by Sandra Moran
I also remember the funeral. There were too many people to hold it at the church, so the decision was made to conduct the service in the junior high school gymnasium. My father had taken the day off from work, and I walked between him and my mother up the aisle between the neat rows of tan folding chairs and approached the casket. On either side, people stopped talking as we passed, watching silently to see how I would react to seeing Grace after finding her body only days before. I felt my face flush under their scrutiny and I hunched my upper body forward.
“Mom, they’re staring,” I whispered as we neared the casket. In front of us, several people were clustered together, staring down at Grace.
“Just ignore them,” my mother said and squeezed my hand reassuringly.
I drew in a deep breath and looked straight ahead. As we approached, the people standing in front of Grace moved quickly to the side. I could feel everyone’s eyes on my back as I stepped toward the coffin and looked inside. At first, I didn’t recognize Grace. She looked plastic, fake. I glanced up at my mother to see if there had been some mistake—that they’d used a mannequin instead of a real body. She was staring intently down at Grace’s face, but squeezed my hand again.
“She doesn’t look real,” I whispered.
My mother tore her gaze from Grace’s profile and looked down at me. “Well, people look different when they’re . . . ” she hesitated and looked over my head at my father for help. I turned to look up at him and he cleared his throat.
“This isn’t her, Bird,” he said awkwardly. “This is just her . . . just what’s left.”
“Try to remember Grace as she was,” my mother said. “Pick a memory of her when she was alive and happy. That was Grace—not this.”
I nodded and tried to think of a time when Grace had been happy. An image of her at the Christmas pageant popped into my mind. Grace had never been one to sing along during practice, but that night, for whatever reason, she sang aloud. Standing next to her, I had stared, shocked by her voice which was suddenly light and pure, each note rounded and full. It was, although I didn’t know the word at the time, ethereal. I had stopped singing to listen, watching as she sang the notes, her eyes closed, unaware of my gaze.
I tried now, as I stared at her serene yet artificial face in the casket, to remember the clarity and perfection of her voice that night. I thought about the hours we spent together in the Nest reading. About her Pop-Tarts. About how she looked the last time I saw her, a twisted, lifeless body in the clearing. I wanted to touch her, to pull back the high collar of her dress to see the stitched repair of her sliced throat, but knew it would be inappropriate. I wanted to say good-bye, but I didn’t know how. I wanted to tell her how deeply sorry I was that I hadn’t been there for her that day. I wanted to cry. Instead, I stared.
“Come on, sweetie,” my mother said in a low voice as she nudged me to follow my father, who had turned and was walking in the direction of the old-fashioned wooden bleachers that lined the walls. My father spoke softly to several people as we climbed to the middle row and sat down next to Mary Jane and Natalie. There was a quiet hum as people resumed their conversations. Around me, people shifted in their seats, cleared their throats, and waited for the service to begin. After about ten minutes, the church organist began to play a hymn on the battered upright piano at the front of the gym. Everyone stood as Grace’s father and his girlfriend Sally walked stiffly down the aisle to the front of the rows of folding chairs, followed by Grace’s mother, who leaned heavily on Reggie’s arm.
Once they were seated, the townspeople glanced at each other, wondering if, because this was a gymnasium rather than a church, the same rules applied.
Reverend Ackerman, who sat next to his wife slightly behind the podium, stepped forward, cleared his throat, and waited for the organist to finish. Because he stood, we all stood.
“A prayer,” he said when the room was silent.
The townspeople obediently bowed their heads and waited.
“Dear Lord,” he began. “We come to you today with heavy hearts as we mourn the loss of your daughter, Grace Annette Bellamy.”
