meaning, he supposed, the deceased and not him.
Then the organ music swelled, and the service began.
He spent it staring at the family and feeling anxious.
He could see them clearly in profile from where he sat. It was easy to pick out the elegant mother, the portly middle-aged father, the older sister who looked like a harder version of Priscilla.
They are remarkable,
he thought.
In a packed sanctuary filled with the sounds of soft weeping, the air thick with the awareness of tragedy, they sat rigid and dry-eyed. Mr. Windsor did not put his arm around Mrs. Windsor. The mother never looked at her daughter. None of them wiped away a tear. It was hard to imagine anyone disliking Priss, but it appeared that either her own family was holding in torrents of emotion, or else they loathed the daughter and sister they had lost. He had seen this posture before—in hospitals, on the deaths of patients whose families did not love them.
At the close of the service, Mrs. Darnell said, none too quietly, “Well! Wasn’t
that
just the oddest funeral you’ve ever attended?”
A woman in front of them turned around.
“Strangest ever,” she said.
Startled, Sam looked questioningly at his patient.
“What? You didn’t notice? They hardly mentioned her! Barely evensaid her name! Such a lovely girl, so giving and generous, and not a word about any of that. Nothing about her childhood, or even her education—and she went to fine schools, believe you me. I’ll grant you, too many funerals these days go overboard into a dreadful sea of sentimentality, but this went too far onto dry land. There’s restraint, and then there’s looking as if you don’t give a damn about your own child! When is the last time you went to a funeral where fifteen distant cousins twice removed didn’t get up to speak about how close they were to the deceased, telling all those family stories that nobody else gives a hoot about?”
She was right, he realized. He’d been so wrapped up in theorizing about the Windsors that he’d barely noticed the entire service was nothing but hymns, Scripture readings, prayers, and a quick stiff homily from a minister who didn’t seem to have even met Priscilla. That was explained when Mrs. Darnell gossiped on, saying, “This isn’t even their church, you know. Maybe they couldn’t get in when they wanted to, but I’ll bet you this church now has a nice endowment for a new set of choir robes. Or something. But what an impersonal service! Why, even my church lets people get up and lie flatteringly about the deceased, and we’re Episcopalian!”
They were rising to their feet, along with the rest of the crowd, when a man’s deep voice cried out. “Wait! Wait! I want to say something about her!”
People stopped, stared, looked at each other.
“Uh-oh,” Mrs. Darnell said, looking maliciously pleased.
“She was an angel!” the man said. “Is no one going to tell about how she was an angel? Sit, sit! Let me tell you what she did for me!”
“Pakistani, do you think?” Mrs. Darnell whispered.
People sank down again in the pews, a little anxiously, shooting glances toward the family in the front row. Sam watched the sister turn around to check out the speaker, but she quickly faced forward again, as if her mother, seated next to her, had pulled her back. The father’s left shoulder jerked hard, once, and that was it. The three of them returned to sitting like statues.
“She must have bought a hot dog from me twice a week, every week, for the whole last year,” the man said in a voice that penetrated every corner of the large room. “She said I had the best hot dogs in New York City! And I treated her like I treat everybody—I yelled at her to hurry up, to give me her order, to move along. She smiled at me; I never smiled back. She said thank you, but I never did. Then, the day before she was killed—the day before!—she came early to my stand, and she said …” His voice faltered. He pulled
Then the organ music swelled, and the service began.
He spent it staring at the family and feeling anxious.
He could see them clearly in profile from where he sat. It was easy to pick out the elegant mother, the portly middle-aged father, the older sister who looked like a harder version of Priscilla.
They are remarkable,
he thought.
In a packed sanctuary filled with the sounds of soft weeping, the air thick with the awareness of tragedy, they sat rigid and dry-eyed. Mr. Windsor did not put his arm around Mrs. Windsor. The mother never looked at her daughter. None of them wiped away a tear. It was hard to imagine anyone disliking Priss, but it appeared that either her own family was holding in torrents of emotion, or else they loathed the daughter and sister they had lost. He had seen this posture before—in hospitals, on the deaths of patients whose families did not love them.
At the close of the service, Mrs. Darnell said, none too quietly, “Well! Wasn’t
that
just the oddest funeral you’ve ever attended?”
A woman in front of them turned around.
“Strangest ever,” she said.
Startled, Sam looked questioningly at his patient.
“What? You didn’t notice? They hardly mentioned her! Barely evensaid her name! Such a lovely girl, so giving and generous, and not a word about any of that. Nothing about her childhood, or even her education—and she went to fine schools, believe you me. I’ll grant you, too many funerals these days go overboard into a dreadful sea of sentimentality, but this went too far onto dry land. There’s restraint, and then there’s looking as if you don’t give a damn about your own child! When is the last time you went to a funeral where fifteen distant cousins twice removed didn’t get up to speak about how close they were to the deceased, telling all those family stories that nobody else gives a hoot about?”
She was right, he realized. He’d been so wrapped up in theorizing about the Windsors that he’d barely noticed the entire service was nothing but hymns, Scripture readings, prayers, and a quick stiff homily from a minister who didn’t seem to have even met Priscilla. That was explained when Mrs. Darnell gossiped on, saying, “This isn’t even their church, you know. Maybe they couldn’t get in when they wanted to, but I’ll bet you this church now has a nice endowment for a new set of choir robes. Or something. But what an impersonal service! Why, even my church lets people get up and lie flatteringly about the deceased, and we’re Episcopalian!”
They were rising to their feet, along with the rest of the crowd, when a man’s deep voice cried out. “Wait! Wait! I want to say something about her!”
People stopped, stared, looked at each other.
“Uh-oh,” Mrs. Darnell said, looking maliciously pleased.
“She was an angel!” the man said. “Is no one going to tell about how she was an angel? Sit, sit! Let me tell you what she did for me!”
“Pakistani, do you think?” Mrs. Darnell whispered.
People sank down again in the pews, a little anxiously, shooting glances toward the family in the front row. Sam watched the sister turn around to check out the speaker, but she quickly faced forward again, as if her mother, seated next to her, had pulled her back. The father’s left shoulder jerked hard, once, and that was it. The three of them returned to sitting like statues.
“She must have bought a hot dog from me twice a week, every week, for the whole last year,” the man said in a voice that penetrated every corner of the large room. “She said I had the best hot dogs in New York City! And I treated her like I treat everybody—I yelled at her to hurry up, to give me her order, to move along. She smiled at me; I never smiled back. She said thank you, but I never did. Then, the day before she was killed—the day before!—she came early to my stand, and she said …” His voice faltered. He pulled
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