A Truth for a Truth (4 page)

Ed made it to the pulpit, which he gripped with both hands, knuckles a sickly lily-white. For a moment I thought he might apologize or explain, then I remembered his gender. Besides, even if he had been capable of mastering his own biology, his desire not to focus attention on himself would squash the impulse.

With what appeared to be superhuman effort, he outlined the procedure for the next part. Two microphones had been set up, and people were asked to come forward and speak. I wondered if Easter week would be over before they finished, but I was wrong. The remarks were brief and few. Fifteen years had passed since Win was minister here. Twenty minutes later, when no one else came forward, Ed got to his feet once more, again unsteadily. For a moment he looked like a man who didn’t know where he was or why. His eyes were unfocused. He looked like he was going to pitch himself on the coffin for a twofer.

Then he began to speak. Although Ed always makes a copy of his eulogy for the family, normally he only peeks at the text to ground himself. Not this time. Clearly my husband realized he was not himself. Sneezing and wheezing, he began to read, word for word. Considering how awful he felt, he was masterful, awe-inspiring.

Without considering that? Not so much.

Halfway through, Ed turned a page, and stared at the next one, as if he wasn’t sure why it was there or what he was supposed to do with it. His eyes began to close. Before I could catch myself I moaned softly.

He straightened, forced his eyes open, and continued in a monotone.

We were so close. So close! I sat rigid, as if the energy my effort took would somehow transmit itself to my husband.

Hours passed. Okay, maybe not, but at last the eulogy ended. We had learned about Win’s early years, his call to ministry, his family, the many churches he had served. I had heard very little, but I was practically moved to tears, just because the service was nearly finished.

The choir sang their final selection, a musical setting of the Twenty-third Psalm. Since this anthem is not their best effort, Esther, our organist, was trying to drown them out on the old tracker organ. As she got louder, so did they. If the building collapsed, I was willing to claw my way out.

I was counting down the minutes. Ed had only to do the final prayer, and give instructions to the mourners about what was to follow. The plan was for all of us to rise as one after the coffin was removed and the family made its exit. We should file respectfully out of the church and load ourselves into cars for the short trip to the graveside service. Luckily—oh, so luckily—Hildy had asked a friend of Win’s to do that one. Then we would all come back to the church for the reception, and after a brief appearance, Ed could go home and sleep off the antihistamines.

The anthem ended. Ed stepped up to do the closing prayer, and in that moment of silence, as he struggled to keep his eyes open and his body upright, “Rocky Raccoon” began to play. Like everyone else, I looked around trying to figure out where the sound was coming from. Ed didn’t appear to notice. I guess his Eustachian tubes were blocked, as well as the blood flow to his brain.

Understanding came in baby steps. The noise was a cell phone. The cell phone was nearby. The cell phone was in my purse. The cell phone was Ed’s.

In college Ed’s nickname was “Rocky Raccoon.” Something to do with Gideon Bibles, and Ed’s desire to enroll at Harvard Divinity School for his graduate work. When the girls and I gave him the iPhone last month, Deena, in charge of all things techie in our household, had been in charge of programming it. Here was proof she’d done it well. Playing away. In my purse.

I froze. Technology is not my friend. Last week I braved YouTube to watch a video made by Teddy’s class, and instead I got an ancient Belorussian woman singing Polish folk songs. Now every time anyone turns on our computer, the kerchiefed one picks right up where she left off. No one can make her stop. For some reason, they blame me.

The strains of “Rocky Raccoon” finally ended. By now my cheeks were bright red. I tried to look innocent, but I wasn’t fooling anybody. I stared straight ahead.

Ed made his way unsteadily to the pulpit, and I closed my eyes in gratitude and humiliation. “Rocky Raccoon” began again.

This time I knew I couldn’t ignore the phone. Fern Booth knew it, too. I felt her fingers on my shoulder again. “Turn it off!” she said, her breath scalding my neck.

I grabbed my purse as Ed began the prayer. I am as unfamiliar with the iPhone as I am with quantum physics. But even I could read the directions on the screen. I slid my finger where it told me to, and held the phone up to my ear.

