PEOPLE BEGAN TO COME to the house in the middle of the morning, to offer sympathy and gifts of food, and Berta May came over again to help. Mary and Lorraine had dressed in good clothes by now and they met the people at the door and brought a few in for a brief visit.
It rained that morning again, around ten o’clock, another of the short hard summer rains that blew through, then the sky cleared again.
Later that morning Richard arrived from Denver in a new car and came up to the house. Lorraine hugged him and he was unusually quiet and Mary allowed him to take her in his arms. I’m sorry for your loss, he said. It makes me sad to hear of it. He sat out on the porch for a while and about noon he left and went over to Highway 34 and rented a motel room for the night and stopped to eat lunch at one of the highway cafés.
At one o’clock Willa and Alene Johnson came to the house and relieved Berta May. Before leaving, Berta May made sure everything was in order, and Mary said, Would you mind doing one more thing for us? Would you take these notices around to the stores? If it’s not too much to ask. I know you’ve done so much already. It was the one thing Dad said he wanted.
So that afternoon Berta May and Alice distributed the little stiff white cards with black borders, bearing the news of Dad’s death and announcing the memorial services to be held at the house and the Holt cemetery. The notices had been printed that morning in the back room of the Holt Mercury newspaper.
They drove over to Main Street and Berta May stopped the car. Now you understand what to do. Take one of these into each store and hand it to the person at the counter, whoever is there.
What should I say?
You just say this is a funeral notice for our neighbor Dad Lewis. And be slow when you do this. Don’t do nothing in a hurry. Remember what you’re doing here. This is a solemn occasion.
Alice got out and Berta May moved the car down to the corner of Fourth and Main. Alice went into all of the stores on the east side and crossed the street and entered the ones on the west side. When she was done, Berta May drove farther down Main Street and parked in the next block and watched as her granddaughter went in and out of those shops. She was wearing a blue dress. She looked like a nice girl. At the hardware store there was a Closed sign hung at the door and in the display window was a large piece of wrapping paper with writing in black. Our friend Dad Lewis died this morning. We’re closed until further notice.
In the last block of businesses Alice came back to the car before she had finished. That woman wanted to know if the preacher at the Community Church was doing the service.
What woman?
That woman in there.
What did you tell her?
I didn’t tell her anything. I didn’t know what to say.
That’s exactly right. Anybody who asks you, you don’t know. And you’ll be telling the truth. It’s none of their business. People like her make me real tired.
When they returned home Berta May said, Now I’m going to go back and lay down a while. You take off your dress and put your shorts and T-shirt on.
Can I ride my bike?
Yes, but don’t you make no noise. I don’t want you bothering them next door.
What are they doing?
Those people are grieving. They’ve had a hard thing today. Other people are wanting to come and visit them and talk. They don’t need no noise outside. Do you understand?
Yes.
Not a sound.
Yes, Grandma.
Okay, go on and get out of that dress and hang it up. I don’t mean to sound unkind, honey. I’m just tired. You did a good job downtown just now. I’m proud of you.