Free 2 Death Makes the Cut by Janice Hamrick Page B

congregation or possibly distant relatives of Fred’s. The rest were kids and teachers from Bonham High, wearing dark clothing, some with reddened eyes and noses. Many I knew, many more I didn’t. One girl sobbed as she was escorted to her seat. Her suffering was all too theatrical and exacerbated by the bevy of friends who reached out to touch her shoulder or squeeze her hand. Dramatic by nature, teenagers are all too easily caught up by the form and ceremony of death and grieving. Their feelings are passionately intense and sincerely felt, at least in the moment. I figured there was at least a seventy percent chance the girl had actually known Fred.
    A sound from the doorway made me turn my head in time to see Roland Wilding and Nancy Wales making their entrance. Something in their thespian blood must make them incapable of slipping quietly into a room. Even here, at a funeral, their gestures were large, their voices just slightly too loud, their postures a little too erect. “Look at me, look at me,” they seemed to be saying. Or “slap my face, slap my face,” which was the effect it had on me. However, upon closer observation, I realized that Nancy was, if not subdued, at least quieter than usual, and that it was Roland who was doing most of the grandstanding. He made a big point of asking the usher where he should sit and requesting that the boy take them closer to the altar. Nancy actually had the unexpected decency to resist, but he urged her forward. I looked away in disgust.
    The low tones of recorded organ music began streaming softly through the speakers mounted in the corners of the chapel. The church was packed, every seat taken, a line of mourners standing along the walls in the back and flowing out into the foyer. A small group wearing black—two women, a man, and two small children—were escorted to the pew in the front. Fred’s widow and children, no doubt, and the grandchildren of whom he’d been so proud.
    The service was brief, although not brief enough. The minister said a few words. A young woman, probably a relative, stood in front of the altar with a boom box and microphone and sang “You Light Up My Life” with eyes closed, wobbling on the high notes. The phrase “funeral karaoke” sprang into my head and for a few minutes I had to struggle to suppress a wholly inappropriate urge to laugh. Fortunately, before she could start another song, Fred’s son rose to deliver a surprisingly eloquent and moving eulogy, which had everyone in the congregation reaching for tissues. The minister said a few more words that no one heard, and then it was over.
    Because I’d sat at the back, I was one of the first out the door after the grieving family, and I took my place in line to walk by and press their hands and express my condolences. The heat of the afternoon hit me in the face like a blast furnace, the brilliant light blinding and welcome. After the dim, chill interior of the church, I’d almost expected the day to be dark and drizzly, the earth weeping along with the rest of us. Instead, the brilliant blue sky overhead, the August heat, and the happy raucous cries of the grackles fussing with each other in the grass all welcomed us back into the world of the living. Impossible not to draw a deep breath and thank God that we were still alive.
    The line of mourners moved fairly quickly. When I reached Fred’s widow, I murmured my generic, “I’m so sorry for your loss,” and attempted to move on.
    Unexpectedly, she gripped my hand. “Aren’t you Jocelyn Shore?” she asked.
    Surprised, I admitted I was. Of course, I had met her on one or two occasions over the years, but I hardly expected her to remember me. Her name was Edith, which I remembered only because it had been printed in the funeral announcement.
    “Here, wait just a second.”
    She fumbled in her little black purse, a pretty thing, almost certainly bought for a special occasion—an anniversary or birthday celebration in a