The afternoon was crisp and lovely. It was the kind of afternoon on which her mother used to take her on outings to the menagerie in Central Park, where they’d gawk at the giraffes and bears, never tiring of their exoticism. She swallowed a sniffle and blinked away tears. It would not do to be a puddle of grief next to Holly.
They were flanked by Allene, Jasper, and Andrew. There were no others. When the priest began the simple graveside service, Allene held Birdie’s other hand firmly in her own and never wavered in her strength. Tears pooled in her eyes, and she bent forward so they would drop to the grass instead of rolling down her cheeks. She didn’t seem to want to leave track marks down her carefully powdered and rouged face. Andrew stood emotionless, paler than usual, with the proper stoicism. He hadn’t set his eye on Birdie all day. What a relief. And finally, there was Jasper to his right, beyond Holly. He kept his eyes fixed on the casket, which was a handsome, polished oak with brass and wood handles. Ernie had spared no expense.
Ernie was nowhere to be seen.
She would remember these moments for the rest of her short life, down to the words spoken by the priest. He was an older man of the cloth and had chosen a piece of scripture from Job. His face was dutifully serious, crepe-crinkled eyes half drawn, his gravelly voice scratching over the aphorisms of life and death.
“For I know,” he said, “that my Redeemer lives, and at the last he will stand upon the earth. And after my skin has been thus destroyed . . .”
Here he paused to cough a consumptive pebble from his elderly throat, and she could sense that Holly hung on that last word. Destroyed. Her left hand squeezed Birdie’s harder, but it wasn’t enough. Her other empty hand pawed the void in front of her and to the side, fingertips scraping against Jasper’s pant leg. He looked down, ready to swipe away a passing dragonfly or errant gnat, but found Holly’s gloved hand instead just as the priest reclaimed his voice.
“And after my skin has been thus destroyed, yet in my flesh I shall see God.”
When Holly lifted her face to find the one that matched the strong hand over hers, she saw Jasper. And Jasper, being Jasper, doused her with a brilliant, irreverent grin. She stared artlessly in wonder. It reminded Birdie of when she would stare at the elephants in the park menagerie, wondering how she could scheme to own such a creature and have it all to herself.
Soon, they laid flowers on Hazel’s coffin and turned back to the motorcars that would bring them back to Fifth Avenue. Allene took Birdie’s arm in hers, so she could lean on her. She felt strong, so much stronger. It was comforting. When they were younger, it was always Allene leaning her well-fed arm on Birdie’s lithe one. They walked too slowly for Holly, whose idle legs yearned for a good shaking out. She tugged at Birdie’s hand, and it pained her.
“I’ll go ahead with her. Take your time,” Jasper said.
Birdie nodded. “Thank you.”
“Of course.” He and Holly swung their hands back and forth, a lopsided jumping rope with no jumper. Once at the top of the hill, Holly squatted to examine the spokes on the car tires. When Birdie caught up to them, she rested by Jasper. The hill was steep, and she was out of breath. Allene went to thank the priest.
“She’s a rare girl, Holly is.” He smiled down at her, and Holly beamed back a grin.
“Can I have an egg cream?” she asked. Holly was so good at twisting people around her fingers, particularly where sugar was involved.
“Whatever you want, my girl. Anytime, anywhere.” When Birdie closed her eyes to try to calm her fluttering heart after the tiring walk, Jasper leaned closer and dropped the timbre of his voice. “You know, Birdie, you really are one of the most beautiful orphans I’ve ever laid eyes on.”
She smiled at the compliment, but it was a smile born of granite and ice.
“Yes,” she replied. She swelled her breath. “I am lovely. And tragic. But the truth is, Jasper Jones, it’s terribly inconvenient to be me, and somehow I doubt you tolerate inconveniences in your life.” She opened her eyes and stared at Jasper. “And one more thing. You’re a young man, and there’s a war across the ocean ready to eat you alive any day now. Don’t you dare make promises to my sister you can’t keep. Lie to me all you want. I’m used to it. But not to Holly. Never to Holly.”
Jasper was speechless. Allene sent the priest off, then wiped her hands on her dress, as if to banish the last vestiges of funerary sadness. Holly clapped with glee when Dawlish turned the crank to start the car.
“Shall we go?” Allene said in a voice a mite too chipper for the day.
As they drew away in the rumbling vehicle, the priest raised his hand in a mortal good-bye and sober blessing. Birdie looked backward through the rear window of the Daimler. It would be a long time before she and Holly would be able to come back to the Evergreens and pay homage to her mother here. So she printed the image in her memory as best as she could.
Only one thing marred Birdie’s last view of the rolling greens and stately tombstones and obelisks. In the distance, by the mound of soil and staring into the six-foot-deep resting place of Hazel Dreyer—beautiful, elegant, guiltless, and used—stood Ernie, who had emerged out of the shadows of poplars to stand at the grave alone.
CHAPTER 20
It was a lovely funeral. As lovely as they get, mused Allene.
None of that business with hordes of people who hardly knew the dearly departed or maybe were even secretly happy to be rid of them. Funerals should be between a single person (dead) and a single person (alive) and ought to involve a discussion that no one else should hear. Should she ever be granted the permission, Allene would certainly vote on that.
But sad as it was, she was thankful Hazel was dead. After all, her death had brought Birdie firmly back into her life. Now, Allene had more purpose than ever. Of course she would be married soon enough, and Andrew would never tolerate her traipsing about looking for murderers and spending time with such inferior friends. But for now it was manna and nectar, and she was still starving for it all.
It was Friday morning, two days after the funeral, and she and Jasper had made a pact to return to the Brooklyn druggist to find out how Hazel had ended up with laudanum instead of paregoric. Allene walked hurriedly from the elevated train down Flatbush Avenue toward the shop. For bravery she clutched a nugget of cold iron in her hand. It was a souvenir from a thermite reaction she’d done yesterday behind the kitchen, when Father had been out for business. She’d craved a little experiment, particularly after her father’s disapproving look when she’d returned from the funeral.