The Funeral Makers by Cathie Pelletier Page A

asked.
    â€œThat’s enough for me,” Ed said. “She’s not asleep in Jesus. She’s asleep in her bedroom and I’m done planning a funeral for someone who is still alive.” Taking a jacket from the rack behind the kitchen door and a beer from the refrigerator, he went out in the night.
    Sicily finally spoke up.
    â€œA lot of pressure at school,” she told the Ivys.
    After more discussion, the family voted unanimously for “Not Our Will, But Thine Be Done.” And the meeting was over. Marvin got a ride back to the motel with Junior. Pearl wanted to visit Marge. She had stopped in briefly that morning, but now, with Sicily, would take the time to pay what last respects she had to her older sister. When she went to use the bathroom, Sicily glanced at the Rockveil Memorial booklet that was left lying face down on the coffee table. She picked it up and read the back cover. DON’T PLAY WITH FATE, it warned in heavy black letters that hung on the page like rain clouds. HAVE YOU NOTICED THAT THE THINGS WE THROW AWAY ARE THE THINGS WE NEED SOON AFTER, AND THE THINGS WE KEEP ARE NOT NEEDED FOR MANY YEARS TO COME? KEEP THIS CATALOG. SHOW IT TO YOUR FRIENDS.
    Sicily was still looking at the warning issued by the Rockveil Monument Co. when Pearl finished in the bathroom and came down the hall toward her. Listening to her footfalls come closer, Sicily tried to visualize Pearl as she was years ago. The memory of her, suitcase packed and waiting for her ride to Watertown to catch the Greyhound to Portland, came to Sicily in a flash. The Reverend Ralph McKinnon was already in China saving souls the day Pearl left. Sicily, who had only been twelve years old at the time, was busy looking for her calico cat along the river. She had run past the front porch where Pearl waited for old man Gardner to take her in his pickup to Watertown for a dollar. That afternoon forced itself on Sicily’s mind. She almost remembered that Pearl was crying. But all her mind could pull back about that ancient day was that Frisk the cat was missing somewhere in the wild roses along the shore and she was afraid he’d drown.
    â€œI can still see you sitting on our front porch with that dollar in your hand the day you left, Pearl,” she said. Pearl sat on the sofa beside her and patted her hand.
    â€œI saved that money to get me to Portland and into school by picking berries and canning them and selling them to anyone who’d buy them. Remember how stained my fingers always were? I used to visit other girls in their rooms at school when we were up late talking and I’d keep my fingers curled in like a fist so no one would see how discolored they were.”
    â€œFrisk has been dead so long I hardly remember him,” Sicily thought then said, “I should have hugged you, Pearly, the day you left for Portland. Someone should have hugged you.” The tears that had built up to a dangerous roar inside her loosed themselves as Pearl put her arm around Sicily and held her tightly.
    â€œPoor baby,” she said. “Poor little Sissy. I was always afraid that never being held and never being loved would hurt you the most someday.”
    â€œPearl, my life is such a mess. My family is in a shambles.” Sicily blew her nose on a Kleenex from her pocket.
    â€œWe’ll have some coffee and you’ll tell me all about it,” said Pearl.
    Sicily nodded but knew she would never be able to open up more of her private life to Pearl. It just wasn’t done that way.
    When Pearl went out to the kitchen to make coffee, Sicily picked up the Rockveil Memorial booklet. DON’T PLAY WITH FATE, she read again. KEEP THIS CATALOG. Before Pearl returned to the living room, Sicily had already tucked the booklet safely under the cushion of the sofa.

DRESSING AS AN ART FORM: AMY JOY AS A WADDLER
    â€œCome Lammas Eve at night shall she be fourteen…
    â€™Tis since the earthquake now eleven