“It’s a fine day for a funeral, Lynda.” Tuesday morning Velma stood at the back of the church building, peering through the window at the bright sunshine, and I wondered if my sister was blind to the chaos. Even though the small chapel remained standing, it was one of the few buildings in Trapp that hadn’t suffered structural damage. Toothpick-sized splinters had been driven deep into the whitewashed siding like so many nails, and the steeple had been hurled into Charlie Mendoza’s cotton field as if God himself had thumped it with His index finger. I couldn’t help thinking the Big Man had finally gotten fed up with our town and had shaken us by the shoulders to get our attention.
“At least the funeral home wasn’t hit.” I squinted at the brightness, reminding myself that my cup was half full and not half empty, but still, my heart couldn’t muster a happy thought. There was too much destruction, too much death, too much sorrow, and I realized that being alone all those years had its perks. When I sheltered myself from the world—keeping distant from anyone who tried to befriend me—life hadn’t hurt this badly. I chuckled, but it tasted sour in my mouth. I thought life hadn’t hurt because no one stood close enough to touch me, when actually it hurt tremendously. Because I hadn’t been alive.
“It’s time.” Dodd tapped my elbow, and I joined the slow procession down the aisle. Every pew in the little building was packed to bursting, and folding chairs had been stuffed along the side aisles and in the foyer, but still, the crowd overflowed onto the lawn. As we passed the fifth pew from the back, I glanced at its polished wood and remembered sitting there with Hoby. Ruthie had squirmed on the pew between us, swinging her patent-leather shoes and trying to be quiet. Then one day Hoby was gone. It seemed so long ago, and all that time I never knew I was a widow.
The strong scent of flowers threatened to give me a headache, but their beauty comforted me like one of my momma’s lingering hugs. People cared about my family. They cared about our loss. They cared about me. Even the Christians showed compassion with their casseroles and sympathy cards. Pamela Sanders had met me in the parking lot just this morning, not wanting me to walk in without a friend by my side. Troy hadn’t been with her, but that was to be expected. He would be tending to Clyde at the hospital.
I stopped, and the heels of my shoes dug into the plush carpet while I waited for Ansel’s children and grandchildren to file into the first three rows. They packed themselves like sardines, as though their pain would be lessened if they only got closer together. Then I followed Dodd down the fourth row, and Ruthie sat between us, and I was glad her husband wouldn’t be preaching the eulogy. Ruthie needed him by her side, and I needed him, too. Over the years I had known family and friends who passed away, but I hadn’t been compelled to attend their funerals. Now I wondered why not. Clyde would say it was because of painful memories of my parents, and maybe Clyde was right.
I sighed, wishing he could be with me, holding my hand, letting me hold his finger. He had scared the wits out of me on Sunday night. When they finally pulled his limp body from the rubble at the DQ, I thought he was dead. I thought I had been abandoned yet again, but they whisked him away to the hospital in Lubbock. After a few pints of blood had been administered, Clyde came to, babbling and asking if everyone was all right, and wanting to know about me. Me.
My initial reaction had been anger. Of course. After a short visit in his hospital room, I fled to Ruthie’s house to sleep off my emotions. That had been yesterday, and today I was dealing with the loss of Ansel. I hadn’t yet let myself think about the others in town who hadn’t made it through the storm. Maria Fuentes, Quinten Snodgrass, Corky Ledbetter and her youngest child, but I could work through that grief later. I was in no rush.
And I wasn’t alone. I never had been.
I peered at the back of Velma’s head, her hair more gray now than brown and flattened on one side as though she had lain down for a nap before the service. Her oldest daughter sat by her side, sniffling, and Velma’s head lolled to the side without energy.
Velma wasn’t alone either.
The preacher from Slaton officiated the service, and even though Buster was a nice man, I had never thought about him as one of my brother-in-law’s close friends. It didn’t really matter, of course. Everyone for miles around knew Ansel, and the small building swelled with mourners. The fact that Ansel’s was the first funeral following the fatal tornado only packed the place more tightly, because even near strangers needed a release for their pain. Didn’t we all.
Toward the end of the service, Dodd stood slowly, and Ruthie looked at him in surprise. When Buster noticed Dodd making his way to the front, he stepped aside.
“Ansel Pickett was a good man,” Dodd began. “Lots of people would say he was so good, God wouldn’t dare keep him out of the pearly gates, but I want to tell you today that none of us need to make excuses for Ansel. We don’t need to bargain with God, or pray real hard, or cross our fingers, because Ansel was right with the Lord.” His gaze swept the first rows. “Last week your father called me to come out to the ranch. We sat in his living room and drank lemonade … and Ansel talked.”