Because we didn’t pray in our house, I glanced at my parents on either side of me to see what I should do. My mother stood ramrod straight, her chin high and her eyes forward. On my other side, my father had his head bent, though I could see he wasn’t praying, but instead picking at a cuticle on his thumb. Still not sure what to do, I compromised, tipping my head slightly, but not closing my eyes. Rather, I glanced curiously around the gymnasium, forgetting for the moment why we were there, and instead enjoying the opportunity to stare with impunity at the top of the farmers’ sunburned heads and the womens’ Aqua-Netted coifs. I was so engrossed in Mrs. Haas’ beehive that I was unprepared for the communal “amen.” Guiltily, I jerked my eyes quickly to my lap as the congregation raised their heads.
During the service, I found myself staring not at the minister whose voice seemed to drone on and on, but at Grace’s family—particularly her mother. Over the past six months, she had lost a great deal of weight. Her face was ashen and gaunt; her eyes puffy and vacant. She seemed devoid of emotion. Beside her sat Reggie, unkempt with his lank hair and wrinkled sports jacket. He sat with one arm draped over the back of Grace’s mother’s chair and the other in his lap. Occasionally, he would squeeze her shoulder. Grace’s father, who sat on the other side of his ex-wife, was the exact opposite of Reggie. His black suit was beautifully tailored and his white shirt was starched to crisp perfection.
My parents had chosen to sit with Natalie and her mother. It was the first time I had seen Natalie since Grace had been murdered, and I could tell she wanted to ask questions about finding Grace. I knew, too, she would have information gleaned from her father, who stood toward the back of the gymnasium with other detectives and deputies studying the crowd. As the service seemed to draw to an end and the organist began to play Amazing Grace on the school piano, Natalie gripped my hand. I realized she was crying.
“I’m going to miss her so much,” she whispered.
I looked at her. Natalie rarely allowed herself to appear vulnerable and I was unprepared for the grief in her eyes. A part of me knew I should try to comfort her. But my body felt heavy. I was watching the scene as if it were on television and happening to someone else. As the hymn came to an end, the minister offered a prayer. My mother, who usually scoffed at such things, listened intently, her eyes on the minister, and even nodded at one point. My father had his head bowed. For some reason, I noticed he was tanned from yard work, although the skin along the hairline at the back of his neck was white from where the barber had clipped the hair short. I was again startled when everyone said “Amen” and stood. Grace’s father and Sally walked down the aisle followed by Grace’s mother, who appeared to be heavily supported by Reggie. She stared blankly ahead and at one point seemed to stumble. Reggie caught her and helped her out of the school and into the car parked directly behind the black hearse.
“That poor woman,” my mother said later to Mary Jane. “She could barely walk.”
We were standing together in the cemetery. It was a small, country graveyard on the edge of town and so close that many people, ourselves included, simply walked there. We were drenched in sweat by the time we made it to the graveside. Like many, we sought shade during this last part of the service; a dark green canopy had been set up for the family and there were also nearby trees. Some of the town’s older residents had driven rather than walked and as they waited for the service to start, they sat parked in the gravel horseshoe drive that ran the length of the cemetery. Those without air conditioning sat with their doors open or windows down. Most smoked and talked quietly to each other.
“You’re kidding, right?” Mary Jane said to my mother. “You know that wasn’t all grief. I mean, I’m sure a lot of it was, but you know she was sedated—and not from a doctor’s prescription.”
My mother stared at her. “She wouldn’t do that on the day of her daugh
ter’s funeral, would she?”
“When you’re in that deep—” Mary Jane said and shrugged. “Nate said that it was a full twenty-four hours before they were able to tell her about Grace. She and that boyfriend of hers were in Winston doing god knows what.”
My mother shook her head and made a clicking noise with her tongue. She looked around at the people clustered in small groups. I followed her gaze to where my father and uncle stood talking to a knot of men.
“Where are they in the investigation?” my mother asked. “Do they have any idea who did this?”
Mary Jane seemed to consider, as she often did, how much she should share. She glanced down at Natalie, who was pretending not to listen, and then leaned in and spoke in a low voice to my mother.
“They have some leads,” she said. “But nothing substantial. There was no semen from the rape. There are some hairs. Probably the best evidence they’ve got right now is the knife. Nate said they have a couple of partial fingerprints.”
