Twenty-two
The visitation and funeral for Manny Chapman was held at the new Lutheran church on the southern end of Moraine. At four o’clock we began arriving for the viewing. It was our last chance to see Manny in a state as close as possible to the one we saw him in when he was still alive.
A poster board with pictures of Manny doing what he loved best, hanging around in his beeyard and spinning honey in his honey house greeted me as I entered, which surprised me, since Grace seemed to hate his bees so much. In one photo Ray and Manny were loading honey into the back of Ray’s truck for distribution. I distinctly remembered being there when Manny asked Grace to take that picture. In fact, my smiling mug should have been in the picture. I spotted more photographs that I should have been in, but wasn’t. I had a growing suspicion that Grace had used a software editing program to eliminate me. Delving into other people’s minds wasn’t my forte, however, so I focused on the open casket on the other side of the room rather than on Grace Chapman’s motives for cropping me into nonexistence.
“Nice pictures,” I said to Grace’s brother, Carl.
“Thanks. I put them together myself. Grace didn’t want me to include the bees, but they were Manny’s whole life, so I managed to talk her into it.”
“She didn’t help with the photographs at all?” I was pretty sure she had sliced me out, but wanted to confirm it.
“Grace made a few . . . uh . . . changes.” He had the decency to look embarrassed.
Grams and Mom arrived and agreed that Manny looked good in death, an observation they made at every funeral they attended. He certainly looked much better than the last time I’d seen him, when he’d been lying in the beeyard, swollen and red.
But the fact that I’d never see him again hit hard as I stood in line to offer my condolences. When my turn came, I extended my sympathies and gave Grace a hug. She stayed stiff like she couldn’t bear the thought of being touched by me.
“Did Grace hug you back?” I said to Mom a little later when she and Grams had gone through the line.
“Of course,” Mom said, then gave me a stern scowl and offered a tissue. “Get a grip, Story. Pull yourself together.”
“Here,” Grams said, digging in her purse, removing the cap from a medicine bottle and shaking out a little white pill. “Take this. You’ll feel better.”
Mom intercepted it. “She doesn’t need a Valium. And where on earth did you get your hands on those?”
“I keep a few for emergencies,” Grams said. “Times like now.”
She slipped one to me when Mom wasn’t looking. I wasn’t much of a drug user, preferring to stay away from even the basics such as cold meds and common pain relievers like ibuprofen. This time, though, under the circumstances, I popped the pill. After all, it came from my grandmother. How harmful could it be?
Fifteen minutes later, I was standing with Stanley Peck and Emily Nolan from the library, feeling much better. I wore a silly little grin. In spite of my efforts, it wouldn’t go away.
“How are you doing?” Stanley said, putting one arm around me and squeezing. “You spent more time with Manny than most of us did. This whole thing must be rough on you.”
I nodded, forcing the corners of my lips down. “Life seems upside down without him,” I agreed, briefly imagining a tilted universe.
“Nobody’s been bothering you or your bees lately, have they?”
I shook my head.
“Speaking of bees,” Emily said, looking at Stanley. “Are you enjoying the beekeeping book you checked out of the library? Sorry we only had one, but we’re so small I have to be very careful what I order. Maybe I could do a search for you with other libraries if you want more.”
Odd, I thought. This news seemed relatively important considering all the missing bees, but I couldn’t seem to keep my focus.
“I didn’t know you were interested in raising honeybees,” I said to Stanley, who had the same trapped-animal look I’d seen on DeeDee Becker only a few hours earlier.
“I like learning about all kinds of things, is all,” he said. “No big deal.”
“Well,” Emily said, “let me know if you want a few more.”
“One is plenty,” Stanley said.
The church filled up for the viewing. Based on past funerals in our community, most everybody would stay for the funeral service, then head to Stu’s. Except Manny’s family. They’d have a sit-down dinner someplace else.
Hunter Wallace came up to me. Looking around, I didn’t see Carrie Ann.
“Where’s your new friend?” I wanted to know.
“In the truck.”
“You left her in the truck?”
“Him,” Hunter said. “Ben’s a him.”
I stared at him blankly.
“You’re asking about my dog, right?”
Oh, right.
“Sure,” I said. The pill Grams had given me was doing a fine job of keeping me composed. The problem was, it couldn’t determine which parts of my brain to shut down and which ones to keep in operation. So it shut down everything. And I noticed that concentrating on any one thing was impossible.
I was trying to remember something about Stanley. What was it?
I noticed that people had started to look away when I met their gaze. Or they were whispering but stopped when I wandered by. What was up with that?
This wasn’t the first time I’d encountered this behavior. Live and let live was my new philosophy. If they knew something about me that I didn’t, someone would eventually clue me in. Or . . . oh, well, who cared? The paranoid thought escaped into the vast emptiness of my drugged mind.
I kind of liked shutting down. I should do this more often.
Grace came up to me. “Did you run across Manny’s bee journal?” she asked.
“Nope. I looked for it last time I was in the honey house, but it wasn’t there. I assumed it was in your house.”
“You’re sure it’s not out there?”
“Positive. Why don’t you look for yourself?”
“You know I don’t go near that place. The journal must be around someplace.”
“Why do you want it?” For the life of me, I couldn’t see Grace caring about Manny’s bee journal. She’d never shown any interest.
“I don’t want it,” she said. “But Gerald Smith called and asked about any notes Manny made concerning his bees. That’s when I remembered his journal. Gerald said it would be helpful to have it, since he will be working with the same bees. Manny wrote notes about the bees, you know, or whatever else beekeepers do.”
“Interesting,” I said, losing interest.
At that moment, ushers asked us to take our seats, and the funeral service began. Grams gave me a conspiratorial wink. I grinned. Hunter sat next to me, smelling fresh, like the outdoors with a faint hint of burning logs clinging to him. Nice.
Tears tried to form in my eyes as the funeral progressed, especially when they closed the casket, but something in that little pill refused to let them leak. The service was perfectly traditional, just like Grace, without any surprises or unscheduled oratories. Manny would have been pleased at the turnout.
Afterward, the family followed the hearse to the cemetery. The rest of us had a funeral procession to Stu’s Bar and Grill to send Manny off properly. I’d finished off my second beer when Grams came rushing in to find me.
“Don’t drink anything,” she said. “I forgot to tell you not to mix alcohol with the drug.”
“Okay,” I said, trying not to slur my words. “Thanks for the warning.”
“I didn’t remember until I was home, then it dawned on me. You didn’t have any alcohol, did you?”
“Nope,” I lied, leaning against Hunter for support.
“What’s going on?” he said to Grams.
“I gave Story a Valium at the funeral.”
“And it really worked,” I said.
“She doesn’t usually take medications,” Grams explained. “So it might affect her more than it would someone else. As long as she doesn’t drink alcohol she should be okay. How do you feel, Sweetie?”
“Great,” I said.
“That’s not your beer, is it?” Grams pointed at a beer bottle on the bar, the one I’d just finished off.
“Nope.”
“Let’s get a picture of you two kids,” Grams said. “You make a cute couple.”
“Okay.” I put on my best smile and stepped in closer to Hunter while Grams clicked away. She disappeared as quickly as she’d come.
“Let’s get out of here,” Hunter said. “The party’s over.”
“No, it’s not,” I said with nice relaxed muscles and not an anxious bone in my body. “It’s only beginning.”
Smiling, I threw him a question that would never have left my lips under normal circumstances. While he guided me to the door, I said, “Your place or mine?”