True to Uncle James’s prediction, the rain had stopped, although the sky now had the impenetrable, cottony look that often precedes a snowfall. Beth made her way down the steps of the church, helping her aunt along, and watched impassively as the coffin was loaded into Sullivan’s ancient hearse. Out of the corner of her eye she could see the others exiting the church and gathering behind them in a ragged horseshoe formation as the church bell tolled its doleful notes.
The undertaker sidled up beside Beth, causing her to jump, and pressed the long stem of a red carnation into her hands. “For the grave,” he whispered, in answer to her questioning look. “To place on the casket.”
“Oh,” said Beth. Having tucked the carnation under her arm, she reached into her handbag and pulled out her dark glasses, which she quickly put on. There was no sun in sight, but at least they offered her some shelter from curious eyes.
The undertaker had given May and Francie each a flower and was now instructing them to pile into the old Lincoln and they would follow the hearse the short distance to the cemetery. Beth could see the black-garbed people scattering to their cars like crows in flight as she wedged herself into the back seat beside May.
The silence in the car was oppressive as they sat waiting in the church driveway. The driver, clearly a local farmer who was moonlighting for Sullivan’s, chewed gum in a quiet, steady roll of the jaw.
“What are we waiting for?” Beth asked impatiently.
“Uncle James is going with us,” said May.
Beth stared out the tinted window of the car at her uncle, whose vestments were billowing in the wind, the skin on his face and hands ruddy from the cold as he nodded in hushed conversation with stragglers, slowly making his way toward the car.
“It was a nice service,” said May.
Francie pushed her glasses up on her nose after wiping her eyes underneath them. “God,” she said, “I hate this.”
Beth sighed and looked away with dull eyes, grateful again for her dark glasses. Not too much longer, she thought. She felt something slimy on her fingers and looked down. She had absentmindedly crushed and rolled the petals of the carnation in her fingers. May saw her glance. “Don’t worry,” she whispered as the car door opened and Uncle James got in. “We’ll get you another one.”
The car started to roll slowly in the direction the hearse had already gone.
By the time they reached the parsonage, after the cemetery, the kitchen table in Aunt May’s house was already laden with plates and casserole dishes full of food. Beth was a little surprised to see the spread, considering that she had hardly recognized any of the people at the funeral. I’m the uncharitable one, she thought. I’m the one who is judging them, not the other way around.
There was a buzz of quiet conversation in the house, and as Beth made her way through the crowded living room, she was greeted with handshakes and awkward, brief squeezes. She responded as courteously as she knew how.
She went upstairs to her aunt and uncle’s bedroom and put her coat down on the bed along with all the others piled there. Then she went into the bathroom and fixed her makeup in preparation for facing the people downstairs again. When she came out of the bathroom, she saw a young women of about her own age sitting in the window seat waiting for a turn. The woman had a wide face and a short cap of curly red hair. It took Beth only a moment to place her.
“Cindy?” she asked.
The woman stood up and nodded, reaching out a hand to Beth. She gave Beth an apologetic smile. “So sorry about your dad,” she said.
“Cindy Ballard,” said Beth, shaking the girl’s hand, remembering her as she had seen her last, in their high school days when they had walked home from school together and shared dateless Saturday nights. “God, it’s good to see you. It was so nice of you to come. It’s been years.”
“I know. How are you? You look great.”
“Thanks,” said Beth, clinging to the woman’s hand, happy to see someone who had once been a friend. She studied the other woman’s clear eyes, her neat figure in a plain navy dress. “You look good yourself. Tell you the truth, I’m so glad to see someone I really know. I hardly recognize most of these people.”
“I don’t know. Old-timers, I guess,” she said with a bemused smile.
“I guess some of them might have worked with my father,” Beth observed.
Cindy immediately became more sober. “Probably.”
“Well,” said Beth, pausing awkwardly as a man in a neat but shabby suit edged his way hopefully past the young women toward the bathroom. “Do you mind?” Beth asked Cindy.
The woman shook her head and indicated that they should move out of the way.
“So—” said Beth.
“How’ve you—” said Cindy at the same time.
“You first,” said Beth. “It’s so good to see you. What are you doing here these days? How’s your family?”
