Some final resting spot.
The Franklin Funeral Home looked as though it’d been built to house two dentists’ offices with maybe room for a proctologist, circa 1978. The facade was the yellowing stucco of a smoker’s teeth. Weddings, parties, celebrations often reflect the celebrants. Funerals rarely do. Death is truly the great equalizer, so much so that all funeral services, except the ones in movies, end up being the same. They are always colorless and rote and offer not so much solace and comfort as formula and ritual.
So now what? I couldn’t just go in. Suppose Bob was there? I could try to stay in the back, but guys my size do not blend well. There was a man in a black suit directing people where to park. I pulled up and tried to smile as though I was heading for a funeral, whatever that meant. The man in the black suit asked, “Are you here for the Devereaux or Johnson funeral?”
Because I was quick on my feet, I said, “Johnson.”
“You can park on the left.”
I pulled into the spacious lot. The Johnson funeral, it seemed, was taking place by the front entrance. There was a tent set up out back for Devereaux’s. I found a parking spot in the right corner. I backed into it, giving me a perfect view of the Devereaux tent. If by some chance someone in the Johnson party or the Franklin Funeral staff noticed me, I could pull off being bereaved and needing a moment.
I thought back to the last time I was at a funeral, just six days ago in that small white chapel in Palmetto Bluff. If I still had my timeline on me, there would be a six-year gap between a wedding in one white chapel and a funeral in another. Six years. I wondered how many of those days passed without Natalie in some way crossing my mind, and I realized that the answer was none.
But right now, the bigger question was, what had those six years been like for her?
A stretch limousine pulled up to the front of the tent. Another strange death ritual: The one time we all get to ride in cars we equate with luxury and excess is when we are mourning the death of a beloved. Then again, when better? Two dark-suited men came over and opened the limo doors, red-carpet style. A slender woman in her mid-thirties was helped out. She was holding hands with a long-haired little boy who looked to be six or seven. The little boy wore a black suit, which struck me as borderline obscene. Little boys should never wear black suits.
The obvious had not dawned on me until this very moment: Otto might have had a family. Otto might have had a slender wife who shared his bed and dreams. He might have had a long-haired son who loved him and played ball with him in the yard. Other people poured out of the car. An elderly woman wept hard in a handkerchief kept crumpled up in her fist. She had to be half carried toward the tent by a couple in their thirties. Otto’s mother and maybe siblings, I didn’t know. The family made a receiving line by the front of the tent. They greeted mourners, the devastation obvious in their bearings and on their faces. The little boy looked lost, confused, scared, like someone had sneaked up on him and punched him in the stomach.
That someone being me.
I sat perfectly still. I had thought about Otto as some contained entity. I thought killing him was merely a personal tragedy, the end of one isolated human life. But none of us are truly contained. Death ripples, echoes.
In the end though, hard as it might have been to watch the result of my actions, it didn’t change the fact that my actions were justified. I sat a little straighter and kept a closer eye on the mourners. I expected that the line would look like a casting call for Sopranos extras. There were some of those, no question about it, but the crowd was a pretty varied bunch. They shook hands with the family, embraced them, offered kisses. Some held the hugs a long time. Some did the quick back-pat and release. At one point, the woman I pegged as Otto’s mother nearly fainted, but two men caught her.
I had killed her son. The thought was both obvious and surreal.
Another stretch limousine pulled up and stopped directly in front of the receiving line. Everyone seemed to freeze for a moment. Two men who looked like New York Jets offensive linemen opened the back door. A tall, skinny man with slicked-down hair stepped out. I saw the crowd start whispering. The man was in his seventies, I’d guess, and looked vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t place him. The man didn’t wait at the end of the line—the line parted for him like the Red Sea for Moses. The man had one of those thin mustaches that looked as though it’d been sketched on with a pencil. He nodded as he approached the family, accepting handshakes and greetings.
Whoever this guy was, he was important.
