23

I FIGHT WITH MY TIE AS BEST I CAN, and it doesn’t feel like a dress rehearsal anymore—this is the real deal. Somehow I manage not to strangle myself in the process, and it is crooked and a little lumpy, but no one will notice. That’s what I tell myself. No one will notice the crooked tie of an old man, even if he is attending the funeral of his last friend. Perhaps they will simply see it as a sign of my profound grief. I make my way downstairs.

Dress shoes have always put me in a bad mood. Maybe that’s why I stopped going to church some years back. I hated wearing those black shoes. I despised shining them, the smell of the shoe polish, and the way it got all over my hands. They pinched my heels and grated against my bony ankles, and they never felt quite right. I was always aware of them, which is perhaps the worst thing that can ever be said about a shoe. A good shoe isn’t even there. You completely forget about it.

Anyway, I walk down the stairs in my pinching dress shoes and am surprised to hear a knock at the door. There’s Caleb, dressed up and ready to go to the funeral. I hadn’t actually expected him to show up. I look past him, out toward the barn, and his father is in the car, waiting to drive us. I nod at Caleb.

“Hello,” I say.

“Hi,” he says. That’s it. His one-word response is almost as surprising as the fact that he showed up, on time.

“Did you bring your smoke bombs?” I ask.

He nods.

“And this. Can you carry this for me?” I hand him the old box. “It’s very fragile. You’ll have to be careful.”

“Okay,” he says, and I wonder who has possessed the body of this boy who used to wield his words like weapons.

“Okay,” I say. “Well, let’s go.”

No one talks in the car. In my experience, no one ever talks in the car on the way to a funeral. What is there to say in the face of death? What is there to say when we are forced to remember that we have come from dust, and to dust we shall return?

“Careful,” I say to the boy holding the box as we hit a bump on Kincade Road. It’s paved now, the road to town, and Jerry drives faster than we ever drove down that straight stretch. The stones used to jump up and bite the bottom of the car, but now the only sound I hear as we fly down the road is that constant whirring. It reminds me of the river, or of eternity.

We get close to town and pass the park where they still set up the fair every year. The old dusty paths have been paved, and I don’t think the carnies are allowed to camp out at the bottom of the hill anymore. The Darkness seems less, or at least it seemed less the last time I was at the fair, fifteen years ago or so. But it’s still too early in the summer for the fair, and the park is abandoned.

The town comes up Kincade Road a little farther than it used to, but other than that not much has changed. A few of the restaurant names are different, and the houses look tired, but Pelle’s Antiques is still there at the crossroads, run by his grandson, if you can believe that, who is not much younger than me. I wonder if that old back room is still there. I wonder what they ever did with that table the old woman scribbled on.

Find the Tree of Life.

Jerry says he will wait in the car.

“I’m not a fan of funerals,” he says, looking away awkwardly because he realizes the obvious nature of his words. Who is a fan of funerals? Caleb and I walk toward the church, and there are a few dozen other people making their way through the parking lot. They wear black and carry a heavy burden on their shoulders, and it is strange for me to think that I could have perhaps stopped all of this from happening with the Tree of Life. All of this death. All of these heavy burdens.

What would these people say to me if they knew I could have stopped death in its tracks?

The boy carries the box, the dust leaving marks on his shirt and his clip-on tie and the lap area of his black dress pants. The contents rattle around inside as he walks, and I know he is desperate to look inside. I stop him before we get too close to other people.

“This is what I need you to do,” I say, then whisper in his ear.

He shrugs. “No big deal. But where should I go after I do it?”

“Hide somewhere,” I say. “Or go out and get in your father’s car. But don’t leave without me. I don’t have any other way of getting home.”

“Okay,” he says.

I hold the dusty box on my lap and sit at the front right-hand side of the church. The preacher is a tall man with blond hair and kind green eyes. I have never seen him before, but that doesn’t surprise me since I rarely leave the house—I just don’t have much desire to get out. I go into town when I must. The only person I considered looking up was Abra, but after so many years of not being in touch, picking up the phone and calling her felt awkward, or somehow inappropriate. And now, well, that’s gone.