I don’t think Ed knew what was happening, but as if he felt obliged to make up for wobbling his way through the eulogy, he was nearly shouting into the microphone now. Or maybe he couldn’t hear himself. Whatever the case, I could barely make out the voice on the other end as the pulpit microphone screeched and bellowed.

I didn’t know how to hang up or turn off Ed’s phone. I held it out and stared, hoping that if the iPhone was all it was cracked up to be, it would figure out what I didn’t know and patiently instruct me, but no luck. I held it up to my ear again.

“Please, is anybody there?” the voice asked again.

I whispered yes.

Then the man began to speak.

Ed was still praying. I put my finger in my ear and listened. I didn’t have to do or say anything else except grow more stunned with each word. The voice stopped at last, and although the phone wasn’t off, I figured no one else could call now that the man on the other end had disconnected.

I tried to figure out what to do. The prayer was winding down. Next Ed would launch into instructions, and the pallbearers would get to their feet to help wheel the coffin to the back.

I got to my feet to slip out of the pew, but by now, people were slumping badly. On both sides of me legs were sticking straight out as people struggled to make themselves more comfortable. I couldn’t even get past the stranger beside me. As I prepared to rise she narrowed her eyes, and I could tell she was as unlikely to move as a crow in a cornfield. On my other side the man with the cane had his eyes closed in respect. Panicked, I saw only one route to the front.

I put one hand on the back of the pew in front of me, and stuck my leg over it until my foot was resting on the cushion. Then I prepared to lift myself over the seat, taking great care to aim carefully so I didn’t stomp on the people on either side. There was just enough room to heft myself up and over, but in that brief moment when I was actually standing on the pew, Ed said, “Amen.”

I heard the rustling of people opening their eyes, and a few nearby gasps. I leapt off the pew and made a beeline straight for my husband, waving my hands to try to capture his attention. So okay, if the congregation had needed proof their minister was married to a crazy woman, now they had it. If anyone had needed proof Ed was well and truly not himself, the fact that he completely ignored my charge was enough.

He wrestled with the pile of papers littering the pulpit, as if he was searching for his directions. I took the steps leading up to the front platform and reached him just as he began to speak.

He turned, eyes unfocused and red-rimmed. He sneezed in greeting.

I tried not to listen to the gasps from the family row where Hildy and her relatives sat, tried not to notice the whispers that were rapidly turning into a loud buzz.

“Ed, there isn’t going to be a graveside service,” I said, pulling him toward me so only he could hear my words. “Tell them to go right to the reception.”

He looked at me as if I were a stranger. His eyes narrowed, but only because his eyelids were closing again.

“Ed!” I shook him, and this time I spoke louder. “Just tell them there won’t be a service at the cemetery. Tell them to go to the social hall for the reception.”

He looked confused. “That’s not right.”

I had no choice. If there was any decorum left to preserve, I was going to have to step forward myself. The announcement had to be made here, before everybody followed Ed’s prompting and got into their cars to go to a service that was not going to take place.

I moved around him and went to the microphone. I stood on tiptoe, afraid that if I grabbed hold to adjust it, I would somehow reroute my message to Beijing or Bora Bora.

“Friends,” I said, and that’s when I saw a familiar man, wearing a sports jacket and jeans in the back of the church, leaning against the wall.

Detective Kirkor Roussos.

For a moment I was frozen, then I cleared my throat and tried to smile as if this happened every day. “I was just informed by the funeral director that there’s been a change of plans. Instead of a service at the cemetery, we’ll all go next door for the reception. You may call the church office next week to find out when the graveside service will be scheduled.”

The buzzing got louder, but not loud enough to drown out the shriek from Hildy’s row. Hildy leapt to her feet.

“Of course there will be a service today,” she said in a voice that probably carried as far as the bandstand at the Oval. “There
is
no change of plans.”

I hadn’t had time to reckon with Hildy. I turned in her direction. “I’m sorry. I can explain the situation later, but for now—”

“There will be no changes! This has been carefully planned.”