“Any suspects?” my mother asked quietly.
Natalie’s mom looked carefully from side to side before answering. Her voice was low. “Don Wan. And Reggie. But you didn’t hear that from me.”
“Seriously?” My mother frowned.
“I told you about the drawings, right?” My mother nodded. “Well, there were apparently several of Grace. Suggestive, if you know what I mean.”
My mother opened her mouth to speak when, as if by some unspoken signal, everyone began to move toward the grave. It was time for the burial. We silently joined the rest of the town.
A man in black directed the pallbearers to remove the child-sized casket from the back of the hearse and carry it to the grave. Once the casket was in place, a second man got out of the car directly behind the hearse, briskly opened one of the back doors, and then hurried around the back of the car to open the other one. Reggie and Grace’s mother emerged. From an identical car directly behind theirs, Grace’s father and Sally got out. The foursome walked together, but clearly apart, to the folding chairs arranged around one side of the grave. Once they were seated, the rest of us clustered around.
Natalie’s father stood under a shade tree, apart from the crowd, his eyes hidden by dark aviator sunglasses. Even though his stance was casual, it was clear that he was studying the people present. Two other detectives were on either side, a respectful distance away, with video cameras. They had been present at the funeral as well. I’d asked Natalie about it when we first sat down, and she said that they videotape funerals in situations like this because often, the killer likes to attend the funeral.
“Why?” I had asked.
“Because they get a thrill from seeing everybody sad,” she said. “They like seeing what they’ve done. So Daddy is having them film it so they can look at it later and see who was here and how they were acting.”
I felt the same detachment during the graveside service as I had during the funeral itself. And, because I couldn’t seem to feel anything, I watched the emotions of the townspeople as they clustered around the grave. Next to me, Natalie cried in large gulping sobs. I reached out to touch her arm, wanting to share in her grief—wanting to cry, too. But for some reason, I couldn’t. I didn’t feel anything.
As my eyes drifted aimlessly from face to face, I saw movement near the edge of the cemetery, along the line of trees that separated the cemetery from the school property. I turned my head and was able to make out the shape of someone standing next to one of the large oak trees, his hand resting on the trunk as he watched the graveside service. Hoping to get a better view, I shifted my weight to my other foot and leaned slightly to the side. It wasn’t a man, I realized suddenly, but a boy. His eyes were partially hidden behind dark hair that needed to be cut. I studied him, wondering if this was the boy Grace had seen hiking around in the woods. He wasn’t someone I recognized and he seemed to fit her description. Quickly, I glanced over to Natalie’s dad to see if he had noticed the boy as well. He appeared to be in deep conversation with one of the deputies. I wondered what they were talking about. Was it the murder? Did they have new information about Grace’s killer? I tried to read their expressions but could tell nothing. When I looked back at the line of oak trees, the boy was no longer there.
When Reverend Ackerman delivered the final prayer and then moved to offer his condolences to Grace’s parents, everyone seemed to take a collective step backward, unsure what to do now that the scripted part of the funeral was over. Usually in Edenbridge, something like this would be followed by a luncheon provided by the church ladies at the home of the deceased’s family or in the church basement. In this case, however, Grace’s father grabbed Sally’s arm and escorted her away as quickly as possible. Reggie and Grace’s mother, too, left immediately. Unsure how to handle this break in protocol, the townspeople stood around in small groups, looking uneasily at each other. I had followed my father and two of his friends from high school to stand in the shade of one of the cemetery’s towering oak trees. I looked across the gravestones to where my mother, Natalie, and her mother stood.
“Is it okay if I go over and talk to Natalie?”
My father looked down at me and then glanced around to where my mother stood, now deep in conversation with Mary Jane. “Sure.” He cocked his head to the side. “You doing okay?” I nodded and he squeezed my shoulder. “Okay, well, just stay with your mom.”
