A Flash Story- Bereavement

Bereaved

The last nephew has spoken his eulogy: the minister leads a prayer then closes the fat book shrouded in a black binding. Against the pale yellow walls and the wash of lavender from the window panes, the gathered folks rise from their pews and, solemn like dark, wet iron, approach the widow in the mournerʼs box. They clasp her hands, murmur, lower their heads like nodding cattle. She looks at each, her face shaped in relief, reassured that it was over, that she could sidestep grief to something ordinary like regret. Soon theyʼll all drive to the graveside.

In the back pew, he ignores the widow and her attendants, flicks side glances at the woman beside him. She gazes imperiously forward. Her chin that had resembled a block as a girl now suited her sixties. A high forehead below graying hair, a noble hooked nose. Watery blue eyes. He says, “I quite liked him.”

With her eyes wide – either appalled or maybe accusing – she stares at him. She sees a man scoured by sun, a nose more a fat knob, a mouthful of sparkling dentures. One part of her notes that heʼs dyeing his hair again, an almost Italian black. Some gel in it to make it thicker, stand up like a waterfall flowing back and on towards his neck. She says, “He was a despicable old ass, and you know it.”

“He was a good old boy.”

She snorts, a loud derision. “You always say ʻgood old boyʼ when you canʼt find anything nice to say.”

He cocks his head to the side. He thrusts out his chin, stretches his neck like a turtle. “Maybe. He supported his family. He belonged to Rotary and the Lions. All the guys liked him.”

“He beat his wife. Marjory always denied it, but he beat her.”

“Well. I never beat you. Even though there were times, Ex-Wife…. ”

She shifts in the pew, her corduroy blazer making a squeaking sound against the mahogany pew. She sniffs. “Ex-wife. Thatʼs why I may call you a fool, but Iʼve never said you were despicable.”

He nods. “Well, maybe youʼre right. There was always something about him. I aways felt a little queasy.... ”

She narrowed her eyes, crooked up her mouth in a grin that traced out lines of bitterness in her face. “You did make Winnie quit the softball team when he became the coach.”

He watched the people filing down the aisle to the door, nodding at each clot that pumped slowly towards the winter light outside. “Something not quite right.”

“His own daughter ran away when she was sixteen. Ended up in California.”

He brushes at his dark blue lapel. His hair is black, but his dandruff is gray.

“Probably a lesbian now. Or a Democrat.”

She leaches out a heavy sigh, begins brushing at his shoulder, scattering more dandruff. “I swear, youʼre just a mess you are.” She pauses, becks a nod at the front of the church. “Who do you think will be next for the casket?”

He shrugs, a gesture crowded with fatality. “Old Lady Nutwitch has been suffering.”

“Suffering for years. No, my bet is on Dody Weaver. Sheʼs had pneumonia twice this year, and she broke a hip.”

He levers himself to his feet using the pew in front. “So I might see you within a month.”

“Same place, same reason. Listen.” She stops there, blinking at him while he stoops over her.

His face, darkly tanned and corrugated like a crocodile. “Yes?”

She folds her hands over the jumbo leather purse in her lap. “Iʼm going to visit Winnieʼs grave after we bury the old wretch. I would like it if you were there.”