was in place, curving gently over the peachy sheen of his skull. Barnaby had even plucked the little hairs from his ears. Jacob was radiant under the soft, recessed lights, his casket polished, his body at rest amid the plush interior. He could have been dreaming of a gentle walk toward a distant and brightly-lit gate.
'He looks like he’s sleeping,' said a stooped old woman whose blue-rinsed hair was topped with a small black net.
'He’s mighty handsome,' said the widow.
'They did a fine job on him, all right.'
Roby wanted to step on the old woman’s toes. You’d think she would have learned some manners. After all, she’d probably been to many viewings in her day.
'I only touched him once,' the widow said. 'Set me off to bawling. His skin was so cold.'
'I remember I found my Henry that way, hunched over on the toilet. I thought he was straining away, because he was mighty bound up with constipation there his last few years. But I laid a hand on him, and he was plumb cold. Fell over on the floor and laid there while I screamed.'
'Ma’am,' Roby said. 'Sorry to interrupt, but the line’s long and we don’t want to keep the family out too late.'
The old woman bobbed her head in agreement. 'I know what you mean. They probably ain’t sleeping much.'
She juddered a few steps away and hugged Marlene, then the other girls. 'Say, do you know what time the burial is?'
Barnaby Clawson stood near the chapel doors, hands folded and clasped together over the lowest button of his suit jacket. 'Ma’am, the information is posted on the sign outside.'
The old woman went to him, touched him on the forearm. 'You did a fine job on him.'
'Thank you, ma’am.'
Roby waited until the old woman had exited, made sure the widow was occupied by some concerned neighbors, then went over to Barnaby.
'Marlene didn’t eat none of the pie,' Roby said.
'I know,' Barnaby said, his practiced expression of sorrow never slipping.
'What am I going to do?'
'Did you ask you-know-who?'
'How come you’re afraid to say his name?'
'Look, a man sees too much in my line of work. Some of it stays behind closed doors. To these folks-' Barnaby gave a small nod to indicate the line of those paying final respects '-the show is everything. We’re all in on the great big lie. Jacob’s gone on but we pay tribute to his flesh in all these little rituals that are supposed to make us feel better.'
'Well, you’d be out of a job if it wasn’t for the rituals.'
'No. I’m as deep in it as you and Bev Parsons and the old man. We’re maggots eating off the same corpse, when you get right down to it.'
'You shoulda known better. You had your face pushed into it all your life.'
'My boy,' Barnaby said. 'He had AIDS. I know he turned out funny, was punished by God and deserved it, but a man will do most anything for his sons, even when they despise him.'
'And he’s better now, no sign of it, huh?'
'I don’t ask questions, I just open the suitcase and do what Johnny’s note tells me to do.'
'At least you did it out of love. From the goodness of your heart. I reckon that will count for something when you get to Judgment.'
'I don’t know,' the undertaker said, sounding weary. 'I guess we all got our own sins to answer for.'
A distant cousin came by, recognizable by the distinct Ridgehorn chin that resembled a burl on an apple tree. He was middle-aged, smelled of bottom-shelf whiskey, and his eyes were watery. 'You sure done proud, Mr. Clawson. Jacob looks fresh as a daisy.'
Barnaby smiled a little without any of his wrinkles moving. 'Thank you, sir. I hate to see him go, but I’m glad I can do my part to help ease his passing.'
The man sniffled and moved on, wobbling slightly.
Barnaby dropped his voice again. 'We’re all maggots. We all eat the sorrow and then go home, glad that it’s him and not us that had to give up the ghost.'
'What if you don’t give it up?' Roby asked, thinking of Johnny Divine’s stubborn belief that he was still alive.
'I’d take the heat of hell over the cold indifference of the dirt. You and me, we know that souls go on, and we believe it more firmly than any church-goer you ever met. We’ve seen it with our own eyes, and that sets us apart.'
'I guess it’s kind of a like a holy duty, when you look at it that way.' He looked at Marlene, at the exposed fringe of her bra, the soft white curving flesh above it. Harold had arrived and was greeting the widow, taking her frail hands in his large ones. Black grease filled the creases of his fingers and his hair was slicked back with what looked like thirty-weight.
Barnaby put a hand on Roby’s shoulder. 'It’s the least you could do for poor old Jacob.'
Roby nodded. 'Yeah, I reckon.' Then, after a pause, he said, 'Has Glenn Isenhour come by?'
'They wheeled him in this morning. Don’t worry. He’ll get his turn. He don’t deserve no less.'
'And the suitcase?'
'You don’t need to know too much about my part. And I don’t want to know about yours.'
Roby felt Barnaby press something into his palm. He took it, glanced down, then slipped it in his pocket.
'A little extra,' Barnaby said. 'I always save some for emergencies.'
Beverly Parsons made her way through the line, hugged the widow and the girls. She gave Alfred an extra special squeeze, and Roby would have sworn she had real tears on her cheeks. Leaving Cindy to comfort Alfred, Beverly went over to Roby and Barnaby.
'Got that Isenhour pie in the oven?' Roby asked her.
She looked at the undertaker, then back at Roby. 'Things like that aren’t to be spoken of.'
'Jacob’s pie was about the best I’ve had in a while. You really outdid yourself.'
'I do what I do and you mind your own business.'
'Cindy’s looking mighty healthy. Gained her weight back.'
Barnaby excused himself, said that he had some matters to discuss with the widow.
'I don’t want to talk no more,' Beverly Parsons said.
'I was just curious about something. If Cindy walked out of the funeral parlor and stepped out in the road and got smacked down by a dump truck, would you still be beholding to Johnny Divine? Or would it be even Steven?'
'Quit that kind of talk. Somebody might hear you.'
'Oh, you mean Johnny? He already knows, ma’am. He sure enough knows.'
'Hush up.' She clamped her hands over her ears. 'Hear no evil, hear no evil, hear no evil.'
Roby leaned over her, put his mouth near her ear. 'If Cindy died, would you have to bake her pie?'
She ducked away from him and rejoined the Ridgehorn family. Roby, smiling, followed her.
'Much obliged for the pie,' Anna Beth said to Beverly. 'Everybody’s been so nice to us. Daddy would be happy to know how much you all pitched in.'
'He was a good man,' the pie-maker answered.
'Real good,' Roby said. 'Delicious.'
Anna Beth gave him a confused look. Marlene, who’d been letting Harold show his admiration for how good she looked all dressed up, moved away from the rest of the family. Harold stuck close to her, like a dog following a bucket of chicken guts.
'Are you okay, Roby?' Sarah asked. 'You’re looking a little sickly.'
'Yeah.' The sweat on his forehead was thick enough to collect in rivulets. 'I reckon I better get some fresh air.'
'Want me to come with you?' Alfred asked.
'No, I’ll be fine. Funerals just get to me, is all.'
