The Beginning of After Read Free Page B

year?”
    “I remember,” said Mrs. Franco sadly. “Betsy had to force him to let her drive them home.”
    I thought of Mr. Kaufman on his cell phone that night, with his drink in his hands. And then I thought of wrapping my fingers around his throat and squeezing hard, which was not something I wanted to be thinking in the bathroom at my family’s funeral with a house full of people on the other side of the door. I wiped the image away, out of my head with a mental eraser.
    I waited three minutes and then peeked my head out of the bathroom. Mrs. Franco and Mrs. Dill were gone, and the coast was clear.
    My grandmother, June Meisner, had class. Everyone said so. She wore crisp linen skirt-suits and well-made pumps and never left the house without makeup. She got her hair done twice a week at Marcella’s Salon and kept it dyed dark brown. Nana volunteered at a local nursing home filled with what she called her “old ladies,” even though many of them were younger than she was.
    I guess it was because she had so much class that she made me get back into my mother’s black dress and go to Mrs. Kaufman’s funeral the next day.
    Nana looked so small in the big, boxy driver’s seat of our Volvo station wagon, her hands correctly positioned at ten o’clock and two o’clock on the steering wheel, her nails perfectly manicured. As we drove to the cemetery she turned to look at me, her eyes still red from the crying she did at night when she thought I couldn’t hear her.
    “I thank God every hour that you weren’t in that car.”
    I pressed my nose to the window, not able to look back. “Nana, don’t.”
    “You know me. I like to count the blessings I have.”
    “If you need to thank something, thank all the French homework Mrs. Messing gave us.” I looked at my grandmother now, to let her know I wasn’t just being a smart-ass.
    “What if you’d gone with them and I’d lost all of you?”
    “I’m not having this conversation.”
    She and my mom were experts at this tactic: Bring up serious stuff when driving in the car, so the child you are mortifying with your particular conversation has nowhere to go, no bedroom to retreat into; they were stuck.
    I didn’t want to tell her the truth, something that sat red-hot in the pit of my stomach and weighed me down, heavier each day. If I’d gone with them, if I had maybe finished my homework earlier or just blown it off to do in the morning, it would have been one more person to try to squeeze into the Kaufmans’ SUV. Maybe my dad would have insisted on taking separate cars. Maybe I’d be driving with my parents and Toby right now, to bury Mrs. Kaufman. One funeral, one person, the way everyone’s used to doing it.
    I couldn’t talk about it, I couldn’t think about it. If I did, I felt that fireball again, dragging me that much farther into the ground. It seemed like the only way to keep breathing was to focus on the here and now, moment by moment, keeping my mind frozen cold to anything else.
    Mrs. Kaufman didn’t have quite the same turnout my family had, and those who went both days were looking a little more haggard at having to do the whole thing over again. I found myself glad that they’d done my family first, while people were still fresh to their grief. Even the rabbi seemed weary. It made me happy, for a second, and not ashamed about it. Our funeral was better.
    David wore the emo-goth outfit I’d seen the day before, and this time I noticed his black army boots. He was surrounded by relatives. His grandparents were staying at the house, I heard from one whisper. They were encouraging him to come back from the hospital and sleep in his own bed, but David wouldn’t do it.
    I watched him as the rabbi gave the cue, and David stood up to throw the first bit of dirt on his mother’s grave. As he did this, someone in the crowd burst out with a sharp sob. David looked up for a moment, the shovel in his hands, to see where it had come from. It was the