Free Dead Pan by Gayle Trent Page B

morning was rain pelting the windows. When I was a little girl and it rained on a sad day, I thought all of Heaven was crying with me. Of course, I’m older and wiser now. And I know that some of the saddest days are some of the sunniest. Remember what a clear, gorgeous morning September 11, 2001 started out being?
    I sighed and rolled over, clutching my pillow. Outside the rain continued beating against the house. I squeezed my eyes shut and came to the only logical conclusion: sometimes Heaven weeps with us and for us; and at other times, Heaven is simply all cried out.
    I didn’t want to get out of bed . . . didn’t want to go out in the rain and drive to a church on the other side of town to comfort a widow who was burying her only child. I wanted to wake up . . . have this whole thing be a horrible nightmare. I wanted to relay the entire convoluted dream to Myra and have her ask what I ate before going to bed.
    I held the pillow a little tighter, whispered a prayer for Connie, and then I tossed aside the pillow and got out of bed. I ambled to the kitchen and put a dark roast coffee pod into my single-cup coffee maker. I put a cup underneath the spout and emptied two packets of sweetener into it before the coffee began to brew.
    As soon as the coffee was done, I took it and a chocolate almond biscotti into the living room and curled up on the sofa. I didn’t turn the television on. I already had all the bad news I could handle this morning.
    I was dipping the biscotti into the coffee when the phone rang. I started not to answer it for the very reason that I was dipping my biscotti into my coffee. I mean, here I am getting ready to put this much-anticipated morsel of biscotti into my mouth, and someone has the nerve to call and interrupt?
    It rang again, and I ever so begrudgingly answered.
    “Good morning,” Violet said, as chipper as a songbird on the first day of spring. “Sorry to call so early, but I wanted to talk with you before the kids get up.”
    “Okay.” Since it was Violet, I went ahead and bit my biscotti.
    “What was that? Did you break a tooth on the phone or something?”
    “I’m eating breakfast?”
    “What are you having? Rocks?”
    “Biscotti. And it’s wonderful.”
    “Oh. Well, what about the game? Do you like it? Is it age appropriate?”
    “Apparently, it’s appropriate for all ages. I’m enjoying it, Myra is enjoying it, and I think Lucas will enjoy it, too. Leslie, too, for that matter.”
    “Did you say Myra ?”
    “Yeah. I had to rent another controller so we can both play at once.”
    “ Myra Jenkins? You cannot be serious.”
    “I’m serious. Come over this afternoon and see for yourself.” I dipped the biscotti back into the coffee.
    “All right. I’ll come over after lunch.”
    “Can you make it about one o’clock? I’m going to Fred’s funeral at eleven-thirty this morning.”
    “That is this morning, isn’t it? I sent flowers. I know I should probably go, but Jason and I are taking the children to early church and—”
    “It’s fine,” I said. “Nobody said you have to go.” I bit the biscotti. It really was good.
    “I know. I just . . . . Well, you’re going.”
    “I was there when he died, remember?”
    “Oh. Yeah. Oh.”
    “So, let’s hang up so I can enjoy my breakfast, and I’ll look forward to seeing you at around one o’clock.”
    “Gotcha. Love you. Bye.”
    And with that, she was gone. That’s one thing about Violet. Absolve her guilt or feelings of impropriety, and she’ll happily go along with whatever you say. It’s probably a good thing she’s not Catholic.
    *
    I arrived at the church at a quarter past eleven. It was already packed. I was somewhat surprised that Uncle Hal and Aunt Nancy had driven all the way from Roanoke to be here. Then I remembered that Uncle Hal and Walt Duncan, Fred’s grandfather, were hunting buddies and had been for as long as I could remember.
    I squeezed into the pew beside my bear of an