The Sound of Life and Everything (21 page)

32

We had the funeral on Monday, at Neeman and
Son Mortuary. Mr. Neeman and his son, the younger Mr. Neeman, were quiet, gangly men who smelled like vinegar and sweat, but they were kind men, too. They even cut us a deal on the embalming, since we weren't Takuma's next of kin. They said it was called the Good Samaritan's Discount.

We had the funeral in a room the Mr. Neemans called the chapel (though it was barely bigger than Mrs. Timothy's classroom). Of course, it didn't matter how big the chapel was or wasn't. Mr. Neeman and his son had the only thing I cared about, and that was the simple casket on the right side of the podium.

Mrs. Billings, who'd once attempted to turn me into a pianist, played the upright in the corner while I tried not to squirm. I'd submitted an obituary to the newspaper, but me and Mama didn't think that anyone was going to show. Still, Daddy had insisted that we not start until four. If this was going to be a proper funeral, then it was going to have a proper start.

When I checked the circle clock, it was only three minutes to four, so I propped my elbow on the armrest and wedged a fist under my chin. I was supposed to give a speech—Mama had called it the eulogy—and though I wasn't looking forward to getting up in front of everyone, I was looking forward to getting it over with.

Mrs. Billings had just finished the first verse of “God Is Love” when the outer door banged shut behind us. We turned around in unison just in time to see the Clausens materialize in the archway. I couldn't decide what I found more surprising—that they'd come at all or that they'd only shown up a minute early.

Auntie Mildred sighed. “Well, at least you haven't started.”

Mama lurched out of her seat. “What are you doin' here, Mildred?”

“Same thing as you,” she said, bumping Gracie into a pew. “But you'd better close that mouth if you want to keep it clear of flies.”

Mama swallowed, hard. “I really don't know what to say.”

“Then don't say anything,” she said. “Now, for heaven's sake, can we sit down and just enjoy the service?”

Mama bit her lip—despite her previous statement, she must have wanted to say something—but instead of saying it, she obediently sat. She hardly ever did what Auntie Mildred told her to, so this was a small miracle in and of itself.

At precisely four o'clock, the younger Mr. Neeman rose, but before he had a chance to shuffle around the podium, the outer door banged shut again. When we turned around this time, Chester appeared in the archway, an off-white dishrag flung hastily over his shoulder.

“Sorry I'm late,” he said to no one in particular. He yanked the dishrag off his shoulder and knotted it between his fists.

Auntie Mildred rolled her eyes. “You're not late, Mr. Richmond. Does it look like we've started?”

Chester turned as red as a maraschino cherry. He didn't bother to respond, just slipped silently into a pew. No sooner had he sat than Mr. Neeman stood back up, but he only made it halfway up the aisle before the door banged shut
again.

Auntie Mildred whipped around. “Oh, for heaven's sake, this is a funeral, not
Ed Sullivan
!”

I just sat there smiling as Miss Shepherd, Arty Fletcher, and all four of the Dents shuffled sheepishly into the chapel. The Dents looked vaguely flustered (though that probably had more to do with the boy from the seesaw, who was steadily chewing through the ribbon on his sister's light blue dress), and I strongly suspected that Arty was skunk-drunk, but I was so happy that they'd come I almost kissed them on the cheeks.

As they spread out around the chapel, the younger Mr. Neeman took his place behind the podium. “Dear friends and—family,” he said, tripping over that last word. He must have just remembered the Good Samaritan's Discount. “We're gathered here today in memory of . . .”

Instead of finishing that sentence, Mr. Neeman checked his notes. A part of me was mad that he'd forgotten, but I pushed that part aside. It wouldn't have mattered to Takuma, so I tried not to let it matter to me, either.

I cleared my throat. “Takuma.” I meant it to sound steady, but it came out as a croak.

Mr. Neeman didn't seem to notice. “We're gathered here today in memory of Takuma . . . Higbee.”

I liked the sound of that.

He checked his notes again. “We'll begin with ‘Abide with Me,' after which the invocation will be offered by Jedidiah Higbee.”

Mr. Neeman didn't nod at Mrs. Billings, but she must have been accustomed to his haphazard conducting, because she launched into “Abide with Me” without any ado. The bass notes made my teeth rattle, but I liked her rowdy version (though it explained why Reverend Simms had never asked her to play).

We didn't have a song leader, but then, we didn't need one. There were just sixteen of us (well, seventeen with Mrs. Billings). After we finished the song, Daddy gave the opening prayer, but the only words I caught were, “Watch over his spirit as he ascends to Thee . . . again” and “Please bless our Ella Mae.”

No sooner had he said “amen” than my hands began to sweat. Was I supposed to get up now, or would Mr. Neeman introduce me? I was about to leap out of my seat when Mr. Neeman stood back up.

“We'll now hear from Ella Mae, best friend of the deceased.”

I wiped my hands off on my skirt, then made my way up to the podium. The funeral-goers tracked my progress; I could feel their beady eyes crawling all over my back. I tried to picture them in their unmentionables like Miss Fightmaster had taught us, but they still seemed pretty scary.

The podium came up to my chin, so the younger Mr. Neeman dragged a stepstool out of nowhere. But when I climbed onto the stepstool, the podium came up to my waist. After considering my options, I positioned myself beside the podium. Once I was back on level ground—and within sight of Takuma—my heart stopped hammering.

