42

The firmest pillar of the church has fallen … that full, warm, generous heart, ever true to friendship, has ceased to beat.

Reverend Barzillai Frost, Concord
on the death of Dr. Ezra Ripley, 1841

All the children came for the funeral, gathering at the house on Acton Road, Stanton and his wife and kids from San Diego, Barbara from New York City, Margie and Cap from Milwaukee, Roberta and Lewis from Orono, Maine. They found their widowed mother still enraged. Over and over she kept saying the same thing, “What right has that boy Paul to be alive instead of your father?”

“Now, Mom,” said Stanton, “it doesn’t do any good to talk like that.”

And Barbara said, “At least Ellie’s all right.” And they all embraced, while Eleanor sobbed remorseful tears and Lorraine, dry-eyed, tried to control her fury.

On the day of Ed’s memorial service, they entered the church with Joe Bold in a parade of Bells, filling the first two pews across the middle of the chamber. The church was packed. The basement common room was jammed. People stood on the grass outside, mourning for Ed.

The service was short. Joe Bold held himself together and read the words he had written the day before in a convulsion of sorrow and affection. Afterward everyone collected on the lawn, anxious to speak to Lorraine and her family.

“Oh, Lorraine,” said Flo Terry, embracing her in a paroxysm of sobbing. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry for everything.”

Flo’s husband, Peter, shuffled past Lorraine in his turn, taking her hand wordlessly. Peter had endured a difficult week. His wife had fallen completely apart, and it had been up to Pete to put her back together. On first hearing the news of Ed’s death, Flo had been utterly dismayed. Then she had persuaded herself that this solution to Ed’s troubles was really the best thing in the long run. Then doubt had begun to creep in, and finally Flo had succumbed to regret and self-recrimination.

Bo Harris was next in line. Working his way past Mrs. Bell to Eleanor, he looked at her red eyes and swollen tearstained cheeks.

“Hey, listen,” he said. “Are you really okay?”

“Oh, I’m all right,” said Eleanor. “Oh, Bo, I’m really sorry about your car.”

“Oh, never mind the car.” Bo looked dreamily at the plywood that had been nailed over the broken door of the church. “Mrs. Tarkington’s giving me her husband’s old Chrysler. It needs a lot of bodywork. You know, fiberglass repair. You want to go to a movie sometime? I can borrow my dad’s car.”

Eleanor blew her nose with her mother’s handkerchief. “Well, all right, I guess so.”

“How’s Paul?” said Bo politely.

Eleanor shook her head. “Pretty bad. Paralyzed from the waist. I’ve seen him. He wishes he were dead.”

Bo refrained from saying that he agreed with Paul, that Paul should have been killed instead of Mr. Bell.

But it was what everyone was thinking. Parker Upshaw said it out loud to his wife, Libby, but he blamed the whole thing on Ed, rather than Paul. “It’s bound to happen every time, when you’re too permissive with criminals. When that kid had his accident with the stolen motorcycle, they should have dumped him right back in prison. But Ed insisted they should give him another chance, right? Well, see what it led to. The whole thing was Ed’s own fault. Now, don’t look at me like that. It’s true. Face facts. Ed Bell was a sentimental old fool.”