From my perch in the back I tried to glance up front for a glimpse of Natalie, but there were too many heads in the way. I didn’t want to make myself conspicuous, so I stopped. Besides, I had come into the chapel and looked around and even listened to words of praise for the deceased. Wasn’t that enough? What else was there to do here?
It was time to leave.
“Our first eulogy,” the man at the pulpit said, “comes from Eric Sanderson.”
A pale teen—I would guess that he was around sixteen—rose and moved to the pulpit. My first thought was that Eric must be Todd Sanderson’s (and by extension, Natalie’s) nephew, but that thought was quickly shot down by the boy’s opening sentence.
“My father was my hero . . .”
Father?
It took me a few seconds. Minds have a habit of going on certain tracks and not being able to hop off. When I was a child, my father told me an old riddle that he thought would fool me. “A father and son get in a car accident. The father dies. The boy is rushed to the hospital. The surgeon says, ‘I can’t operate on this boy. He’s my son.’ How can that be?” This was what I mean about tracks. For my father’s generation, this riddle was, I guess, mildly difficult to figure, but for people my age, the answer—the surgeon was his mother—was so obvious, I remember laughing out loud. “What next, Dad? Are you going to start using your eight-track player?”
Here was something similar. How, I wondered, could a man who has only been married to Natalie six years have a teenage son? Answer: Eric was Todd’s son, not Natalie’s. Either Todd had been married previously or at the very least had a child with another woman.
I tried again to see Natalie in the front row. I craned my neck, but the woman standing next to me gave me an exasperated sigh for invading her space. Up on the podium, Todd’s son, Eric, was killing it. He spoke beautifully and movingly. There wasn’t a dry eye in the chapel except, well, mine.
So now what? Just stand here? Pay my respects to the widow and, what, confuse her or disrupt her day of mourning? And what about selfish ol’ me? Did I really want to see her face again, see her crying over the loss of the love of her life?
I didn’t think so. I checked my watch. I had booked my flight out tonight. Yep, quick in and out. No muss, no fuss, no overnight, no hotel cost. Closure on the cheap.
There were those who would state the obvious about Natalie and me—that is, I had idealized our time together out of all rational proportion. I understand that. Objectively I see where that argument has validity. But the heart isn’t objective. I, who worshipped the great thinkers, theorists, and philosophers of our time, would never stoop so low as to use an axiom as trite as, I just know. But I do know. I know what Natalie and I were. I can see it through clear eyes, nothing even slightly tinted, and because of that, I cannot compute what we’ve become.
In sum, I still don’t get what happened to us.
As Eric finished up and took his seat, the sounds of sniffles and gentle sobs echoed through the sparkly white chapel. The clergyman who’d been running the funeral moved back to the pulpit and used the universal “please rise” hand gesture. When the congregation began to stand, I used the diversion to slip back outside. I moved across the way, back to the cover of the palmetto tree. I leaned against the trunk, staying out of sight of the chapel.
“Are you okay?”
I turned and saw the cute barmaid. “I’m fine, thanks.”
“Great man, the doc.”
“Yeah,” I said.
“Were you close?”
I didn’t answer. A few minutes later, the chapel doors opened. The coffin was rolled into the blazing sun. When it got near the hearse, the pallbearers, one of whom was his son, Eric, surrounded the casket. A woman with a big black hat came out next. She had one arm around a girl of maybe fourteen. A tall man stood next to her. She leaned on him. The man looked a bit like Todd. I guessed this was his brother and sister, but it was only a guess. The pallbearers lifted the coffin and slid it into the back of the hearse. The woman with the black hat and the girl were escorted to the first limousine. The tall maybe-brother opened the door for them. Eric got in after them. I watched the rest of the mourners start coming out.
No sign of Natalie yet.
I found that only mildly odd. I had seen it work both ways. Sometimes the wife was the first person to depart, trailing the coffin, sometimes resting a hand on it. And sometimes she was the last, waiting for the entire chapel to empty out before braving the walk up the aisle. I remembered my own mother hadn’t wanted to deal with anyone at my father’s funeral. She went so far as to slip out a side door to avoid the crush of family and friends.
I watched mourners exit. Their grief, like the southern heat, had become a living, breathing thing. It was genuine and palpable. These people were not here out of mere courtesy. They cared for this man. They were rocked by his death, but then again, what had I expected? Did I think Natalie would dump me for a loser? Wasn’t it better to have lost out to this beloved healer instead of a swarthy douchebag?
Good question.
The barmaid was still standing next to me. “How did he die?” I whispered.
“You don’t know?”
I shook my head. Silence. I turned toward her.
“Murdered,” she said.
The word hung in the humid air, refusing to go away. I repeated it. “Murdered?”
“Yes.”
I opened my mouth, closed it, tried again. “How? Who?”
“He was shot, I think. I’m not sure about that part. The police don’t know who. They think it was a robbery gone wrong. You know, a guy broke in and didn’t know someone was home.”
Numbness crept in now. The flow of people had stopped coming out of the chapel. I stared at the door and waited now for Natalie to make her appearance.
But she didn’t.
The man who’d led the service came out, closing the doors behind him. He got into the front of the hearse. The hearse started rolling out. The first limousine followed.
“Is there a side exit?” I asked.
“What?”
“To the chapel. Is there another door?”
She frowned. “No,” she said. “There’s only that one door.”
The procession was under way now. Where the hell was Natalie?
“Aren’t you going to the graveyard?” the barmaid asked me.
“No,” I said.
She put a hand on my forearm. “You look like you could use a drink.”