The thin man with the thin mustache stopped and greeted each family member. One—a guy I pegged as Otto’s brother-in-law—took a knee. The thin man shook his head, and the man apologetically stood back up. One of the offensive linemen stayed a step in front of the thin man. The other stayed a step behind him. No one followed them down the receiving line.
When the thin man shook hands with Otto’s mother, the final person on the line, he turned and headed back toward his limo. One of the offensive linemen opened the back door. The thin man slid inside. The door closed. One offensive lineman drove. The other sat in the passenger seat. The stretch limousine was put in reverse. Everyone stayed still as the thin man made his exit.
For a full minute after he was gone, no one moved. I saw one woman cross herself. Then the line started up again. The family accepted condolences. I waited, wondering who the thin man was and if it mattered. Otto’s mother started sobbing again.
As I watched, her knees buckled. She fell into the arms of a man, sobbing into his chest. I froze. The man helped her back up and let her cry. I could see him stroke her back and offer her words of condolence. She held on for a long time. The man stood and waited with extreme patience.
It was Bob.
I ducked down in my seat, even though I was probably a solid hundred yards away. My heart started pounding. I took a deep breath and risked another look. Bob was gently pulling Otto’s mom off him. He smiled at her and moved toward a group of men standing maybe ten yards away.
There were five of them. One produced a pack of cigarettes. All the men took a cigarette, except Bob. Good to know my gangster was somewhat health conscious. I took out my phone, found the camera app, and zoomed onto Bob’s face. I snapped four photos.
So now what?
Wait here, I guessed. Wait for the funeral and then follow Bob home.
And then?
I didn’t know. I really didn’t. The key was to find out his real name and identity and hope that led to his motive for asking about Natalie. He had clearly been the boss. He’d have to know the reasons, right? I could also just watch him get in his car and then I could write down his license plate number. Maybe Shanta would help track down his real name from that, except that I no longer fully trusted her and for all I knew, Bob had driven to the funeral with his smoker pals.
The Franklin Funeral Home looked as though it’d been built to house two dentists’ offices with maybe room for a proctologist, circa 1978. The facade was the yellowing stucco of a smoker’s teeth. Weddings, parties, celebrations often reflect the celebrants. Funerals rarely do. Death is truly the great equalizer, so much so that all funeral services, except the ones in movies, end up being the same. They are always colorless and rote and offer not so much solace and comfort as formula and ritual.
So now what? I couldn’t just go in. Suppose Bob was there? I could try to stay in the back, but guys my size do not blend well. There was a man in a black suit directing people where to park. I pulled up and tried to smile as though I was heading for a funeral, whatever that meant. The man in the black suit asked, “Are you here for the Devereaux or Johnson funeral?”
Because I was quick on my feet, I said, “Johnson.”
“You can park on the left.”
I pulled into the spacious lot. The Johnson funeral, it seemed, was taking place by the front entrance. There was a tent set up out back for Devereaux’s. I found a parking spot in the right corner. I backed into it, giving me a perfect view of the Devereaux tent. If by some chance someone in the Johnson party or the Franklin Funeral staff noticed me, I could pull off being bereaved and needing a moment.
I thought back to the last time I was at a funeral, just six days ago in that small white chapel in Palmetto Bluff. If I still had my timeline on me, there would be a six-year gap between a wedding in one white chapel and a funeral in another. Six years. I wondered how many of those days passed without Natalie in some way crossing my mind, and I realized that the answer was none.
But right now, the bigger question was, what had those six years been like for her?
A stretch limousine pulled up to the front of the tent. Another strange death ritual: The one time we all get to ride in cars we equate with luxury and excess is when we are mourning the death of a beloved. Then again, when better? Two dark-suited men came over and opened the limo doors, red-carpet style. A slender woman in her mid-thirties was helped out. She was holding hands with a long-haired little boy who looked to be six or seven. The little boy wore a black suit, which struck me as borderline obscene. Little boys should never wear black suits.