“Well,” said Cindy proudly, “I’m married now.” She held out her ring finger for Beth to admire.
“Do I know him?” Beth asked.
“Billy McNeill,” said Cindy. “He was two years ahead of us.”
“Ahhh, one of the older boys,” said Beth slyly. “How did you manage that? We could never get them to look at us in school.”
Cindy blushed. “My luck changed.”
“Mine too,” said Beth. “Are you working?”
“I’m teaching. That’s one reason I’m here. Francie is in my class at school.”
“Oh,” said Beth, “I see.”
“A couple of her classmates are here too. They wanted to come. Although they were a little nervous. You know, kids.”
Beth, who did not want to admit that she didn’t have any idea about kids, simply nodded.
“Listen, Beth, there’s something I wanted to…Um, I need to talk to you about…Concerning Francie. Do you have a minute? I know this isn’t the greatest time, but…well, it’s on my mind, and it’s kind of important.”
Beth shrugged. “Sure, I guess so.”
“Beth,” said Aunt May, who had just made her way up the stairs and encountered the two young women on the landing. “Oh, hello, dear.”
“Hello, Mrs. Traugott,” said Cindy.
“Beth, dear,” said May, “may I borrow you a minute. I need to ask you something. Do you mind, dear?”
Cindy shook her head. “No, of course not.”
Beth looked at her questioningly.
“It’s all right. We can talk later or another time.”
Beth frowned at the uneasy look in Cindy’s eyes. “Are you sure?”
“Sure,” said Cindy. “Besides, I want a chance to hear about you.” She gave Beth a tight smile and then waved, noticing that the bathroom was again vacant. She went in and closed the door.
“What is it. Aunt May? Do you need me downstairs?”
“No, no. They’ll manage just fine. Everyone here has experience. They all know just what to do.”
“I guess so,” said Beth.
“I wanted to ask your opinion,” she said, starting purposefully down the upstairs hallway of the house. “I’ve been trying to decide which room to put Francie in.”
Reluctantly Beth followed her aunt down the hallway, with its faded lily of the valley wallpaper. “I don’t think you need to decide right this minute,” said Beth.
“Now Tommy’s room is bigger,” said May, opening the door and peering into the room, which had twin beds and was still decorated with pictures of ballplayers and trophies, which Tom had won in high school. Beth looked in over May’s shoulder, remembering her cousin, who was married now and lived in Colorado. She had thought him a most dashing figure when she was a child.
“Tommy’s room is nice,” she agreed patiently.
“Peggy’s room is smaller, but it gets lots of sunlight, and it’s such a pretty room,” said May as she toddled across the hall and opened the door to the pink and white room with a canopy bed and ruffled curtains.
“Well,” said Beth, “why don’t you let Francie pick? They’re both nice rooms.”
May pressed her lips together, one finger tapping her cheek, and nodded, still staring into the room of her daughter, who now had children of her own. “We want her to be happy here with us.”
“I’m sure she will,” said Beth automatically.
May smiled bleakly. “She hasn’t had it easy, the poor thing. Although Martin tried very hard, there was only so much he could do, working all day, trying to keep the house up. A lot of it fell on that child, I’m afraid. It must have been awfully tough for her, growing up without a mother the way she did.”
“Well, whose fault is that?” said Beth in a flat voice.
May’s mouth dropped open, and she turned and stared at her niece, who was leaning against the wall. “Beth,” said May sharply, “how could you say that?”
“I didn’t mean it the way it sounded,” Beth said hurriedly.
May’s face had become very pink, as if she were going to cry again, and she shook her head at Beth. “Your mother’s death was an accident. You don’t mean to tell me that you think Francie was responsible—”
Beth was patting her aunt on the shoulder and trying to quiet her. “No,” she insisted, “I didn’t mean that. Please, Aunt May. I only meant…these things just happen. Nobody’s to blame for them.”
“That’s right,” said May. “It’s God’s will. He never gives us more problems than we can bear.”
“I know, I know,” said Beth. “Listen, maybe we’d better get back downstairs. All these people have been nice enough to come.”
“Well, yes, you’re right,” said May, composing herself like a plump bird rearranging her feathers. “I’ll decide about the room later.”
