Hillside Chapel sat at the far end of Main Street. The cold weather of the night before had disappeared, replaced by the warmth of an early summer. Graham announced that it was too far to walk on such an unseasonably sunny day and drove us to the funeral in his Metro. I thought walking might have ended up being faster, though. The old car struggled and lurched against the steep grade of the only hill in a hundred-mile radius and was only capable of making progress while screaming in first gear.
“You can do it, Baxter,” Graham murmured.
“Baxter?” My fingers were crossed in my lap over the simple black dress that I’d borrowed from Kit. Thanks to her short stature, the dress cut off higher than I would normally have liked, and I kept tugging it down over my knees.
Graham glanced sideways at me. “Yeah, Baxter. It’s his name.”
I tried to smother my laugh before it escaped but a tiny bit managed to squeak out through my nose. “You named your car?”
“Hey, Baxter is a good friend. He’s gotten me where I’ve needed to go since I was eighteen with hardly any trouble.”
We were in the middle of a line of cars streaming up the road to the chapel for Tom Bishop’s funeral. I didn’t relish the thought of standing next to a smoking, broken-down car as half the town passed us by, so my fingers remained crossed until the road ended at a sloping parking lot. Graham guided us into the nearest empty space and the car shuddered to a stop. I got the feeling we’d only just made it.
Graham patted the dashboard as if it were the head of a well-behaved dog. “Good boy, Baxter.”
We unbuckled our seatbelts, and I stared out the car window at the church. It looked like a barn, constructed entirely of gray stones. The wood-shingled roof sloped downward from a tall white steeple. A large cemetery stretched up the hill behind the structure and spread out from both sides. At the crest of the hill, a stone monument in the shape of an angel, with arms and wings outstretched to the sky, gleamed in the afternoon sun.
“I think they’re selling this place a little short by calling it a ‘chapel,’” I told Graham. It was as beautiful as a cathedral, and though it wasn’t nearly as big, I thought it would easily fit a good portion of the town’s populace. It could probably hold everyone who, for whatever reason, felt the need to celebrate Tom Bishop’s life… or his death.
I studied the throng of Donn’s Hill residents that were plodding up the path to the chapel. Was Tom’s killer among them? Brian seemed to suspect that it was a drug dealer or a pimp. I scanned the crowd for people I thought might fall into one of those categories but didn’t see anyone who matched the stereotypical images in my head. No purple velvet suits or oversized animal-print hats. Maybe his death was mafia related. Those guys from The Godfather were always so well-dressed. They’d blend right in at a funeral.
As would Penelope. I wondered what fashion magazine she’d consulted to decide whether a scoop neck dress or a plunging neckline was more appropriate for attending your husband’s funeral. There had to be an article somewhere: “10 Tips for Looking Your Best After Hiding Hubby’s Body in a Lake.”
Or maybe Brian and I were both on the wrong track. Tom’s killer could be a jealous mistress who was furious he wouldn’t leave Penelope or an enraged husband who didn’t appreciate being cuckolded.
Graham and I stepped out of the car and made our way up through the parking lot. As we drew nearer to the chapel, it grew more imposing until it seemed to loom over us. We passed through a pair of immense wooden doors into the chapel’s interior, which was bright and open. An usher handed me a program that featured a color version of the same photo of Tom Bishop that had accompanied his obituary, and Graham led me to a gray-cushioned pew roughly halfway up the aisle.
He fidgeted in his black suit. It was a boxy cut that was too wide for his slim frame. Apparently, neither of us was happy with what we were wearing. He jerked the bottom of the jacket downward and smoothed his striped tie.
“Quite a turnout,” he said, glancing around.
The pews behind us were filling quickly, and soon every seat in the place was taken. Ushers disappeared behind a tapestry at the back and returned with armloads of folding chairs that looked like the same model as the ones at the festival volunteer meeting. The latecomers were doomed to develop bruises on their backs that would match mine.
At last the stream of townsfolk slowed to a trickle, and the building was full. Everyone was murmuring at once, filling the air with the hum of a hundred different conversations. Then the organist signaled that the funeral procession was about to begin by shocking us all out of our seats.
It sounded like someone had turned the volume all the way up on the instrument then ripped off the knob. It was impossibly, painfully, stupidly loud. Everyone around me had their shoulders riding up as high as possible, but none of them had actually committed to protecting their hearing by jamming their fingers into their ears. I suspected it would be disrespectful somehow if I covered mine, so I resisted the urge and kept my hands at my sides.
It took several bars of music before I recognized Leonard Cohen’s “Hallelujah” being pounded out on the ancient pipe organ. I’d never heard it played as an instrumental before, and it would’ve been quite beautiful if my eardrums weren’t being attacked.
