JESSE KICKED A BOTTLE CAP, WHICH SKITTERED OFF THE SIDEWALK AND INTO THE DRAIN. He and the Mindells were on their way to the college’s old chapel for Mr. Clarke’s memorial service. Jesse wished he could be doing something else.
The Mindells had found out that Mrs. Volter, one of Jim Clarke’s old childhood friends, was going to give a eulogy. “I wonder if she’s going to say it’s too bad Jim Clarke’s now in hell,” Mr. Mindell said.
“Oh hush,” Mrs. Mindell said. “She’s not that bad. You two should make up, be an example to others.”
“Over my ape-descended body.”
At the chapel, a crowd was gathering, cars parking on both sides of the quiet leafy street. Chief McMann pulled up in his cruiser. He greeted Jesse on the chapel steps. “How are you settling in, son?”
“All right,” Jesse said.
“You’re helping Kellie Fairchild with her Sunday School class, aren’t you?”
Jesse nodded.
“Great, great. Tell her I said hi.” The chief was unmarried and interested. Jesse wasn’t quite sure how he knew this, just that he did. This was another thing about small towns, how you could absorb by osmosis information such as the police chief’s love life.
Within the hall, the tall brass pipes of a big organ dominated the front wall, and a grand piano the size of a baseball diamond sat on a glossy stage. The chapel was famous for its stained-glass windows. Jesus and the heavenly saints strolled on emerald streets in the higher panels, but the lower panels, close to the floor, were of Jesus on earth. These weren’t the usual sappy ones, of Christ with a lamb or praying in a garden. There was Jesus whipping the money changers and Jesus protecting a child from a bully. The artist had a sly sense of humor. One of the panels between the front pew and the pulpit showed Jesus casting demons out of a man and into a herd of pigs. At the bottom of the panel, one wild-eyed black pig seemed to be racing right toward the congregation.
In the front row sat Honor and her mother, both in black, both elegant in a somber way, no makeup, no jewelry, the only accessory a black silky cloth resting lightly on Dr. Clarke’s hair. Even though it was her own father’s memorial service, Honor looked bored and uncomfortable. Her mother, with her glazed and haunted eyes, looked as though she was a thousand miles away.
Front and center, on a linen-draped table strewn with flowers, rested a sealed ceramic vase. The ashes of Jim Clarke.
The Mindells picked seats halfway down the opposite aisle. As Jesse sat down, he kept staring at the vase, wondering if Jim Clarke’s head had been cremated along with the rest of him. It wasn’t a pleasant thought, but he had that dream again last night about the headless man. In the dream, Jesse was sleeping in his own bedroom at the Mindells’, and something shook him awake. It was the headless man, his hands gripping Jesse’s shoulders hard, his bloodied torso and cutoff neck bent over Jesse, while a voice wheezed, “Where is my head? Help me find my head.” Jesse woke for real, bolting upright in his bed, his heart pounding. The room was empty, and the door was closed. The windows were open to the warm night breeze, but the screen was still clasped shut. He had a hard time falling asleep again.
Jesse looked around the pews for Wesley, who apparently had talked his way out of coming, although his father sat a few rows back, his belly nearly rubbing up against the pew in front of him. He was as big as his son was scrawny and gave Jesse a smile that rippled down his three chins.
Betsy Keelan strolled in with her father. Many midwestern Americans ate Keelan turkeys for their Thanksgivings, making Mr. Keelan one of the town’s richest men. At the front row, he greeted Dr. Clarke. Betsy said something to Honor and briefly touched her shoulder with just the right amount of sympathy. Betsy sure knew her social graces. Honor stared down at the floor and sullenly nodded. As Betsy walked back to an empty pew, Honor turned slightly to watch her out of the corners of her eyes.
The service was nonreligious. A guitarist plunked his strings as a trio sang a folk song. Dr. Clarke daubed her eyes with a handkerchief. Honor stared straight ahead, showing about as much emotion as a mushroom. Somebody read some poetry, after which it was Mrs. Volter’s turn.
“Here she goes,” Mr. Mindell muttered. Mrs. Mindell nudged him in the ribs.
Mrs. Volter didn’t say anything about Jim Clarke being in hell. She spoke warmly about the boy she’d known, about his high spirits and his hijinks, like the time he released a cage of white mice into the girls’ locker room. Honor perked up, studying Mrs. Volter with interest as the audience chuckled. Wesley’s dad, Mr. Stephens, said in a loud whisper meant to be heard, “Remember when Jim put that pepper sauce in Oily Wherell’s jockstrap?” The chuckles turned into laughter.
A plump gray-haired woman settled herself down at the grand piano. She’d been Jim’s piano teacher and had come all the way from Chicago, where she now lived. “He was lackadaisical at first,” she said, “but when I told him that one of the best ways to impress the girls was to be able to play for them, well, my goodness. One time when he was at college, he snuck into a sorority house at three in the morning and played this piece very loudly for a girl named Ruth.”
Dr. Clarke smiled. The woman pounded out a stirring piece that didn’t sound very funereal. Dr. Clarke’s head bobbed and swayed with the beat. Honor fidgeted a little, as though something was biting her on the butt.
Then Mr. Keelan got up and stood by the vase. He spoke about being Jim Clarke’s best friend, and how Jim Clarke had been a natural-born leader, smart and athletic, a gifted musician and writer to boot, a wonderful all around Longview boy. Jesse mostly ignored him to watch Honor watching him, her face crimped with a touch of distaste, as though he were making a public fool of himself. As he went on and on, Jesse noticed Honor switching her focus to the pig in the stained-glass window. Her lips moved slightly, as if she were saying something to herself. Mr. Keelan grew emotional, his voice cracking as he said, “My daughter and Jim’s daughter are in the same class, and I hope history can repeat itself, that they are blessed with the same kind of friendship.”
Honor’s lips stopped moving. Everything about her seemed to stop, even her blood, her skin looking like mottled wood.
Out of the corner of his eyes, Jesse caught a little flash from the stained-glass window. It was the pig’s eye. Had it moved? No, just a trick of the light. Then, with an explosive crack, the bottom of the stained-glass window shattered. Through the falling shards fell a black pig. It found its footing on the carpet and then squealed, saliva flecking its mouth as it eyeballed Mr. Keelan. Everyone in the chapel sat stunned for a moment before a man in the front began screaming, setting off a chain reaction. The pig charged Mr. Keelan, who scrambled on top of the memorial table, trampling on flowers and nearly knocking over the mortal remains of his best friend. As people screamed and shouted, the squealing pig circled the table. Dr. Clarke darted in and grabbed the vase. Chief McMann pulled out his revolver, but Mr. Stephens had a more practical solution, taking off his coat to flap it at the pig, shooing it away. The pig raced down the aisle and out the front doors.
Throughout the whole uproar, Honor Clarke sat as still as stone. Her forehead shone with sweat. When the pig vanished, she took a whooping breath and slid off her seat in a dead faint.