Free The Big Shuffle by Laura Pedersen

Uncle Lenny, Davy, and Darlene have to ride in a taxi.
    As we're going out the door the phone rings and I rush to answer it.
    “Mom's not going to be able to make it,” says Eric.
    While backing out of the driveway it comes to my attention that Louise is missing. I rush back inside and almost rip theslacks to my new black pantsuit while taking the steps two at a time.
    Louise is lying across the bed and talking on the phone. Clothed all in black, she looks stunningly beautiful, with her swan-necked elegance and ballerina body.
    “C'mon, Louise,” I say impatiently. “We have to go!”
    Louise draws her slender shoulders together as if she's cold and gives me the one-minute sign with her finger. Meantime, one of the kids starts leaning on the horn in the driveway. They know they're not supposed to do that unless it's an emergency. Oh no! What if the exhaust pipe is blocked with ice and they're all suffocating to death?
    “Louise,
now
!”
    She gives me a nasty look, whispers something into the receiver, and tosses the phone onto the bed. I grab her arm and start pulling her toward the door.
    “It was Brandt!” she says, as if this explains everything.
    “What can the two of you possibly have to talk about for six hours straight every single day?” Whenever I ask Louise to help, she's on the phone with Brandt, who is studying at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology.
    “Just lunar phases, solar system debris, and the fate of our sun, for your information,” she replies haughtily.
    “You're kidding me, right?” I ask as we hurry out the front door. It's an obscure collection of problems to be brooding about right before our father's funeral.
    “The sun will end up a compact white dwarf held in place by strange quantum-mechanical forces after expelling its outer layers to form a bubble of flowing gas,” continues Louise.
    “And I'll be roasting hot dogs for eight kids over the flames,” I say. “Get in the car!”
    Finally we're under way. The snowstorm has passed and thecarpet of white is now broken by the tracks of newspaper carriers, mailpersons, and children building forts and snowmen. The church parking lot overflows with cars. Men in dark overcoats and plaid scarves hold up women wearing black-netted pillbox hats and long wool coats so that they don't slip on the ice while making their way to the main entrance.
    Bernard and Gil are waiting for us in the vestibule. Taking Reggie out of my arms, Bernard asks, “How did the younger children take the news?”
    “They think Uncle Lenny is God and had to take Dad away and aren't interested in any other version of the story at this particular time.”
    “Très intéressant,”
says Bernard.
    Strong arms grab me from behind and what feels like the start of a takedown turns out to be my athletic friend Jane. “Oh Hallie, this is
so
terrible! I tried to get here sooner, but the driving was horrible.”
    “Mom's in
Dalewood,”
I whisper.
    My friend Gwen's parents rush forward. Mrs. Thompson is easily recognizable by the silk leopard print scarf that adorns her black wool dress. Gwen's mother exudes grief the way other people give off the scent of perfume. She attempts to say something but immediately begins sobbing and then practically falls forward, wrapping her arms around me and sinking that Mount Rushmore bosom directly into my rib cage as a violent burst of Chanel No. 5 further stifles my breathing. If I was wearing high heels and not flats, we'd both be on the floor with Gwen's mom on top.
    Fortunately Mr. Thompson rescues the situation by taking his wife's arm and gently drawing her to his side. Turning to me, he says, “We're so sorry that Gwen couldn't make it from California for the funeral. She's been trying to call you, but it's impossibleto get through.” What is unspoken here is that my dad was the only person in Cosgrove County who would not pay for call waiting. Or caller ID. Or cable TV.
    It's impossible for me to take a single step