The obvious had not dawned on me until this very moment: Otto might have had a family. Otto might have had a slender wife who shared his bed and dreams. He might have had a long-haired son who loved him and played ball with him in the yard. Other people poured out of the car. An elderly woman wept hard in a handkerchief kept crumpled up in her fist. She had to be half carried toward the tent by a couple in their thirties. Otto’s mother and maybe siblings, I didn’t know. The family made a receiving line by the front of the tent. They greeted mourners, the devastation obvious in their bearings and on their faces. The little boy looked lost, confused, scared, like someone had sneaked up on him and punched him in the stomach.
That someone being me.
I sat perfectly still. I had thought about Otto as some contained entity. I thought killing him was merely a personal tragedy, the end of one isolated human life. But none of us are truly contained. Death ripples, echoes.
In the end though, hard as it might have been to watch the result of my actions, it didn’t change the fact that my actions were justified. I sat a little straighter and kept a closer eye on the mourners. I expected that the line would look like a casting call for Sopranos extras. There were some of those, no question about it, but the crowd was a pretty varied bunch. They shook hands with the family, embraced them, offered kisses. Some held the hugs a long time. Some did the quick back-pat and release. At one point, the woman I pegged as Otto’s mother nearly fainted, but two men caught her.
I had killed her son. The thought was both obvious and surreal.
Another stretch limousine pulled up and stopped directly in front of the receiving line. Everyone seemed to freeze for a moment. Two men who looked like New York Jets offensive linemen opened the back door. A tall, skinny man with slicked-down hair stepped out. I saw the crowd start whispering. The man was in his seventies, I’d guess, and looked vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t place him. The man didn’t wait at the end of the line—the line parted for him like the Red Sea for Moses. The man had one of those thin mustaches that looked as though it’d been sketched on with a pencil. He nodded as he approached the family, accepting handshakes and greetings.
Whoever this guy was, he was important.
The thin man with the thin mustache stopped and greeted each family member. One—a guy I pegged as Otto’s brother-in-law—took a knee. The thin man shook his head, and the man apologetically stood back up. One of the offensive linemen stayed a step in front of the thin man. The other stayed a step behind him. No one followed them down the receiving line.
When the thin man shook hands with Otto’s mother, the final person on the line, he turned and headed back toward his limo. One of the offensive linemen opened the back door. The thin man slid inside. The door closed. One offensive lineman drove. The other sat in the passenger seat. The stretch limousine was put in reverse. Everyone stayed still as the thin man made his exit.
For a full minute after he was gone, no one moved. I saw one woman cross herself. Then the line started up again. The family accepted condolences. I waited, wondering who the thin man was and if it mattered. Otto’s mother started sobbing again.
As I watched, her knees buckled. She fell into the arms of a man, sobbing into his chest. I froze. The man helped her back up and let her cry. I could see him stroke her back and offer her words of condolence. She held on for a long time. The man stood and waited with extreme patience.
It was Bob.
I ducked down in my seat, even though I was probably a solid hundred yards away. My heart started pounding. I took a deep breath and risked another look. Bob was gently pulling Otto’s mom off him. He smiled at her and moved toward a group of men standing maybe ten yards away.
There were five of them. One produced a pack of cigarettes. All the men took a cigarette, except Bob. Good to know my gangster was somewhat health conscious. I took out my phone, found the camera app, and zoomed onto Bob’s face. I snapped four photos.
So now what?
Wait here, I guessed. Wait for the funeral and then follow Bob home.
And then?
I didn’t know. I really didn’t. The key was to find out his real name and identity and hope that led to his motive for asking about Natalie. He had clearly been the boss. He’d have to know the reasons, right? I could also just watch him get in his car and then I could write down his license plate number. Maybe Shanta would help track down his real name from that, except that I no longer fully trusted her and for all I knew, Bob had driven to the funeral with his smoker pals.
