedule. I brushed and pressed my long-stored expensive black suit (which I’d retained from my former life as being all-purpose). I’d bought a pair of pantyhose, and now I wriggled into the nasty things. Grimacing with distaste, I slid my feet into high-heeled black pumps. Two of my scars were visible, thin and white, because of the square neckline of the suit. I was so pale that the scars weren’t conspicuous, I decided; anyway, there was nothing to be done about it. I wasn’t about to buy another dress. This one still fit, but not exactly the way it used to. Working out so consistently had resculpted my body.
The black suit seemed dreary unadorned, so I put my grandmother’s diamond earrings in my ears, and added her diamond bar pin to the ensemble. I still had a good black purse; like the suit, it was a relic of my former life.
Shakespeare police always escort local funerals, and one of the cars is always stationed at the church. I hadn’t anticipated this, especially that the police car attending to the church traffic would be manned by Claude. He watched me get out of my Skylark, and stood drop-jawed as I came down the sidewalk to enter the church.
“Lily, you look beautiful,” he said, unflatteringly amazed. “I’ve never seen you dressed up before.”
I shot him a glance and passed in to the warm dimness of tiny Saint Stephen’s. The dark old Episcopal church was absolutely jam-packed with friends and connections from Marie Hofstettler’s long life; her contemporaries, their children, other members of the church, volunteers from her favorite charity. Only two pews had been marked off at the front for the family. Chuck, now in his late fifties, was Mrs. Hofstettler’s only living child.
It was obvious what sitting room there was left should be saved for the older people who formed the majority of the mourners. I stood at the back, bowing my head as the coffin was brought in draped with the heavy church pall, staring at the sparse hair on the back of Chuck Hofstettler’s head as he followed behind the coffin. He was looking at the embroidered pall with a kind of grieved fascination. To me, the container and its contents were uninteresting. The essential Marie was elsewhere. The casket was only there to provide a focus for grief and meditation, the way a flag provided a focus for patriotic upswelling.
Marie’s best friend, Arnita Winthrop, was seated near the front of the church with her husband, Howell Sr., her son, and his wife. Old Mr. Winthrop was holding his wife’s hand. Somehow I found that touching. Beanie, chic as always, had lightened her hair a couple of shades, I noticed. Beanie and Howell Jr. were not holding hands.
The unfamiliar service progressed slowly. Without a prayer book, I was at a loss. There were quite a few of us standing, and more people crowded in even after the service began. It took at least five minutes for me to realize who was a little behind me. As if some inner radar had blipped, I turned my head slightly to see the man who’d come down the apartment building stairs the day Marie died, Howell’s mysterious friend.
He was as duded up as I was. He was wearing a suit with a vest, a navy-blue pinstripe. Instead of Nikes, he was shod in gleaming wing tips. His shirt was white and his tie was a conservative navy, green, and gold stripe. The black ponytail and the puckered scar contrasted oddly with the banker’s costume.
As I located
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