To Helen Back by Susan McBride

felt less like a trophy and more like a paperweight?
    Not that Miltie had ever been bad to her. He hadn’t beaten her or anything. Despite the fact that they ended up fighting like cats and dogs, he’d treated her okay. He’d given her stability, at least, something she’d never had in all her years growing up.
    None of that mattered any more, though, did it, now that he was gone?
    Tears flooded her eyes, and she brushed them away. She’d end up looking like a raccoon if she didn’t stop bawling.
    Through the open window came the gentle chimes of the chapel’s carillon, the bells playing “Onward, Christian Soldiers.”
    Shotsie checked the clock. It was nearly ten.
    Time to get a move on.
    She grabbed her purse and made sure it was stuffed with fresh tissues. Then she scurried out of the house she’d shared with Milt for five years. Stumbling over the gravel in her too-tight pumps, she headed for the quaint chapel, its steeple poking the morning sky just a couple blocks away. She quickened her pace, knowing it would hardly look good for the widow to be late.
    The closer she got to the church, the more grim-faced townsfolk she bumped into.
    “God bless, my dear.”
    “Be strong, child.”
    “Keep a stiff upper lip.”
    “Chin up, young lady, Milton would have wanted it that way.”
    Oh, yeah? Shotsie thought as she stared into one wrinkled face after another. What Miltie would have wanted was for her to give each one of them a swift kick in the pants.
    She entered the vestibule and was instantly greeted by the minister, his square shoulders buried in the folds of a white robe.
    “Ah, Mrs. Grone,” he said, and began describing the order of the service. He took her hands and led her toward the foremost pew. The nearer they got to the plain pine casket up front, the quieter Fister’s voice grew, until Shotsie could hardly hear him. She wondered if he was afraid that Miltie might somehow hear and disapprove.
    She nearly told him to speak up, that he shouldn’t worry. Milton had never cared a fig about religion, not enough to eavesdrop.
    The minister left her in front, staring at the casket, and Shotsie started as a hand grasped her shoulder. She swiveled her head to find Helen Evans’s kindly face gazing into her own.
    “Hello,” Helen said, and nothing more, something for which Shotsie was grateful. Less was plenty on a day like this, a few honest words better than a string of false condolences.
    Shotsie looked past Helen at the rows behind her, every pew completely full.
    Clara Foley, Doc and Fanny Melville, the sheriff and his buck-toothed wife, those whack-a-doodle bird-lovers Ida Bell and Dorothy Feeny, even that snotty Felicity Timmons from next door: all had shown up to pay their last respects to Miltie. What a bunch of two-faced phonies! Shotsie ground her lips together, thinking it was enough to make her sick.
    The organ music started up, and Shotsie quickly faced forward. She looked over at the ancient instrument and the girl who manned it, Maddy Fister. Sounded like the minister’s daughter could use a lesson or two, Shotsie thought with a frown, sniffing as she listened to the halting touch of fingers on keys, feet pumping the pedals below.
    Earnest Fister took his place at the carved wooden pulpit, an imposing figure with his brooding features and dark eyes, his arms draped in yards of white. He raised his hands, and the music stopped.
    The entire chapel grew still.
    “Good morning,” he said in his throaty voice, the tiny microphone amplifying his every word. “We’ve come together today, not to grieve, but to celebrate a very natural part of life . . .”
    “Celebrate is right,” someone yelled from the back.
    Shotsie stiffened and tightened her fingers around the handles of her purse. Oh, no, she thought, it can’t be . . .
    She heard the clunk of the double doors closing and turned her head slowly to see someone standing in the shadows.
    A woman stepped out of the dim and into the