As they turned onto Main Street, Saint saw each of the storeowners standing in their doorways wearing their finest, heads dipped, then they fell into step behind her. That morning the town of Monta Clare mourned one of its own, and the great St. Raphael’s burst its old seams and spilled onto its lawns. Those inside were blessed by Saint, who took to the organ and played Chopin.
The Reverend Franks led them, and when it was her turn Saint’s knees shook as she walked the chancel and stood engulfed at the altar and bridged her grief with focus on Norma’s life, from a distance so simple and honest, but up closer a marvel of endurance and love. She looked out at the swell of faces, some from the bus route, some distant cousins who had made long drives. Nix sat alone in the far corner, smiled when she met his eye, though in his she saw a hollow that dampened the stained glass, the triforium, the clerestory of color.
Sammy took the other corner. He wore bold pinstripes and a white-and-pink cravat, and beside him a hardwood crook cane leaned against the stone.
Her mind sought Joseph Macauley, who should have been there with them. She had received a card, a simple sketch of the old porch on a winter’s evening, the three shapes sitting together nothing more than a blur. He had used only two shades.
In the morning sun they placed Norma into the ground. Saint had once wondered if her grandmother would want to be buried back in the city, with her husband and daughter. Norma told her no, she wanted to stay close to the tall house, the memories they had made there.
They ate sandwiches on the small green. Mrs. Meyer took care of the details, had Lacey cater and Charlotte bake a selection of cakes.
Saint fended hugs, smiling her way through stories she had heard countless times before. She looked around for Nix, but he had gone, looked for Sammy and found him alone on the bench. He drank from a flask, offered her a slug, which she took and regretted.
It was at the close of the day, as Charlotte read quietly on the porch, that the telephone rang.
Saint stood alone in the kitchen.
Numb as she listened to the voice of Sister Cecile.
“Eli Aaron just visited here.”