STEPPING THROUGH THE schoolroom doorway, James almost choked on the unexpected funereal odor of lilies. Huge yellow-and-orange bouquets brightened all six windowsills. Who’d funded all that?
Desks had been pushed against the back wall, replaced by tight rows of mismatched chairs—many already occupied. Joe’s service would be standing-room only.
Mack passed by on his way outside. “Extra chairs in the shed.”
“I’ll help—”
“No, you stay—I’ve got it.”
Whoever’d set up the seating had left an aisle down the middle wide enough for a small table. Tech-wizard Nathaniel sat behind it, plugging cables into a computer. His chair straddled Pierce’s black dividing line, which was scuffed and faded but still visible. Locals and visitors were sitting down on either side of it today, a random mix of skin tones and dress codes. Joe had made a lot of friends in his short life.
Mavis stood at the northwest window, fingers touching its bouquet. A silver barrette that Joe had given her as a wedding present winked back at James.
Mémé sat alone in the front row. James crossed the room to rest a hand on her hunched shoulder. “Need anything?”
She opened her eyes, managed a smile. “Mothers shouldn’t have to bury their sons, James.”
He perched next to her, reaching for the knob-knuckled hand. His dress shoes pinched, but the suit pants fit fine, even sitting down; at Mack’s wedding, they’d barely buttoned. More sailing and biking, less bakery food and standing in a wheelhouse.
Damn, he missed standing in that wheelhouse.
Underneath his suit jacket was a Brenton Ferry Company shirt, minus the epaulettes. When he’d pulled his only dress shirt out of the back of his closet this morning, the collar was yellowed. Why was it the only part of a dress shirt that showed under a suit jacket was the first part to—
“James?” Mavis pointed around the room to each window, and he nodded. She wanted them all opened, so Joe’s spirit could come and go as it pleased.
The first one slid up surprisingly easily; they’d been replaced since his day. Before moving to open the rest, James admired the towering oak tree. Only a thousand yards away, but it would be unguarded for the next few hours. Everyone working the sit-in was collecting in this room to honor Joe.
Ah, Joe. If you were still here, we wouldn’t’ve needed a damned sit-in.
James worked his way around the outside of the room. By the time he’d opened all six windows, Mack had set up chairs in the center aisle and the back row was a sea of pin stripes and watch chains. Plus one very bright dress and shocking stripe of hair—Sheila. She waved, a purple flower among dark suits.
Nathaniel turned on his projector, which threw blue light on the wall between the front windows. James was passing by the doorway, on his way back to Mémé, when a paunchy version of Joe blocked out the sun.
“Hello James,” Pierce Borba said, reaching out a meaty hand.
James pulled away from the soggy grip as soon as he could, mumbling, “Sorry for your loss,” though Joe’s brother looked triumphant rather than sad.
“God has his reasons,” Pierce replied, smoothing gray-streaked hair back toward his braid. “We’re having a special ceremony for Joe at my church next week, part of the annual tribal celebration. You’re invited, of course.”
“It would be an honor. I could bring Mavis—”
“Don’t bother.” Pierce waved away the offer. “She’s not speaking to me.”
Because you’re trying to boot her out of her home. James turned toward the front of the room.
When he felt Pierce’s bulk following, James pivoted on slippery dress shoes to hold up a palm. “Better stay away,” he warned. “Not the time for family battles.”
So Pierce, still smiling, melted back into the space just beyond the doorway.