Only the truth would shut down this conversation. Hildy’s daughters were trying to pull her back to her seat, but they had no hope of success. As if we were all involved in some sort of bizarre tug-of-war, now Ed had taken my arm, as if he thought I was the one who needed to sit. I shook him off, not a difficult task under the circumstances, although I was afraid I might send him sprawling.

I leaned closer to the mic. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Dorchester, but I’m afraid we have to let the funeral director take Reverend Dorchester’s body to the coroner’s facility.”

“That’s ridiculous! We already have a death certificate. Everything is all arranged.” When she pulled away from her daughters and started toward me, I realized Hildy was not going to let this go. She was heading for the microphone to give directions to the cemetery herself, and she wasn’t above arm wrestling.

I looked up and saw Roussos, arms folded, watching with interest. Roussos is not a fan of churches.

I had no choice. I was forced to add a final phrase.

“For an autopsy.” I cleared my throat. “Autopsy. They’ve decided to do an autopsy. And that’s why Reverend Dorchester won’t be buried today.”

There wasn’t a person in the sanctuary, except perhaps Teddy, who didn’t understand what that meant. Win wasn’t going to be allowed to go to his final resting place in dignity. Somebody might well have propelled Win Dorchester into that garbage can portal to eternity.

“I’m sorry,” I said, just one moment before the buzz in the sanctuary turned into a roar.

Since there wasn’t the usual rush to congratulate my husband on the excellence of his eulogy, I found Ed alone in his office after the final hymn had been sung and mourners had moved to the parish house. Ed was propped against his bookcase, arms folded over his midriff, sound asleep. Had he toppled like a tree in the forest, I doubt the crash would have awakened him.

I propped myself against his desk, several feet away, and held out my arms, prepared for him to fall into them.

“Ed!” Nearly a shout. When it didn’t rouse him, I tried again, a few decibels louder.

“Ed!”

His eyelids parted. He shook his head in a courageous attempt to wake himself.

“You have to leave!”

He seemed to consider. I wondered which word he had not understood.

“You’re in no shape to go to the reception,” I continued. “You were asleep on your feet.”

“Just need . . . coffee.”

“I’m not sure the entire urn would do it. I’ll help you get home.”

“People . . . will wonder.”

“I’ll come back and tell them what’s up.”

There was a gentle knock on the door, and January Godfrey, our aging hippy sexton, poked his head inside. He had been present in the sanctuary, having worked at the church during Win’s years. January’s an insightful, funny guy, with a personal cupboard of stories about Ed’s predecessors, and I’d heard my share of Win anecdotes. “Need help?” he asked.

I motioned, and once he was all the way in, I explained.

He was nodding before I finished the grisly details. “Yep, a regular lily forest in there today. And you know what? Reverend Dorchester had a lily allergy, too. Always dreaded Easter, but he dreaded telling Mrs. Dorchester more.”

I wondered what this said about the Dorchester marriage, but I was too worried about my own to wonder for long. “Can you help me get Ed home?”

“You stay. I’ll take care of it. You’ll want to talk to people.” He looked up. “Maybe I didn’t put that quite right.”

I didn’t
want
to talk to people, but I did
need
to talk to people. Resigned to my lot, I thanked him. I left them together and closed the door behind me.

There was still time. The Greyhound station was within sprinting distance. There was always room for another soldier in the militia at my father’s survivalist compound. If I told Ray Sloan and his cohorts that the establishment was out to get me, that was all I’d ever need to say.

Instead I dragged myself toward the social hall. I was still six feet away when I was grabbed.

“Exactly what’s going on?” Yvonne McAllister dug her fingers into my arm, in what nobody would mistake as a gesture of admiration. “Making that announcement about the coroner was like throwing a bomb into the sanctuary.”

“I was stuck making it. I had Ed’s phone.” I smiled and nodded as a couple of frowning strangers passed. “Not having a body at the cemetery would have been something of a problem, don’t you think?”