She went down the hall and started down the stairs. Beth followed her, greeting the various people they met along the way and responding numbly to the introductions. She could not tell, from May’s calm demeanor, whether she had believed Beth’s explanation of that chance remark. As soon as she said it she had wished she could snatch it back from the air.
“Did you eat something?” May asked when they again reached the kitchen.
“I’m not hungry,” said Beth, but a woman in an apron decorated with a print of squirrels wearing frills and hair ribbons was handing her a sandwich. Beth accepted it passively and began to eat, although the food was tasteless to her. As she stood by the kitchen table, chewing dutifully, the sound of guitar music wafted into the house from the backyard. May excused herself from conversation with a neighbor and walked over to the back door, looking for the source of the music. Beth put the sandwich down and walked up behind her to look out over her aunt’s shoulder.
A group of kids, huddled together in their heavy coats, whispering, giggling, and poking one another, were gathered outside in the cold gray afternoon. Seated on the front hood of one of the cars in the driveway was the young man from the garage, his long hair pulled into a messy ponytail, with stray bunches of hair being lifted by the wind. The boy’s guitar was perched on his lap, and he seemed to be wrapped in the cocoon of oblivion that often surrounds people at their instruments as he strummed away, singing along to his tunes in a nasal voice. A little apart from the others, Andrew had one elbow propped on the car’s roof, his shabby coat collar pulled up almost to the tips of his ears, which were red from the cold. Francie leaned against him, the ragged hem of her sweatshirt dress hanging out from under her parka. Occasionally she leaned up and whispered at his coat collar, and Andrew nodded with a bored expression.
May took in the scene with a deep frown of disapproval, which Beth noticed immediately. She felt a flash of anger at the braying guitarist, who clearly would take any opportunity to find an audience. Francie looked up and saw them in the doorway. Beth motioned for her to come over.
Francie walked over to where her sister and aunt were standing and looked up at them questioningly.
“Who is this guy?” Beth demanded in a low voice.
“Oh, that’s Noah. He’s a friend of Andrew’s. Doesn’t he play good?”
“Tell Noah,” said Beth, “that this is a funeral, not a hootenanny.”
“A what?” said Francie.
“Never mind.” Beth sighed. “Tell him to quit playing that guitar. It’s very rude.”
Francie’s face contracted into a bitter pout. “We’re not hurting you,” she said.
“I thought you were the one who was so upset about having a party after the funeral.”
Francie glowered at her, but Beth could see that her remark had hit home. The girl turned her back on Beth and went over and spoke to Noah. The boy put his guitar down as if it were red-hot and looked up with a guilty expression on his face. The other kids, seeing what had transpired, scattered like a startled herd.
Thinking her aunt would be satisfied, Beth glanced at May and saw that she was still frowning, but there was more worry than disapproval in her eyes.
Beth tried to make her tone light. “Kids, you know. They can be pretty ignorant sometimes.”
“Yes,” said May distractedly.
“They don’t know any better, I guess,” said Beth.
“I’m afraid that’s true,” said May.
Beth studied her aunt’s lined face, wondering how she was going to cope with a youngster of Francie’s age. You’ve got to expect them to act like idiots from time to time, she thought.
“Well, I’d better see to the others,” May said.
“Do you need help?” Beth asked.
May shook her head and started back through the kitchen, her shoulders seeming to droop more than they had before. Beth chewed her lip, watching her go, and then looked out the door again. Francie and Andrew were still standing by the car. Francie looked up and caught Beth’s eye and then turned her back on her.
Beth watched them for a few moments, debating what to do, and then she pulled on an old coat from a hook by the door and, jamming her hands in the pockets, walked out to where they stood, trying to keep the heels of her black boots from sinking into the mud.
The pair straightened up at her approach, as if girding themselves for battle. “Muddy out here,” said Beth.
Andrew nodded slightly, but his narrow face was tense, and he watched her warily. Francie let out a deep sigh and looked up at the sky.
Beth bit her lower lip and then pressed her fists farther down in the pockets. “Andrew,” she said, “I—I think I should apologize to you for the way I acted last night. I was a little upset, and I hope you will understand that I didn’t mean to be rude to you.”