Apparently I wasn’t the only one who felt this way, because after a minute or two, the volume dropped to a more reasonable level. The congregation let out a collective sigh of relief and our shoulders all dropped at once, like part of a choreographed dance. I glanced up into the choir loft and saw Mark’s unmistakable mop of red curls move away from the organ. I made a mental note to thank him later.
Tom Bishop’s family headed down the aisle, his pallbearers escorting the coffin on its wheeled base. The deep brown wood had been polished until it reflected the large spray of white oriental lilies and carnations that spilled across its top. Penelope looked as regal as I’d expected in a long black gown and an enormous brimmed hat. I watched her face as she walked; it could’ve been carved from stone. Her mouth was perfectly neutral, and she stared straight ahead, not making eye contact with anyone in the pews.
I narrowed my eyes as I studied her. I wasn’t sure what I’d been expecting—an inconsolable widow with shoulders heaving beneath heavy sobs, maybe, or a few crocodile tears barely masking a smug smile. I didn’t know what to make of her impassive expression.
“That’s odd,” Graham muttered.
“What?” I whispered.
“I would’ve expected Brian Andersen to be a pallbearer.”
I looked away from Penelope and scanned the six men who accompanied the casket. I didn’t recognize any of them, but they all had the same thick, wavy hair and tall build. They looked as though they could be related to Tom, probably his brothers and nephews. I opened the funeral program and checked the list of pallbearers.
“Look.” I pointed to the program. “Brian was supposed to be one. His name is listed.” The other five men shared the Bishop surname.
“I wonder if he’s sick. That would be hard, to be so sick that you miss your best friend’s funeral.”
Someone in the pew behind us made a shushing sound, and I turned around to mouth an apology. I was startled to see that it was Gabrielle. She looked even more exhausted than she had when we’d grabbed coffee together. The bags beneath her eyes were more pronounced, and she was hunched forward in her pew. A long, black lace mantilla blended in with her raven hair, making her look like a professional mourner.
Well, what did you expect? She just lost her lover.
“Sorry,” I whispered.
She nodded, accepting my apology, and dismissed me with a wave of the back of her hand. I turned around, the heat of embarrassment climbing up my face. Being shushed by Gabrielle made me feel as if my own mother had caught me misbehaving.
The procession reached the front of the church, and Tom’s family took their places in the first few pews. I’d only ever been to three other funerals, and none of them had been this lavish. Rows of wreaths and standing sprays marched down both sides of the chapel, and the program listed readings and eulogies by ten different people, including the mayor. I felt sympathetic for the latecomers in the metal chairs at the back and the people standing in the vestibule. It was going to be a long service.
My mother’s funeral had been very small and short. It was a graveside service, and the only people in attendance besides me and my father were my neighbor Darlene and a little old man I hadn’t known. The funeral director had given a brief eulogy and then lowered her into the ground.
The second funeral I attended was for a friend of my father. I was ten years old, and I hated everything about the service. The church smelled funny; it was crowded; I didn’t know anyone there; and the sad man at the end of the receiving line gave me the willies. I begged my father to let me go back to the car and read my book, but he insisted I stay with him through the line. We drew nearer to the body as my father moved from person to person, shaking hands. With every step, my dread increased. I didn’t want to look inside the casket. The only body I’d seen before had belonged to my mother, and I became convinced that she was lying in this coffin as well. When I reached the body and saw it was the same sad man at the end of the line, I actually was relieved. I never bothered to explain to my father why the air rushed out of me in a great sigh when I looked down at his friend, lying peacefully in his coffin. I didn’t think he’d believe me when I told him his friend was also standing next to the casket, gazing at us with mournful eyes. The memory of the whole episode faded rapidly, replaced with my father taking me out for ice cream afterward since I behaved so well around his friends and coworkers.
The third funeral had been a little more than a month ago, when my father had passed away. The memory of it was still too fresh, too raw. Within an instant of the thought of my father’s service, my eyes puffed and filled with tears. Good Lord, keep it together.
I felt someone squeeze my hand and looked down. Graham’s hand covered mine. His skin was warm, but dry and cracked from the hours spent working with clay in his studio. He squeezed my hand once more and then let it go. I looked up at him and smiled, hoping to convey my thanks for his empathy. It was exactly what I needed to pull myself back into the moment.
The mayor was at the pulpit, praising Tom for being a “civic leader and helping to build and shape our community in countless ways.” He stepped down to murmurs of approval from the gathered mourners.
