The monotony of the glossy white-trimmed windows and eggshell white walls in the Milford Community Church color scheme are broken up by the colorful flags of our country and state mounted next to the pulpit, where the silver-haired Reverend Steele is delivering the eulogy. I stare at the closed economy silver coffin in the center aisle of this non-denominational house of worship. Many attending would have been here for the wedding wearing colorful outfits. Instead, they have donned their darkest suits or most somber dresses. The mood is hard to judge. A death by suicide leaves a lot of questions.
As Jeremiah Steele pauses, I hear more clearly the sobbing coming from Jake’s family directly in front of him. They would have sat on the other side of the aisle for the wedding with Sharon’s extended family taking up the pulpit side. The bride’s folks are MIA.
Sharon McGrath is present, however; I am clutching her hand in mine in the pew furthest from the Dawson family. She would be alone again in her grief if it wasn’t for me. I checked in with her after I had gotten home from yoga. She picked me up, and we came together. Just the two of us.
Who am I to judge her family? The only times I concern myself with what makes a family tick are when I see abuse, neglect, or the refusal to allow a sick child the miracle of modern medicine. Mrs. Strong can be a fearsome advocate—that was written more than once on my performance appraisals. The revolving door of school principals had to write that occasionally, even before I was a mandatory reporter of abuse. They would profusely apologize and tell me that my nemesis in the school system, Superintendent Mary Meade, made them issue the thinly veiled warnings. I count many friends and only a few enemies in this town, Mary Meade being one of the latter but every child that came through my classroom knew I had their back.
Today, I am here for two of my students. One is sitting next to me, and the other is dead.
Sharon has a different black dress today, one that fits her better. Her hair is flawless, and her make-up hasn’t felt the sting of tears yet. That will come at the interment, I am sure.
The groomsmen are interspersed in the crowd with their families. The Reverend’s daughter Rebecca, or Becky as she prefers to be called, was to be the maid of honor. She sits with her mother and brothers in their usual spot. Jake’s sisters were to be Sharon’s only bridesmaids. They are up front.
I tune out what is being said as I gaze about. The church is nearly filled, better than most Sundays, I imagine. I’m sure that Jeremiah takes weddings, baptisms, and funerals as an opportunity to reacquaint town folk with his ministry. Maybe he’ll get more congregants from this crowd, but I doubt it. A senseless death by suicide doesn’t impress me as a Come to Jesus moment, but I could be wrong.
Jeremiah is winding down. “He is no longer in pain and is in a better place.” The sobbing increases. It pulls on my tear ducts. “He is with his Grandpa Jake, for whom he was named, and his Grandma Helen. May he rest in eternal peace.”
Others get up to remember Jake. His auto body shop teacher and his oldest brother are the last to offer kind words. To a person, they describe his death as a surprise and a shock, no warning. “He had so much to live for. He had a bright future. He was always happy,” ring in my ears repeatedly.
Barney Williams isn’t here. He may show up at the gravesite, but probably not. He is the senior police officer in town. We have two full-timers and two part-timers. Major crimes or a fatal car wreck are handled by the State Police. I honestly don’t know where a death by suicide fits in.
The speakers only validate what I already believe. I listen intently and I make a mental note to ask follow-up questions when I see them afterwards at the Dawson house.
The organist plays a hymn from the dog-eared hymnals. Those who know the song are too saddened to sing it well, and those who don’t know the tune or for whom nineteenth-century songs of worship are a foreign language struggle with it respectfully in softer voices. Four verses later, the service mercifully ends.
Reverend Steele offers the benediction. The white-gloved pallbearers, whom I conclude were to be Jake’s groomsmen, take positions around the casket. The organist plays the final dirge. Brian Yelito, his best man, is on the left front handle. They hoist the casket up. His face says it all. Tear-streaked cheeks, down-turned eyes, and a teeth-grinding set chin. This is what gut-wrenching pain and stoicism look like. Is that the face of a cold-blooded killer? What if it was a crime of passion done in the white-hot heat of the moment? How does a twenty-something hide it from all the people looking at him right now that he killed his best friend and business partner? Is he enough of a sociopath to pull this off?
I follow Brian through the sea of heads and shoulders until he is at the end of our pew. I just don’t know. Maybe if I played poker all my life instead of teaching kindergarten, I would recognize a tell.
I watch closely as immediate family, extended family, friends, associates, and townsfolk make their way down the aisle. Sharon reminds me by squeezing my hand tightly that three days earlier, she was supposed to be walking down this same aisle with her husband, arm-in-arm. Now she’s watching him carried away in a box. Her head hits my shoulder, and we hug tightly.
Right then, I decide to put her in the category of a witness and remove her as a suspect. Her other classmates who trail by us, I am not ready to peg so determinedly.
Sharon stays at the gravesite until everyone departs. She wants private time with the love of her life. Nobody knew her better than Jake, and they still have a lot to discuss. She assures me she will call me later to tell me she is okay. I will wait until tomorrow to ask if we can meet. We will have a lot to talk about, especially when she finds out that I don’t think Jake’s death was self-inflicted and that I am going to look into it.