Dodd’s eyes crinkled as he smiled. “He didn’t usually have much to say, but that day he almost wore my ears off, saying he had a lot on his mind and he needed to unload.” Even though Dodd was grinning, his eyebrows still held a sad slant to them. “And then he asked me to keep it under my hat until today.”
A hush fell over the audience, and I felt my burdens lift slightly, eased by the curiosity of what Ansel had said.
“He felt he needed to confess to me, even though I told him most things were between him and God.” Dodd swallowed, blinking away a tear. “And then he asked me to baptize him. I can still hear his voice as he said the words. Dodd, some folks don’t adhere to baptism, but my boy JohnScott did it, and he said he felt real clean afterward. I want to feel like that, too. Washed clean.”
Several of Ansel’s daughters leaned forward to look at their brother, who had tears running down his face even though he was laughing quietly.
“So I baptized that stubborn father of yours right there in the bathtub.” Dodd’s eyes reddened as he smiled. “You all know the size of that tub, so you can imagine it took a few dunks to get all of him wet, but when I helped him to his feet and he gripped his walker again, he was grinning from ear to ear. He was nodding his head. He was laughing out loud. Because he said it worked. He felt clean.” Dodd chuckled. “I don’t remember his exact words, but I think he said he felt better than a mountain boomer on a sunny day.”
Sniffles mixed with giggles erupted from the rows in front of me, and several of my nieces nodded.
“I just want you all to know that I would never use this scenario as a means to pressure you or guilt you into following the Lord.” Dodd wiped his eyes with a tissue. “But your dad clearly didn’t have the same scruples, and he told me not to breathe a word of this before today. For one, he didn’t want all the attention and questions, but more than anything, he didn’t want to have to debate it with any of you. He wanted me to stand before you today, at the base of his casket, and tell you these words: Get yourselves in church.” Soft laughter erupted from all over the room. “He said now that he got you here, you might as well stay for a spell.”
I squirmed on the hard pew, feeling like Ruthie all those years ago and figuring she was thinking about me, too. So many times in the past year and a half, she had said she’d give anything to have me in church with her. But she hadn’t meant she’d forfeit her uncle Ansel.
As we crept back up the aisle, my gaze roamed the packed pews, and in the eyes of the congregants and the townspeople, I imagined I saw repentance instead of piety, compassion instead of scorn, forgiveness instead of criticism. But deep down inside, I knew it didn’t matter what they said to my face or what they mumbled behind my back, because they were there for me. Maybe they had always been there—some of them—waiting to help me whenever I was willing.
We cleared the doorway and walked out beneath a sunny sky, and I squeezed Ruthie’s hand before I slipped to the hatchback. Without my saying so, she would understand that I had pushed the limits of my goodwill. Even though I felt a connection that I thought had long since been severed, I needed a time-out. If I was going to the cemetery, I needed a few moments, alone in my car, to process my scattered feelings.
And boy, were they scattered.
Once again I ached to have Clyde by my side, making light of my sadness and lifting me up. After the graveside service, I would make another trip to the hospital in Lubbock and tell him about my morning. He would probably just nod and hmm and scratch his chin, but that’s all I really needed anyway.
As I watched people move haltingly from the church building to their cars, I evaluated each one of them, remembering the hurts between us but also recognizing—and admitting—the strengths. For years I had scorned the small world where I lived. I had seen only the bad in the people and always, always the faults in the church, and I had blamed my problems on my circumstances. And on God, if I was honest.
But as I watched those people console my sister, hug my daughter, and shake my son-in-law’s hand, I knew they were not the source of my problems. Sure, they were a gossipy bunch who didn’t always say or do the right things, but they were real. They were human.
And they were just like me.
A movement far to the left caught my attention, and I turned to see puffs of gray smoke billowing into the clear sky. For an instant I feared someone else might be trapped or dying, but then my pulse slowed. The smoke was farther away, up on the Cap, where Clyde’s old house stood, and I could just make out orange flames flicking into the air.
At that moment, I realized I’d be missing the graveside service after all. It wouldn’t be the first time I had avoided a crowd, and it wouldn’t be the last, but this time was different. This time the reason was something other than my own discomfort.
That stinker. Not only had Clyde been released from the hospital, but he was up there on the Cap, burning down that silly token of his. And I needed to go to him.