on Atlas Drive and then another two on Dixon Drive and parked. I kicked back and waited a bit. I didn’t want to be one of the first guests to arrive or one of the last. I needed to arrive as part of that pack that seems to always get to an event at the same time. I’d slide in with a group and no one would even notice me.
I wasn’t sure what I thought I was going to find, but I needed to start somewhere. It’s not like anybody was likely to dish the dirt about a young man who died under such tragic circumstances at his memorial service, but I was betting that enough crumbs would fall to guide me to my next step.
I walked the few blocks to the house. My timing was perfect. Several clumps of people were heading toward the house from various directions. All of them walked along without talking, heads down. A few people held hands. It was easy enough to fall into step with one group. I chose one that looked vaguely like a family: a middle-aged couple and a young man and a young woman who looked like they might be in their late teens or early twenties. I stayed a few steps back so I didn’t crowd them, but I was still close enough to look like I might be part of them. As if I were maybe the petulant daughter who was being dragged along against her wishes. I knew the part inside out. Just ask my mother.
It’s easy enough to attach yourself to a group like that. If anyone in the group notices you, they simply assume you’re going to the same place they are and belong there. Anyone outside the group assumes you’re with the people you’re entering with. The key is to blend. I’ve spent a lot of my life trying to blend with varying degrees of success. As long as it’s purely an external thing, I do okay.
Blending at a funeral is apparently second nature to me. My outfit looked identical to pretty much everyone else’s and no one was flashing big white-toothed California smiles. Perhaps I had finally found my people? The dour-faced somber-colored clothes people? I shook my head. Didn’t it just figure? I’d spent a lifetime looking out of place in my black clothes while living in perpetual sunshine, with people always telling me to smile. I should have just hung out at the mortuary. My mother would definitely not have been thrilled.
I slid in with the group and edged my way into the crowded living room. I felt a little like I had at the one junior high dance I’d been coerced into attending. I was in a room full of people and didn’t have a word to say to any one of them. I did pretty much what I did then, too. I leaned against the wall and watched.
The old lady in the wheelchair was holding court in one corner, a cup of tea on the side table next to her and a plate of untouched cookies in her lap.
“Can I get you anything, Mom?” Bossard’s father asked her.
“No, dear. I’m fine.” She patted the hand he’d placed on her shoulder. “Or as fine as I can be, I guess.”
Mr. Bossard nodded, his Adam’s apple jerking up and down in his throat. It didn’t look like he was fine or would be for quite some time. I felt a stab of pity followed by a quick twist of guilt. I’d like nothing more than to find out that the package I’d delivered to Neil Bossard had nothing to do with his death. I so didn’t want to be associated with causing anyone this kind of pain.
I edged along the room, picking up bits and pieces of conversations. “A shame, really. One mistake and he never gets a chance to come back from it,” a woman my mother’s age was saying to another woman. They both wore knee-length skirts and sensible shoes. One’s hair was bobbed and silvery blonde, the other’s was longer, darker and pulled back in a low ponytail.
“It was a pretty big mistake, Diane,” Ponytail pointed out.
Bobbed Blonde shook her head and took a sip of tea. “I never thought that he was one of the ringleaders. He got caught up in something and didn’t know how to get out of it.”
Ponytail sighed. “And now look
I wasn’t sure what I thought I was going to find, but I needed to start somewhere. It’s not like anybody was likely to dish the dirt about a young man who died under such tragic circumstances at his memorial service, but I was betting that enough crumbs would fall to guide me to my next step.
I walked the few blocks to the house. My timing was perfect. Several clumps of people were heading toward the house from various directions. All of them walked along without talking, heads down. A few people held hands. It was easy enough to fall into step with one group. I chose one that looked vaguely like a family: a middle-aged couple and a young man and a young woman who looked like they might be in their late teens or early twenties. I stayed a few steps back so I didn’t crowd them, but I was still close enough to look like I might be part of them. As if I were maybe the petulant daughter who was being dragged along against her wishes. I knew the part inside out. Just ask my mother.
It’s easy enough to attach yourself to a group like that. If anyone in the group notices you, they simply assume you’re going to the same place they are and belong there. Anyone outside the group assumes you’re with the people you’re entering with. The key is to blend. I’ve spent a lot of my life trying to blend with varying degrees of success. As long as it’s purely an external thing, I do okay.
Blending at a funeral is apparently second nature to me. My outfit looked identical to pretty much everyone else’s and no one was flashing big white-toothed California smiles. Perhaps I had finally found my people? The dour-faced somber-colored clothes people? I shook my head. Didn’t it just figure? I’d spent a lifetime looking out of place in my black clothes while living in perpetual sunshine, with people always telling me to smile. I should have just hung out at the mortuary. My mother would definitely not have been thrilled.
I slid in with the group and edged my way into the crowded living room. I felt a little like I had at the one junior high dance I’d been coerced into attending. I was in a room full of people and didn’t have a word to say to any one of them. I did pretty much what I did then, too. I leaned against the wall and watched.
The old lady in the wheelchair was holding court in one corner, a cup of tea on the side table next to her and a plate of untouched cookies in her lap.
“Can I get you anything, Mom?” Bossard’s father asked her.
“No, dear. I’m fine.” She patted the hand he’d placed on her shoulder. “Or as fine as I can be, I guess.”
Mr. Bossard nodded, his Adam’s apple jerking up and down in his throat. It didn’t look like he was fine or would be for quite some time. I felt a stab of pity followed by a quick twist of guilt. I’d like nothing more than to find out that the package I’d delivered to Neil Bossard had nothing to do with his death. I so didn’t want to be associated with causing anyone this kind of pain.
I edged along the room, picking up bits and pieces of conversations. “A shame, really. One mistake and he never gets a chance to come back from it,” a woman my mother’s age was saying to another woman. They both wore knee-length skirts and sensible shoes. One’s hair was bobbed and silvery blonde, the other’s was longer, darker and pulled back in a low ponytail.
“It was a pretty big mistake, Diane,” Ponytail pointed out.
Bobbed Blonde shook her head and took a sip of tea. “I never thought that he was one of the ringleaders. He got caught up in something and didn’t know how to get out of it.”
Ponytail sighed. “And now look
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