said.
The church was filled to overflowing. The Chief had ordered Federal Street closed on the block the church occupied, between Main Street and India Street. People spilled out of the church onto Federal Street, and then around both sides of the church like an apron. The Chief would have said he knew everyone who lived on this island, but he was wrong, apparently. Outside the church were groups of high school students. These were the girls from the singing group and their friends, and Greg’s guitar students—they were easy to pick out, with the long hair and the look of discontent. The Chief knew many of them, recognized others, but that was because he had two kids in high school himself. Kacy and Eric’s close friends had taken seats inside, but these other kids—the Chief could not, in his present state, put a name to a single one—either did not feel worthy of a seat inside or liked the freedom of remaining outdoors. There was another group, young mothers and fathers with small children. These would be Tess’s kindergarten students and their families, past and present. There was a whole generation of parents bringing up kids on this island who were strangers to the Chief. Did they know who he was? He supposed they did.
All in all, the Chief estimated, there must have been a thousand people.
It was hotter than Hades. Bright and sunny, without a trace of the wind that had capsized Greg and Tess’s boat. The island was teeming with tourists. At the edge of Main Street there was a clear delineation between those vacationing and those grieving. The summer people wore their Lilly Pulitzer prints and carried lightship baskets as they shopped for hydrangea bouquets. The locals were somber and subdued, wearing a depressing amount of black. Nearly all of them were weeping behind their sunglasses.
The Chief was wearing civilian clothes, a black suit bought for civilian funerals. He was working, too, trying to supervise crowd control (this would have been easier in his uniform) and teaching his summer cops, who had been on the job exactly nine days, which street was India and which was Federal. The hearse was parked in front of the church. The Chief was to be a pallbearer in addition to everything else. It might have been easier to delegate someone to take his place, but Andrea insisted that he carry Tess into the church and then again to her grave. He would do it.
Once the service started, things were easier. The Chief and Andrea were up front with Kacy and Eric, and Delilah and Jeffrey and their boys, and Phoebe and Addison. Chloe and Finn had asked to be allowed to sit in the very first row, all by themselves.
You’re sure?
the Chief asked.
Nods. Then, from Chloe, the self-appointed spokesperson, “We’re sure.”
Those two kids were wiser and more composed than many of the people sitting behind them. They were holding hands (again, it seemed, at Chloe’s insistence). Finn was wearing khakis, white shirt, navy blazer, and navy tie, the exact outfit he had taken his first communion in two months earlier. Chloe was wearing a navy sailor dress that she
deplored
(her word, used this morning, with Andrea). It was her parents’ funeral; she was supposed to wear black. But her closet revealed nothing black except a velvet Christmas dress two sizes too small, and so Andrea had steered her toward the navy sailor dress. There were, predictably, tears, and a lot of misplaced anger directed at Andrea, but Andrea had emerged from her cocoon of despair to deal with the kids, especially Chloe, with kindness and patience. Chloe put on the navy sailor dress, and as consolation Andrea allowed her to carry a black sequined cocktail purse. The result, in Andrea’s words, was part Shirley Temple, part Coco Chanel. In the purse, Chloe had put Tess’s broken red sunglasses with the white polka dots, Tess’s gold cross from her confirmation at St. Eleanor’s in Dorchester, a package of Kleenex (at Andrea’s suggestion), a
The church was filled to overflowing. The Chief had ordered Federal Street closed on the block the church occupied, between Main Street and India Street. People spilled out of the church onto Federal Street, and then around both sides of the church like an apron. The Chief would have said he knew everyone who lived on this island, but he was wrong, apparently. Outside the church were groups of high school students. These were the girls from the singing group and their friends, and Greg’s guitar students—they were easy to pick out, with the long hair and the look of discontent. The Chief knew many of them, recognized others, but that was because he had two kids in high school himself. Kacy and Eric’s close friends had taken seats inside, but these other kids—the Chief could not, in his present state, put a name to a single one—either did not feel worthy of a seat inside or liked the freedom of remaining outdoors. There was another group, young mothers and fathers with small children. These would be Tess’s kindergarten students and their families, past and present. There was a whole generation of parents bringing up kids on this island who were strangers to the Chief. Did they know who he was? He supposed they did.
All in all, the Chief estimated, there must have been a thousand people.
It was hotter than Hades. Bright and sunny, without a trace of the wind that had capsized Greg and Tess’s boat. The island was teeming with tourists. At the edge of Main Street there was a clear delineation between those vacationing and those grieving. The summer people wore their Lilly Pulitzer prints and carried lightship baskets as they shopped for hydrangea bouquets. The locals were somber and subdued, wearing a depressing amount of black. Nearly all of them were weeping behind their sunglasses.
The Chief was wearing civilian clothes, a black suit bought for civilian funerals. He was working, too, trying to supervise crowd control (this would have been easier in his uniform) and teaching his summer cops, who had been on the job exactly nine days, which street was India and which was Federal. The hearse was parked in front of the church. The Chief was to be a pallbearer in addition to everything else. It might have been easier to delegate someone to take his place, but Andrea insisted that he carry Tess into the church and then again to her grave. He would do it.
Once the service started, things were easier. The Chief and Andrea were up front with Kacy and Eric, and Delilah and Jeffrey and their boys, and Phoebe and Addison. Chloe and Finn had asked to be allowed to sit in the very first row, all by themselves.
You’re sure?
the Chief asked.
Nods. Then, from Chloe, the self-appointed spokesperson, “We’re sure.”
Those two kids were wiser and more composed than many of the people sitting behind them. They were holding hands (again, it seemed, at Chloe’s insistence). Finn was wearing khakis, white shirt, navy blazer, and navy tie, the exact outfit he had taken his first communion in two months earlier. Chloe was wearing a navy sailor dress that she
deplored
(her word, used this morning, with Andrea). It was her parents’ funeral; she was supposed to wear black. But her closet revealed nothing black except a velvet Christmas dress two sizes too small, and so Andrea had steered her toward the navy sailor dress. There were, predictably, tears, and a lot of misplaced anger directed at Andrea, but Andrea had emerged from her cocoon of despair to deal with the kids, especially Chloe, with kindness and patience. Chloe put on the navy sailor dress, and as consolation Andrea allowed her to carry a black sequined cocktail purse. The result, in Andrea’s words, was part Shirley Temple, part Coco Chanel. In the purse, Chloe had put Tess’s broken red sunglasses with the white polka dots, Tess’s gold cross from her confirmation at St. Eleanor’s in Dorchester, a package of Kleenex (at Andrea’s suggestion), a
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