The Funeral

It was a short drive from the motel to the church where the memorial service would be held. My rental car was a compact and had been well used, but at least it didn’t smell like cigarette smoke. I hung my suit coat in the back seat on a hanger I lifted from the motel closet. I didn’t want to create any additional wrinkles on my suit, since it had seen me through many weddings, funerals, and newspaper cocktail parties.

I arrived at the church a little early, which was a good thing since my cell phone rang as soon as I parked the car. It was The Forb.

“Did you get the flowers ordered, Max?”

“I did, Forb. I called before I left for the airport.”

“Good man,” he said. “Give Winnie my love when you see her. Just one more thing.”

I was sure that the “one more thing” had nothing to do with Winnie and something to do with The Forb’s moral outrage, so I waited until he offered his daily commentary on world events.

“So that you know I’m a fair man, let me say that Democrats are just as stupid as Republicans,” he said. “This Anthony Weiner guy sends off photos of his plumbing to some women and imagines that the news will never leak out that he’s a perverted idiot. With a name like Weiner, maybe the pictures were his personal logo. Ha!” The Forb clearly enjoyed his own joke.

“Seems like they all have the moron gene,” I said.

“Must be,” he said. “The liar gene, too. Stupid and liar go together in politics, right?”

“Probably everywhere, Forb.” I noticed that there were only a couple of other cars in the church parking lot, and the front double door to the sanctuary was open. “I need to go,” I said. “I think the service will be starting soon.”

I turned off my phone and entered the church. It was a relatively small space, able to seat maybe a couple of hundred people. I guess people in this town didn’t expect their churches to be the size of football stadiums or concert halls. It was an old building, maybe built a hundred years ago or so, by my estimation. It had a warm, well-kept feel to it, like a building that had been cared for by generations of faithful people.

The room was empty except for a simple wooden casket covered in flowers, and a lone figure sitting on the front row. I could see that it was Winnie. I walked up quietly and cleared my throat a couple of rows behind her. She turned and saw me approaching.

Her eyes were red from crying, but she still looked lovely. She just stared at me for a few seconds as I sat next to her. She started to cry again and threw her arms around my neck.

“Maxwell,” she said through tears, “you’re here. I can’t believe it. Thank you, thank you. I’m so glad to see you.”

She released my neck so that I could breathe again, and dabbed her face with a handkerchief. I put my arm around her and didn’t say anything. After a while, she spoke again.

“I just wanted some time alone before everyone arrived,” she said. “My father and older brother will be here soon, and we’re not really . . . close. I just wanted some time alone with Mom.

“I’ll let you have some time, Winnie,” I said.

“No,” she said, grabbing my hand that was resting on her shoulder, “please stay. At least until they come.”

I wondered about they, assuming she meant her father and brother. I suspected that there was some hidden pain in there somewhere, which probably explained why a young woman like Winnie would choose to move away from her family and live by herself.

She continued to hold onto my hand, which I liked very much. “I just can’t believe that you came all this way, Maxwell. I’m very grateful.” She looked at me with her vulnerable eyes, and I was captured.

“The folks at the café chipped in for flowers,” I said. “The Forb sends you his love.”

“Thank you,” she whispered, still looking at me.

I had not intended to kiss Winnie, but I did. She kissed back, which allayed my fears about the inappropriateness of kissing her in front of her deceased mother. Winnie didn’t seem to mind. It was a warm, sweet kiss, and when it was over she leaned her head on my shoulder.

The voice at the back of the sanctuary startled the both of us out of our shared reverie.

“Winnifred.” It spoke authoritatively, like a parent who had discovered his five-year old acting disobediently.

We both turned to see the source of the voice. Two men stood at the entrance to the room. One was younger than the other, but both carried the same stern visage. They were sturdy men in ill-fitting suits, and neither one looked like his face had often been disturbed by laughter.

Clearly, I was looking at they.