My spine stiffened as the next person approached the altar. Tom Bishop’s ghost appeared to be attending his own funeral. Then I realized the man who climbed the stairs and stood at the microphone had a more deeply lined face than Tom, and much grayer hair.
The speaker introduced himself as Tom’s father, and talked about his son’s love of travel. Tom had been to all fifty states at least once and seemed to be gone more than he was home.
“But when he was home,” Mr. Bishop said, his voice finally breaking, “he was the guy you wanted to spend all your time with. He had his struggles, but then, we all do. We’ll miss you, Tommy.”
Penelope didn’t get up to speak. I was disappointed; I was sure I’d be able to figure out how she really felt about her husband’s death from the way she eulogized him.
The service ended, and the family escorted the casket back out of the church as one of Tom’s older nephews sang James Taylor’s “You Can Close Your Eyes” while playing an acoustic guitar. It was a lovely sendoff and would have been the perfect end to a funeral if the organist hadn’t struck up immediately after, jolting us all out of our seats once again with high-volume exit music.
I wanted to turn around and apologize to Gabrielle again, but it was impossible to hear anyone over that ridiculous organ. Graham and I joined the ranks of people streaming out of the chapel, and I lost sight of Gabrielle in the crowd. Everyone walked quickly, eager to escape the din. The music stopped while we were still inching through the vestibule, and I never thought the quiet sounded so good.
I spotted Mark just outside the main doors a few minutes later and waved him over to us.
“Hey, Mark. How’s it going?” Graham asked.
Mark scowled and shrugged.
“That was a neat trick you did in there, getting the organist to quiet down,” I said.
Mark’s face relaxed into a smile. “Yeah, that’s my great-aunt, Sheryl.” He pointed back into the crowd at a stooped older woman with bright-purple hair who was exiting the building behind us. A knot of other smiling senior citizens surrounded her. “She used to be the main organist here, and she was Tom’s music teacher when he was a kid. She came out of retirement to play today.”
“That’s sweet.”
“Sweet and loud. Her hearing’s shot, and she takes her hearing aids out when she plays. I went up there and turned down the volume right after she started, but she cranked it up for the recessional.”
“I could tell,” I said with a laugh.
Kit bounded over to us. I hadn’t seen her in the chapel. She must have gotten there after we did. “Hey! Are you guys going to the graveside service?”
I looked hesitantly at Graham. He was Penelope’s nephew and was planning to attend. But I wasn’t close to the family, and as much as I hated funerals, I hated burials even more. The slow descent of the coffin into the earth was too painful, especially when it contrasted so sharply with a sudden death.
Even so, he was my ride, so I’d resigned myself to attending. But he seemed to catch what I wanted from my eyes and gave me the out I silently prayed for.
“Well, I am,” he said. “But could one of you guys give Mac a ride home? I’d hate for her to be stuck up here with me.”
“I can give her a lift,” Mark said quickly.
Kit shook her head. “Mac and I practically live together. I’ll just give her a ride.”
“All right,” said Graham. “Looks like you’re covered. I’ll see you guys later.” He waved good-bye and headed up the path toward the cemetery.
I felt slightly awkward. I wanted to see if Kit and Mark would like to go get coffee with me or something, but it seemed strange to ask: “Say, now that this nasty funeral business is over, who wants to hang out and play Ping-Pong?” It felt disrespectful to the dead to make such a suggestion.
“Great news!” Kit was beaming. “The cops are letting us back into the cabin tomorrow. The dock is still cordoned off, but we don’t need to film there anyway.”
The thought of going back to the cabin filled me with a sense of dread so strong that I felt a sudden urge to vomit. But I could see how excited Kit was. I didn’t want to bring her down, so I swallowed the bile back into my mouth.
“That’s great,” I lied.
Mark’s frown deepened, and for an odd moment, I thought he was going to reach out and give me a hug. Then the moment passed.
“Well, let’s get out of here,” Kit said. “I’m starving. You guys want to grab something to eat?”
I smiled. This is why I like you so much, I thought. Kit always seemed happy to say whatever socially-awkward thing I was too nervous to express.
She headed off for her van. Before I followed, I looked up the hill toward where the mourners were settling in for the graveside service. At first I thought it was a trick of the light, but then I knew: Tom Bishop was standing among the headstones. He wore a black suit and his long hair was slicked back. As he watched his casket being positioned over his grave from a few yards away, he looked like his handsome living self again.
Is this it? Was his unfinished business just to make sure his body got found and his wife could have some closure? I imagined him fading away, moving on to the next life as his coffin was lowered into the ground and never bothering to hang out in my bathroom again.
If only it had been that simple.