friend of the family

 

Joe cleared his throat and the rain began to fall, spattering the small crowd gathered before him. Umbrellas sprouted like black mushroom caps and people murmured softly, the way people do at burials. He wet his lips with the tip of his tongue and began speaking.

 

He talked for some time. Not a long time, but long enough (he thought) to make his point. The crowd was getting restless and a catered lunch was waiting for them.

 

Everyone, except for one person; he wasn’t going anywhere.

 

Joe began to yawn and then forced himself to stop, thinking it a terribly inappropriate and boorish thing to do. He had obviously touched some heartstrings with his moving eulogy, and he could see tears shining on the over-shadowed eyes of the bereaved. Such a pretty woman…all in black. Joe noticed that he was staring and quickly lowered his eyes, as if contemplating the words left hanging in the air. The priest caught him by the arm and led him away from the pulpit, thanking him. Thank you, so much.

 

Such memories…yes. Such a close friend…yes.

 

So the priest spoke again and the crowd listened. And Joe slowly, solemnly walked back toward the lone tree that he had walked out from behind. Nobody seemed to notice as he stole away, because the rain was falling harder now, and a bright arc of light stitched itself down from the storm clouds, striking the iron cross on the top of the rectory nearby.

 

A small crowd. A smaller family. One wife, one baby girl, one parent (still alive) and the assorted attachments that one makes during the course of forty-odd years. Joe unbuttons his suit and watches the rain. Attachments that other people make, that is…

 

And so distracted by this maudlin interior monologue, he fails to notice the one, two, three, four limousines parked next to the shiny black hearse. All with the requisite funerary processional flags and markings…except one. The smaller Town Car. The one in the back of the line.

 

The one with its doors opening.

 

The one with the two men, professionals, getting out. Two men who sat somewhere between made-men and IRS agents.

 

Oh dear, thinks Joe. This can’t be good. And what was the name of the dead man? M-something? Strange, because Joe knew it when he got up this morning. He knew it when he showered, shaved, put on his tie and skipped breakfast. He had just said it a few moments ago, didn’t he? Strange, because, he had spent so many hours poring over the details of his life…and his demise. Just how did he die again?

 

In fact, Joe was so bewildered by these questions that the two large,well-dressed men with matching outfits (right down to the Pierre Cardin tiesand matching bulges where most normal folks keep their wallets) had littletrouble spiriting him away in the black Lincoln to have a little chat withMr. Able about a few missing teeth here and there.

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