My mind still awhirl, I picked up Lynn and could think of little to say to her. As it turned out, Lynn was quiet on the way to the funeral home, too. I assumed she was nervous about confronting her past in such a direct way, so I tried to assure her that I’d be by her side to provide any support she might need, but my words failed to soothe her. Instead, she sat silently chewing her lip and wringing her hands, until I was sure one or the other was going to wear out.
Finally we reached Sunset Funeral Home, a sprawling lackluster brick building just a mile down the road from Bertram’s Hotel. I’d never been inside the place—a good thing considering the services they offered—but found that despite its rather drab outward appearance, the inside was well appointed with hardwood floors, walls painted in tasteful hues of pale apricot and warm tans accented with chestnut brown trim, and comfortable, unassuming furniture. It was obvious that whoever had designed the interior knew what they were doing. The surroundings made me feel instantly at ease, like I’d just walked into an old friend’s home.
An attendant greeted us at the door, taking our coats and directing us down the hall to one of the smaller rooms used for services. Lynn hesitated a second before entering, making me wonder if she’d had a change of heart. But she soldiered on, quickly choosing one of the red velvet-covered seats in the last row. I followed, taking the chair next to her, my eyes roaming instantly to the casket up front. It was closed, thank goodness! “It doesn’t seem to be very crowded,” I whispered. “Do you recognize anyone?”
“Just his mother. She’s in the front row.” I looked to the front of the room, where a woman was seated in a wheelchair. My heart went out to this woman. A parent should never have to attend their own child’s funeral.
Lynn continued, “She’s a sweet woman, really, and she’s been in an assisted living home for several years now. I’ll say hello to her after the service, but her memory is bad. She may not even recognize me.” Probably a blessing, I thought. Perhaps the grief and pain of losing her only child would be somewhat softened by her impaired mental faculties.
A prerecorded song suddenly started, melancholic strains pouring from mounted speakers on the wall. As it finished, a minister entered from the side of the room and positioned himself behind a small lectern next to the casket. As he began reading a verse, my gaze wandered. The scattering of people present didn’t seem to be connected, each sitting in their own spot, segregated from the others. One of the men looked familiar, but I couldn’t place him. I also noticed that no one seemed overly bereaved.
Lynn was holding up remarkably well, sitting ramrod straight, hands folded quietly in her lap, and her eyes holding steady on the minster. He was speaking of forgiveness and the power of redemption. Lynn’s stoic posture along with the slight upward curve of her lips made me wonder if she was taking his words to heart, or if she was silently rejoicing in the death of her abuser, unable to evoke a spirit of forgiveness or, worse yet, believing the only redemption Chuck received was a quick nail to the head.
I shuddered. Then, catching a flash of movement out of the corner of my eye, I turned my head and saw a woman hovering in the hallway just outside the room’s entrance. She was still wearing her coat, a few straggles of brown hair sticking out from under her tan woolen hat, a Burberry plaid scarf around her neck. She was dabbing at her eyes with a tissue and looking truly miserable. Poor thing, I thought, turning back just as the minister asked if there was anyone present who wished to add a few words about the deceased. When no one responded, he gave a signal, and a soulful rendition of “Amazing Grace” filled the room. As quickly as the service had started, and without much fanfare, it concluded. I glanced back over my shoulder, but the woman had already left.
As people started filing out of their rows, Lynn nudged me. “I’m going to pay my respects to Chuck’s mother,” she said. “I’ll meet you out in the car in a few minutes.”
I nodded and started for the coat check, taking a detour first to the restroom. There I found the crying woman, leaning over the sink and patting cool water on her tear-swollen eyes. She was youngish, maybe late twenties, plump, meek appearing, although hunched over as she was, it was hard to really say. She glanced up as I entered and quickly reached for a paper towel from a stack on the counter.
I paused, feeling like I should say something. “Are you okay?” I asked, stepping forward.
“Yes. Thank you,” she choked out, but her shoulders shuddered as if she was fighting back another round of sobs. Embarrassed, she turned away and quickly finished drying her face. Then she gathered her purse and hat from the countertop and made a hasty exit before I could ask her anything else. Back outside, I saw her again, sitting alone in a parked car with a mismatched paint job and an air freshener swinging from the rearview mirror. She was talking on her cell phone and wiping her tearstained face with the end of her scarf.
I was still watching her when Lynn finally came out. “How was Chuck’s mom doing?” I asked, not quite taking my eyes off the crying woman.