Brent Liston broke the silence.
“I want you all to know, I swear before God, I will find out who done this thing to my son, and I will take care of him good. I swear before God, I will. I swear before God!” he said, then plunked his heavy body back down in his seat, his face distorted by rage.
“Shut up, Brent Liston. In Celia's name I curse you,” the thin voice of the woman in the black suit rose to challenge his. Her words were slurred, but she stood straight and tall without wavering. “Celia Jones knew who and what you were, Brent, and I know what you did to her and her son, you'll be damned in hell for that. You'll be damned!”
Morgan, alarmed by the turn of events, rushed to the front of the room, begging for silence although the room was quiet again and filled with tension. He slammed down the lid of the coffin as if something evil was about to pop out, and motioned for the pallbearers to come take this child and his low-life mourners out of his place. Memories of another funeral I'd attended here years ago that turned into an ugly melee came back to me; I needed to leave that room as soon as I could. I quickly ducked into Morgan's office.
I searched his desk for the register, couldn't find it for a moment, then spotted it under a pile of undertakers’ trade magazines. Honorable to the end, Morgan had probably tucked it away, hoping that I'd get discouraged and be on my way. I turned to the January entries and found Celia's name at the top of the page marked January 8. Only three people had bothered to sign the guest book. I wondered if others had shown up. Rebecca Donovan's name was written in elaborate script at the top of the page. Larry Walton's name followed hers. Was Rebecca Donovan the woman who sat next to him and the reason he attended both of these services? The last name on the page was Drew Sampson, who I assumed must be related to the Annette Sampson I'd left the message for on Friday. One Sampson in the book, the other at her funeral. How were they connected to Celia?
That question was on my mind as I shoved Morgan's book where he'd put it, so I didn't see Brent Liston enter the room or sense his presence until he came up behind me, grabbed my shoulder, and swung me around to face him. My first impulse was to slap him across his face, but he caught my hand midway and forced it to my side.
“You that bitch Rebecca Donovan, ain't you?” he said. His woman stood behind him, gloating the way somebody does when they know they have the better of you, and in that moment, I hated them both with everything in me. “Hey, Beanie, ain't she that Clayton Donovan bitch who was always in my face?”
Beanie. The name suited her well. She was tiny and hard, like a navy bean or a black-eyed pea. I glanced away from her, focusing on him.
“Take your filthy hands off me before I send you back to hell,” I said, and he laughed in my face.
“No, baby, you got it wrong. This one ain't her. She ain't hincty enough to be Rebecca Donovan.” Beanie stared at me, her head cocked to the side like a bird of prey waiting for its dinner.
“Who are you and what you doing here, at my boy's funeral?” Liston dropped his hands to his sides. His lips quivered, like a playground tough who has just had his ass kicked, which surprised me because I was no threat to him. But I did know one thing now: The woman with Larry Walton was not Rebecca Donovan.
“I knew Celia,” I said, just as Larry Walton came into the room to stand beside me.
“You all right, Tamara?”
“I'm fine.” He stared Liston down, letting him know in the way that men do that I had a male protector, for what that was worth. It was a language, however, that Liston understood. He looked Larry up and down, waited a moment or two to show he wasn't scared, then left with Beanie.
“Let me walk you to your car,” Larry said.
“I'm fine!” I stepped away from him, my tone letting him know that although his presence might frighten Liston, it
“I want you all to know, I swear before God, I will find out who done this thing to my son, and I will take care of him good. I swear before God, I will. I swear before God!” he said, then plunked his heavy body back down in his seat, his face distorted by rage.
“Shut up, Brent Liston. In Celia's name I curse you,” the thin voice of the woman in the black suit rose to challenge his. Her words were slurred, but she stood straight and tall without wavering. “Celia Jones knew who and what you were, Brent, and I know what you did to her and her son, you'll be damned in hell for that. You'll be damned!”
Morgan, alarmed by the turn of events, rushed to the front of the room, begging for silence although the room was quiet again and filled with tension. He slammed down the lid of the coffin as if something evil was about to pop out, and motioned for the pallbearers to come take this child and his low-life mourners out of his place. Memories of another funeral I'd attended here years ago that turned into an ugly melee came back to me; I needed to leave that room as soon as I could. I quickly ducked into Morgan's office.
I searched his desk for the register, couldn't find it for a moment, then spotted it under a pile of undertakers’ trade magazines. Honorable to the end, Morgan had probably tucked it away, hoping that I'd get discouraged and be on my way. I turned to the January entries and found Celia's name at the top of the page marked January 8. Only three people had bothered to sign the guest book. I wondered if others had shown up. Rebecca Donovan's name was written in elaborate script at the top of the page. Larry Walton's name followed hers. Was Rebecca Donovan the woman who sat next to him and the reason he attended both of these services? The last name on the page was Drew Sampson, who I assumed must be related to the Annette Sampson I'd left the message for on Friday. One Sampson in the book, the other at her funeral. How were they connected to Celia?
That question was on my mind as I shoved Morgan's book where he'd put it, so I didn't see Brent Liston enter the room or sense his presence until he came up behind me, grabbed my shoulder, and swung me around to face him. My first impulse was to slap him across his face, but he caught my hand midway and forced it to my side.
“You that bitch Rebecca Donovan, ain't you?” he said. His woman stood behind him, gloating the way somebody does when they know they have the better of you, and in that moment, I hated them both with everything in me. “Hey, Beanie, ain't she that Clayton Donovan bitch who was always in my face?”
Beanie. The name suited her well. She was tiny and hard, like a navy bean or a black-eyed pea. I glanced away from her, focusing on him.
“Take your filthy hands off me before I send you back to hell,” I said, and he laughed in my face.
“No, baby, you got it wrong. This one ain't her. She ain't hincty enough to be Rebecca Donovan.” Beanie stared at me, her head cocked to the side like a bird of prey waiting for its dinner.
“Who are you and what you doing here, at my boy's funeral?” Liston dropped his hands to his sides. His lips quivered, like a playground tough who has just had his ass kicked, which surprised me because I was no threat to him. But I did know one thing now: The woman with Larry Walton was not Rebecca Donovan.
“I knew Celia,” I said, just as Larry Walton came into the room to stand beside me.
“You all right, Tamara?”
“I'm fine.” He stared Liston down, letting him know in the way that men do that I had a male protector, for what that was worth. It was a language, however, that Liston understood. He looked Larry up and down, waited a moment or two to show he wasn't scared, then left with Beanie.
“Let me walk you to your car,” Larry said.
“I'm fine!” I stepped away from him, my tone letting him know that although his presence might frighten Liston, it
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