I catch a ride with Emelina to the Dawson family home for the funeral reception.
She says, “My plate of chocolate chip cookies will yield me a return of foil-wrapped dinners that will last me a week. Funerals are a big deal when you are one of the oldest persons in town. Besides, the bereaved have enough food to feed an army. They are glad to give away some of the potluck. It’s easier than trying to freeze it or throw it away.”
“This is what I have to look forward to?” I ask. “Funerals and upgrading at potlucks?”
“Have you ever tried my chocolate chip cookies? People fight over them at the St. Paul’s Holiday Bazaar. I would call it an even trade.”
I reach into the back seat and pull one from underneath the plastic wrap. Whether it’s because I am starved or because of the taste from only one bite, I find out why they are worth fighting over. I ask her with a mouthful of deliciousness, “Oh my God, this is so yummy. How do you do that?”
“It’s a secret passed down by my great grandmother. I use butter. Lots of butter.”
“Can I take a couple for Ken?”
“Be my guest.”
I pull a handful of Dunkin’ Donut napkins from her passenger door side pocket, carefully wrap two cookies, and slide them into my purse.
We park on a side road at the first available spot. I carry the cookies to the driveway. The house is average by Milford standards, but Warren built a free-standing three-car garage with a second story converted to the same number of bedrooms. The house is connected to the garage by a breezeway with a large screened-in porch. Emelina takes the prized chocolate chip cookies from me, and for a moment I feel empty-handed, but I get over it quickly as I realize seventy consecutive years of kindergarten teaching are approaching the front door. That’s a lot of runny noses and untied shoes of Milford’s citizenry.
Candace, the oldest daughter, greets us at the door. “Mrs. Bidwell, Mrs. Strong, thank you so much for coming.”
“These are for your family, dear.” Emelina hands her the platter.
“Are these your chocolate chip cookies?” Candace asks.
“Yes, dear.” Emelina is beaming.
Candace winks. “I’ll find a special hiding place for them.” They depart to the kitchen.
Becky Steele greets me. “Hi, Mrs. Strong. I saw you with Sharon in church and at the gravesite. How is she doing? It must be really tough for her.”
I’m about to go into automatic response mode like I did at the viewing, but I stop myself. I take a deep breath. It’s now or never. “How so?” I ask.
She’s taken aback by my bluntness and looks from side to side before answering sotto voce. “Jake killed himself rather than get married to her. What does that tell you?”
I raise my eyebrows to that response and even more quietly ask her, “More importantly, what did she tell you, her maid of honor?”
“I was too freaked out about it all. Don’t tell my mom and dad, but I had a little too much to drink at the rehearsal dinner, and when I realized he killed himself, I got hysterical.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, Becky, but what did Sharon tell you?”
Becky looks at me with a screwed-up face in confusion. “Like I said, I was hysterical.”
“Have you talked to her since you found out? I saw Sharon at the viewing, and she was completely alone.”
“Mrs. Strong, I don’t know what to tell you. Jake died. There is no wedding. I asked you how Sharon was doing, and you’re playing twenty questions with me.” Volume-wise, she goes from zero to sixty before bursting into tears and rushing off. What I saw was a flash of anger before her voice rose. It’s not as if I hadn’t seen five-year-olds throwing tantrums before.
Yvette Strohmeyer rushes over to me, “What was that about?”
“Becky Steele was to be Sharon’s maid of honor, and she’s asking me how Sharon is doing.”
“I saw you at the viewing comforting Sharon and today at the service. It would be a reasonable question,” Yvette shrugs.
“I didn’t see Becky at the viewing.”
“Neither did I,” Yvette replies.
“Tell me, Yvette, a girl’s best friend is asking their kindergarten teacher how the girl is doing after something terrible happens. Teachers are always the last people to find out what’s going on.” I raise my hands in an empty-handed gesture.
“Jake’s death came as a shock to everybody,” she replies. “People react differently. Maybe Becky is going through her own stuff. Besides, Mrs. Strong, Becky is a pastor’s kid. Ask your own kids what’s it like being a teacher’s kid in the same school, what it’s like always swimming in the fishbowl of a small town.”
I nod my head. “I know what it’s like being the only guppy in the goldfish bowl.” Growing up a scared mixed-race child of a divorced white serviceman on a Royal Air Force base in rural England during the 1970s was a fishbowl all right.
I look down at Yvette’s belly, as much in thought about Merry Olde England as the obvious change of subject question.
“Doc Lockhart says I am doing fine, and no, I haven’t taken your pepperoni pizza advice, but if they have any here…”
“I guess I can cut Becky some slack, given the circumstances, but I think I will ask Sharon how they became besties.”
Yvette smiles. “Look at you, Mrs. Strong sounding all hip.”
I give her a hug. “Tru dat.”