The preacher seems to have been personally acquainted with the deceased, and emotion keeps leaking into his voice while he talks. The church is not as full as I thought it would be, but of course we are old now, and nearly everyone we knew growing up has left. She has a family, which accounts for most of the people there. I look around as the preacher’s voice trips and skips, and I wonder who, if anyone, will come to my funeral. I can’t think of a single person.

The casket is open at the front of the church, and some people walked by it before the service began, but I didn’t have the heart. I didn’t think I was ready to see her. Not yet. I grip the box tighter on my lap, and I shake it slightly to make sure the things are all still inside. The woman beside me gives me a nasty look for making so much noise. Some people.

The preacher keeps talking, and his voice fills in the empty spaces of the room. I look for her husband, and I see him sitting at the very front, to the right of the aisle. I can’t remember his name for sure, but I think it might be John. Or Simon.

My heart starts to race, and I wonder if maybe the plan I came up with wasn’t the best idea. Maybe I should have simply spoken with her husband, asked permission. Maybe he wouldn’t have minded. But as I decide to walk out, find Caleb, and abort the plan, I hear the ear-piercing sound of the fire alarm going off. I sigh. Too late.

The people look around nervously at each other the way people always do when a fire alarm first goes off. Everyone wonders if it is just a drill, if it’s a sound that can be overlooked. Lights flash brightly in the church, and the pastor looks around uncertainly. Just as he is about to reassure everyone that they can stay where they are for the time being, smoke pours in over the balcony and billows through the back doors.

Someone screams.

Everyone stands together, and the pastor tries to guide them with his voice, tries to calm them, but they are frantic, as most people are when facing death. Panic and pushing and shouting. Soon the smoke is thicker, but it is settling into an empty sanctuary. Everyone except for me has left.

I walk over to her coffin, and there she is.

Abra.

She is still as beautiful as I remember, though I haven’t seen her for years. Her hair is white, the color of frost, and her skin, though old, still holds something of her youth. Her nose reminds me of how stubborn she could be, and I wish I could look into her eyes again, see those sparks fly during a disagreement or the way they softened in friendship.

Our last encounter is one I’d rather forget, one full of questions and doubt. I felt she had forgotten me, and perhaps she had, but it was no excuse for the things I said. She only stood there and took it, and we parted with a painful silence. Now there is only this: her closed eyes, her folded hands, and me, wishing there was a way to follow after her.

I pull back the blanket that lines the coffin and place the box inside with her. Where it belongs.

Outside the church, the crowd mills around. Their voices are full of chatter, and everyone wants to know what’s going on, but as the minutes pass their curiosity dies down and they form small groups of people, friends and family. They make small talk—the weather, the town, the baseball season. They fill the morning with words because the silence is unbearable.

I decide suddenly that I have had enough. I got what I came for—a last view of Abra and one last gift from me to her. I weave my way through the crowd, trying not to push my cane down on anyone’s toes.

I feel a hand on my shoulder. The pressure of fingertips. I turn around.

“Excuse me, are you Samuel Chambers?”

It’s Abra’s husband.

I nod, wordless, expecting to be charged (and rightly so) with disturbing her final peace. What right did I have to put things in her coffin, objects that would remain beside her body for decades to come? But he does not say what I expect. In fact, he hands me a small box of his own, and he gives me a sad smile.

“This is from Abra,” he says. “She wanted you to have it.”

I nod again, clear my throat to speak, but find there are no words waiting to come out. So I turn and walk away, wishing I would have asked him for his name.

I get to the car and climb in. “Thank you, Caleb.”

“Sure,” he says. “What’s that?”

I look down at the box again. “I’m not sure,” I say. “I haven’t looked inside yet.”

Jerry turns on the car and drives away.