The Chapel Wars Read Free Page B

going to attend his funeral. I stared at my alarm clock for five minutes, watching each minute march along, marveling at the power of time to just keep happening no matter what was going on in the world, no matter who was dying or living.
    We had to take a hearse
to
the funeral. Grandpa Jim said he had to pay for one anyway, might as well get the full use. The vintage car had removable seats, so we all fit, but no seat belts. Irony there, riding a death trap to a funeral. Of course, the seats would need to be removed to fit a casket en route to the gravesite, and our family would have to bum rides.
    The sun shone manically, oblivious. I leaned against thewindow of the hearse and tried to block out my mom’s voice. She was dreading this as much as her children were, but instead of the normal reaction of sullen silence, my mother prattled. At least she was trying
something
, which was more than I could say for my dad. He sat in the front with the driver, talking football like this was some leisurely Sunday drive.
    “Your grandfather asked that all flowers be ordered through your subcontractor, what’s her name?” Mom asked.
    “Flowers by Michelle. Or Bunny’s Boutique when Michelle’s schedule is packed.” I kept my eyes glued out the window, no matter how much I wanted to squint.
    “Right. Michelle. Well, she was so touched that she’s offering us a discount now for a year. The wedding community is great that way. Jim knew how to reach out.”
    Prattle. Prattle. Prattle. The responsibility of the chapel was almost as crushing as the funeral, so why did we have to talk about either?
    “Mom,” Lenore interrupted. “It’s clear to all parties that you’re trying to diffuse the situation by filling the void with mundane details.”
    “Lenore,” Dad called from the front. That’s all he ever said, “Lenore,” like stating her name would magically change who she inherently was.
    “I just think we’re entitled to our grief,” Lenore mumbled. James nibbled on a hangnail, his cuticles a short, bloody mess.
    I picked off the sixteen pieces of lint on my skirt, wondering if it really was grief that Lenore was feeling and if that grief wasanything like my own sharp hollowness. Whatever emotion was puncturing my insides, it was something I should be allowed to feel
inside
, not something to display at a funeral. We shouldn’t have to be in this hearse right now, we shouldn’t have to be around anyone; we should have quiet or solitude or music or patches of grass. Whatever we needed. Individually.
    Instead, we had a whole day of dreary events, beginning with the family reception. “It’ll be an intimate gathering area,” Mom said, quoting verbatim the package pitch for the large meeting room behind the chapel. Over the past week, she’d carried around the mortuary’s brochure in her purse until the creases ripped.
    The wallpapered room was divided into work people, poker pals, U2 cover band members, and family, which was further divided by the invisible line between my parents that they swore did not exist.
    Then there was a boy by the entrance who didn’t seem to fit into any group. He was ungroupable. Unclassified. Aloof, alone … unworldly.
    He shoved his hands into his pockets, shirtsleeves rolled. His hair was cut so short it was almost buzzed, and although he was average height at best, he was possibly an inch or two taller than me. Built, though. I could see that even in his dress shirt.
    He didn’t look like he knew anyone in the room or anyone knew him. Also, and I’m probably shallow for noticing this at a funeral, but he was not the ugliest guy I had ever seen. If looks were America and ugly was Los Angeles, this boy was comfortably Kentucky. West Virginia when he smiled.
    He glanced up and caught me staring, and although I should have looked back at a picture of Grandpa’s high school graduation, instead my instinct was to do this really lame … wave. And it was totally one of those moments