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“Rain, I want you to know how much your grandmother meant to me. She was a special woman,” a voice said, disrupting my thoughts.
I looked up to see a handsome older man with a shock of cotton-white hair and matching beard. He was tall and thin, well-dressed in a suit and tie with spotlessly shined loafers. I knew most people in town, even after all these years, but not this one.
“Thank you. I’m sorry. I don’t believe we’ve met.”
“Howard Shores. I was seeing your grandmother before she died. I’m so devastated. I apologize for being so loud during the eulogy.”
Ah, so now I knew who had been wailing. I reached for his hands and patted them softly, smiling up at him. I had no idea Grandma had a boyfriend. How adorable. It warmed my heart that there had been someone there for her in her final days. Perhaps it made me even feel like I hadn’t left her all alone, after all. She had Jon to help her, and she had Howard to hold her hand.
“I’m glad to meet you, Mr. Shores. My grandmother spoke highly of you,” I lied.
“She did? I’m so glad. We had some great times, Leigha and I. Listen, I know it might be inappropriate. I don’t know what your plans for the house might be, and I don’t want to risk it getting away from me. I wondered if I might have the floral sofa in your grandmother’s living room?”
“What?” I asked, my face now warped with confusion.
“I know it sounds like an odd thing to ask, but I am just terribly fond of it. Your grandmother and I were, uh, intimate on that sofa many times. It was the perfect height to accommodate certain physical ailments of mine so that we could be a bit more adventurous in our lovemaking.”
I had no idea what my face must have looked like at that moment, but that scream was working its way to the outside quickly.
“Whoa! Whoa, whoa, whoa. I don’t want to hear that!” I gasped.
“Oh. Of course not. I’m so sorry,” he said, frowning. “I should have worded that better.”
“Or not at all.”
“It’s just…the sofa.”
“God, yes. The sofa. It’s all yours. I’ll put it on the porch, just pick it up tomorrow, but don’t knock on the door.”
“Thank you,” he replied, not pushing his luck any further. He disappeared into the crowd, and I turned to see Becky Bolin standing beside me, waiting to speak. Her face looked as stricken as mine must have.
“That was awkward,” she said.
Our eyes met and we both laughed, just as much out of sheer disbelief as anything that was amusing.
“I have to get back to work. I just wanted to pay my respects and tell you I’m thinking about you. Hopefully, we can get together soon, sometime before you have to go back home?”
“Yes, I’d like that. Thank you for coming,” I told her, giving her a hug.
The funeral director appeared to tell me that we were ready to go, and I walked to my car.
“Are you OK to drive yourself?” he asked.
“Yes. I’m fine. Thank you,” I told him, slipping behind the wheel of my rental car.
The drive to the small cemetery adjacent to the church my grandmother had attended since she was a little girl wasn’t very far but took more than half an hour with the long, slow procession of cars. The sky had gotten darker, and I envisioned it pouring down on us at the graveside. As we pulled in, some people were already there. Some had skipped the procession and gone on ahead, and others had come just for the shorter graveside service.
The funeral director escorted me from the car to stand by the empty hole set aside for Grandma. There was already a headstone at one end with Grandpa’s name and dates, but Grandma’s side had only her name. I made a mental note to call the engraver about adding the dates.
Despite the melancholy I felt, I looked up to see Howard Shores on the other side and had to stifle a chuckle. Grandma, you dirty girl. You had still been enjoying life. It wasn’t fair that it was taken away from you when you still had plenty left to live. But it only took mere seconds before the moment of levity was replaced by the shroud of pain at my loss. There were many well-wishers here. That is what people in Southern towns are best at, showing their condolences when required. The truth was that none of them really knew me anymore, and most of them didn’t care how I was feeling. This was merely the “right” thing to do. They were here to say goodbye to Grandma, not console me.
Well, mostly. As the pallbearers, a group of youth from Grandma’s church and a few of her nephews and great-nephews, prepared to carry the coffin from the hearse, I saw my second-grade teacher, Karen Black, and her son, Derrick, approaching me. Though I hadn’t seen them in years, we kept in touch on social media. Karen hadn’t changed since I was in her class, other than a few gray hairs. Derrick, on the other hand, had transformed from the skinny, teen he had been in high school to a man who looked like he belonged on the cover of GQ with his dark curly hair and smoldering hazel eyes. Both hugged me and expressed their condolences.