As I walked toward my mother, I looked over to where my grandfather and my uncle stood talking to several of the local farmers. They were all dressed in their threadbare best. My grandfather sat sideways in the driver’s seat of his faded Ford pickup, his booted feet resting on the running board. He was talking animatedly about something and gestured with his finger toward Mr. Holmes, who stood with his wife and one of his sons in the shade of an elm near the gravesite. The odor of pigs that wafted in on the southern breeze and my grandfather’s gesticulations created little doubt as to the subject of his conversation.
“Stinkin’ . . . shit . . . ask where he was . . .” my grandfather said loud enough for snatches of his conversation to be overheard.
I glanced at my father, who looked nervously around to where Mr. Holmes stood. Their eyes met and my father quickly looked away in embarrassment. His discomfort made my heart hurt and I wondered briefly how often he was embarrassed by his father. I glanced again at Mr. Holmes. He smiled at me and I gave him a small wave. Quickly, I walked over to where Natalie stood with our mothers, their heads bent together in quiet discussion.
“It’s hot,” Natalie said when I reached her side. “I’m ready to go home.”
“Me, too.” I gestured to our mothers. “What are they talking about?”
“Grace,” she said. “And you.”
“Me?” My heart began to thump heavily in my chest. “What about me?”
“Your nightmares,” she said without looking at me. She paused. “Is it true?”
I shrugged.
“It would give me nightmares, too, you know,” Natalie said. “If I had found her.”
The numbness I had felt over the past week disappeared, only to be replaced by anger. “But you didn’t, did you?” I spoke the words through gritted teeth. “I did! Thanks to your stupid plan, I found her. If we had just done what we were supposed to, none of us would have been there!”
Natalie stared, shocked at my outburst. “Birdie,” she said helplessly and reached out to touch me. “I’m sorry. I know—”
“No, you don’t know,” I yelled, the rage welling up inside me. I stabbed a finger in her direction. “You don’t know what it’s like! This is your fault! It’s all your fault!”
Before I could say anything else, my mother stepped between us and grabbed my arm. “Birdie,” she said and then turned back to face Mary Jane and Natalie.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “She didn’t mean it. She’s just upset. She just—”
“Don’t touch me,” I screamed and wrenched my arm out of her grasp. “Don’t!”
&nb
sp; I turned blindly and began to run—away from Grace’s grave, away from the people, away from everyone and everything. I had gotten only a few yards away when I tripped and fell, my ankle twisting under me. Mr. Holmes, who was closest, reached me first.
“You okay, Birdie?” he asked. I tried to stand and he crouched down to help me. The moment his hand touched my arm, I heard my grandfather’s infuriated yell.
“Get your hands off her!”
The words hung in the air, and Mr. Holmes froze. My grandfather hurried over and momentarily towered over us.
“I was just—” Mr. Holmes began as I scrambled to my feet.
“I don’t care what you were doing,” my grandfather interrupted. “Don’t you ever touch her again!”
Mr. Holmes rose to his feet and stood, towering over my grandfather. His eyes were hard and the veins on his neck and forehead pulsed. I watched as his left hand closed into a fist. Mrs. Holmes, who had hurried over as well, put a warning hand on his arm.
“Leave it, Anthony,” she said.
As she spoke, Natalie’s father stepped between the two men.
“Edwin . . . Anthony,” he said in a low voice. “I think you should both take a step back. In fact, I think everybody needs to take a step back.” He said this last part loud enough for everyone in the small crowd of people who had gathered to watch the drama to hear. “I know we’re all pretty tightly strung right now and this has hit us all pretty hard. But we’re gonna find the man who did this.”
He looked around the crowd and pursed his lips.
“It’s been a tough day,” he said. “The funeral’s over. I think we should all go home.”
Almost relieved to have some sort of direction, several of the people began to walk to their cars or back to the school. Natalie’s father led my grandfather away from the rest of the group. Their conversation was short and ended with my grandfather stomping back to his truck.
My father stood next to my mother, clearly torn between walking back to the school with us and going over to talk to his father and brother.
