people coming up to her, dabbing their eyes with tissue, offering condolences, well-meaning platitudes. "I’m sorry, dear... so sorry about your sister... a terrible tragedy... doesn’t she look lovely, just like she’s asleep... God sometimes takes the good souls young... ours is not to reason why... God moves in mysterious ways..."
God didn’t do this, she thought, though she tried to smile her appreciation, to mumble some appropriate response. Some faces were familiar, more not. Not so surprising. Evansdale was a small town, seldom visited by murder. A little excitement was not unwelcome. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered.
Until she thought she saw Miss Layton, her old high school teacher, standing in the parlor doorway, wearing her familiar black pillbox, her purse clutched in front of her. Ellen rose unsteadily to her feet to greet her. In that same moment, a small group gathered in front of the doorway, blocking Miss Layton from view. When they moved on, she was no longer there.
Perhaps I only imagined her, Ellen thought.
Later, at the gravesite, Ellen looked for her in the crowd, but she was not there.
"You’re doing just fine," Paul whispered when she stumbled slightly at the sight of the open grave. His hand was at the small of her back, guiding her forward. His expensive lemony cologne wafted to her, mingling with the cloying scent of many flowers and the damp, upturned earth, and she was afraid she was going to be sick.
Reverend Palmer was standing patiently on the other side of the grave holding the Bible open to the place from which he would read, one hand trying to still the rattling pages. His eyes, gazing into hers, were like the eyes she had seen in a portrait of Jesus. She avoided them. The wind caught and lifted the sparse hairs he’d so carefully combed over his scalp, revealing his baldpate. About his ankles, his robes fluttered like great black wings.
Above her, the skies were clouding over, threatening more snow.
All these things Ellen noticed, concentrated on, so as not to look at the coffin with its brass handles, and the single red rose she had placed on top, or think of Gail inside—which, of course, was impossible.
"You’re so damn brave, Ellen," a teary Myra said, flanking her other side. "I’d be falling apart if it was me."
I am, Ellen thought, and wondered why her friend couldn’t see that. Yet it was true that she had not broken down since the drive from the airport, or even shed a tear, and that must puzzle Myra. It puzzled her. It was as if something hard encased her heart. The few times she’d been sure the dam was about to burst, only a few pathetic whimpers had escaped her.
Reverend Palmer closed the Bible, bowed his head in prayer. Ellen followed suit, though she did not pray. A slight shifting in the crowd, stirrings, a few murmured "Amen", and she opened her eyes to see the coffin being slowly lowered into the ground. The onslaught of pain hit her with such savagery it took her breath and turned her legs to liquid. Still, she did not fall, but managed to remain standing until it was over. She was grateful to let herself be supported between Paul and Myra back to the car.
And then they were part of the caravan, following behind the hearse, making their way down the long, winding path that led out of the cemetery to the highway. It seemed callous to her that they should be driving so much faster now than when they had entered, as if, their duty to the dead accomplished, they were eager to be finished with it.
Sitting beside Paul, Ellen clutched her hands together, sudden panic rising in her breast as the space between herself and Gail widened. I don’t want to leave her. I have to go back. I don’t want to leave my little sister in that cold, dark ground. A dry sob broke from her. Paul reached over and squeezed her hand.
"It’ll take time," he said.
~ * ~
Lieutenant Mike Oldfield watched until the last of the train of cars disappeared around the bend,
God didn’t do this, she thought, though she tried to smile her appreciation, to mumble some appropriate response. Some faces were familiar, more not. Not so surprising. Evansdale was a small town, seldom visited by murder. A little excitement was not unwelcome. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered.
Until she thought she saw Miss Layton, her old high school teacher, standing in the parlor doorway, wearing her familiar black pillbox, her purse clutched in front of her. Ellen rose unsteadily to her feet to greet her. In that same moment, a small group gathered in front of the doorway, blocking Miss Layton from view. When they moved on, she was no longer there.
Perhaps I only imagined her, Ellen thought.
Later, at the gravesite, Ellen looked for her in the crowd, but she was not there.
"You’re doing just fine," Paul whispered when she stumbled slightly at the sight of the open grave. His hand was at the small of her back, guiding her forward. His expensive lemony cologne wafted to her, mingling with the cloying scent of many flowers and the damp, upturned earth, and she was afraid she was going to be sick.
Reverend Palmer was standing patiently on the other side of the grave holding the Bible open to the place from which he would read, one hand trying to still the rattling pages. His eyes, gazing into hers, were like the eyes she had seen in a portrait of Jesus. She avoided them. The wind caught and lifted the sparse hairs he’d so carefully combed over his scalp, revealing his baldpate. About his ankles, his robes fluttered like great black wings.
Above her, the skies were clouding over, threatening more snow.
All these things Ellen noticed, concentrated on, so as not to look at the coffin with its brass handles, and the single red rose she had placed on top, or think of Gail inside—which, of course, was impossible.
"You’re so damn brave, Ellen," a teary Myra said, flanking her other side. "I’d be falling apart if it was me."
I am, Ellen thought, and wondered why her friend couldn’t see that. Yet it was true that she had not broken down since the drive from the airport, or even shed a tear, and that must puzzle Myra. It puzzled her. It was as if something hard encased her heart. The few times she’d been sure the dam was about to burst, only a few pathetic whimpers had escaped her.
Reverend Palmer closed the Bible, bowed his head in prayer. Ellen followed suit, though she did not pray. A slight shifting in the crowd, stirrings, a few murmured "Amen", and she opened her eyes to see the coffin being slowly lowered into the ground. The onslaught of pain hit her with such savagery it took her breath and turned her legs to liquid. Still, she did not fall, but managed to remain standing until it was over. She was grateful to let herself be supported between Paul and Myra back to the car.
And then they were part of the caravan, following behind the hearse, making their way down the long, winding path that led out of the cemetery to the highway. It seemed callous to her that they should be driving so much faster now than when they had entered, as if, their duty to the dead accomplished, they were eager to be finished with it.
Sitting beside Paul, Ellen clutched her hands together, sudden panic rising in her breast as the space between herself and Gail widened. I don’t want to leave her. I have to go back. I don’t want to leave my little sister in that cold, dark ground. A dry sob broke from her. Paul reached over and squeezed her hand.
"It’ll take time," he said.
~ * ~
Lieutenant Mike Oldfield watched until the last of the train of cars disappeared around the bend,
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