“Good afternoon,” I said. When I realized they couldn't hear me, I cleared my throat and tried again: “I mean, GOOD AFTERNOON!”

Chester laughed, actually laughed, but Auntie Mildred looked like she was about to blow a gasket. I could imagine what she'd say:
You're supposed to stand
behind
it, not off to the side.
Still, she didn't make a fuss, just gritted her teeth and bore it. Maybe Takuma's death had changed Auntie Mildred, too.

I dug my toe into the carpet. “I didn't write anything down, mostly because I couldn't think of anything, but I could talk about Takuma for the next ten years if I wanted to.” When Theo's eyes bulged, I rolled my eyes. “But I don't want to, so don't worry.”

Mama grinned, Theo relaxed, and a tiny smile even tugged at the corner of Uncle George's mouth. I drew a bracing breath. I could handle this, no doubt about it. After the last couple of weeks, I could handle anything.

“Mr. Neeman's right,” I said. “Me and Takuma were best friends. But that doesn't mean I was the only one who loved him.”

I sneaked a peek at Gracie (who blushed becomingly), then another peek at Mama (whose eyes were sparkling with unshed tears). They'd loved him differently, of course, but they'd loved him just the same. Comparing types of love was like comparing orange blossoms—every bloom was special just because it was unique.

“Some of us didn't love him,” I went on. “Or at least we thought we didn't. But whether we loved him or not, he affected all of us.”

This time, my gaze darted to Daddy (who looked like he was deep in thought), then to Auntie Mildred (who refused to meet my eyes). But I could tell that she was listening, since she was leaning forward in her seat and looking everywhere but at my face.

“Now, I'm not sayin' he was perfect—Jesus was the only person who was
that
—but it could be that Takuma was as close as you could get. I think that's why he changed us. He was like a mirror that way, reflecting our rights and wrongs back at us.”

I hadn't meant to say that, but the words felt true enough, so I didn't take them back.

“Or maybe he affected us because of what he was. Maybe he knew things we didn't because he'd already died.”

Auntie Mildred drew a nervous breath, and Miss Shepherd shifted anxiously, but I just plowed ahead.

“I don't know what he was,” I admitted as I stared down at my toes, “but here's what I do know. He was kind and sweet and honest. He liked pork links and, according to my sources”—my eyes flickered to Theo—“Mildred Clausen's gingersnaps. He liked to sit and draw, and like Daniel, he was good at it. I brought a few to show you.” I motioned toward the sketches—both Daniel's and Takuma's—that I'd hung on the back wall. “I call them
Memories of War.
”

The funeral-goers looked around. They probably hadn't even noticed the original artwork. Me and Mama had spent the weekend deciding which drawings to bring, and I thought we'd done a bang-up job.

“Well,” I said, “I think that's it. Except to thank you all for comin'.” I bowed, then added, “Are-ee-got-toe.”

When I straightened back up, I caught Auntie Mildred's eye. I expected her to drop her gaze, but she jumped up instead. The crowd shifted away as if they thought she might explode, but she didn't go to pieces, just gripped the armrest for support.

“I'm not gonna lie,” she said. “I thought that boy was trouble from the moment I laid eyes on him.” She tilted to one side, but Gracie didn't let her fall. “I was so sure he'd killed Robby. It was the only explanation. So when I found out I was wrong, I couldn't help but wonder if maybe I'd been wrong about some other notions, too.”

The truth was, Auntie Mildred was wrong about most things, but if she'd changed her mind about Takuma, maybe she could change her mind about the rest.

“It's gonna take time to adjust,” she said, “but I
am
gonna try for the boy's sake. And for mine.” She squeezed Gracie's hand. “God rest our immortal souls.”

The silence that descended after Auntie Mildred sat back down was so perfect, so complete, that I almost didn't want to spoil it by taking two steps toward the casket. But I'd come for Takuma, not for everyone else.

His hair was neat and combed, and his skin was bright and shiny. He looked nothing like the pale gray ghost who'd coughed his life away, which made me think the Mr. Neemans were artists, too, in their own way. Still, something about him didn't look quite right to me. Maybe it was the makeup or the way they'd combed his hair. I could tell the Neemans hadn't known him when he was still alive.

“I'll miss you,” I said, “but I know why you had to go.”

After we sang a closing song, Mama gave the closing prayer. Once she said “amen,” the service was officially over, but no one bothered to leave. They huddled in small groups instead, sneaking peeks at the casket when they thought no one was looking. Mama managed to ignore them as she cupped my cheek. She didn't have to say how proud she was; I could see it in her eyes.

Chester was finally brave enough to approach the wall of drawings. He walked up to one of Daniel's, the wide shot of the valley. Since Daniel hadn't titled it, I'd been referring to it as
The Sometimes Peaceful Place.

I slipped out of my seat, but by the time I reached Chester, he'd already moved on to the second sketch, Takuma's crowded courtyard. He was bent cleanly at the waist, peering at it so intently that his eyes were slightly crossed.

“Careful, Chester,” I whispered. “Wouldn't want your face to freeze like that.”

Despite my attempt to whisper, he nearly jumped out of his skin. His forehead bumped the frame, knocking the whole drawing off balance.

“Sorry,” he said, blushing.

“No, I'm sorry,” I said. “I shouldn't have sneaked up on you.”

He motioned toward the sketch. “It's just that the detail is so striking.” He pointed at the nearest soldier (who was only an inch tall). “The men themselves are microscopic, but you can still make out their epaulets.”