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CHAPTER SIX
With the snow and cold, it was two weeks before Maisie and her parents could have a funeral for Mr. and Mrs. Turner. They were finally buried six days before Christmas.
Kelsey had never been to a December funeral before, and the dissonance, both cognitive and emotional, was strong. The Turner family’s church was fully, festively decorated for the holidays, with garlands of holly, pine, and poinsettias; big wreathes wound with velvet ribbon, dotted with snow-flecked pinecones, and topped with elaborate velvet bows; and in the vestibule, at the door leading to the Sunday school classrooms, was a nativity scene made of large, papier-mâché snowpeople.
In the midst of all that holiday cheer sat a hundred mourners in black.
For the rest of Maisie’s life, Christmas would be when her grandparents died.
Despite the incongruous decorations, the service itself was lovely and solemn, but not staid. People answered back to the reverend’s eulogy as he gave it, and when the choir sang, the congregation sang along and moved in time with the music.
It wasn’t the first time Kelsey had been to this church with Maisie and her family. She herself hadn’t been raised with much in the way of religion, and overall she’d never felt like she was missing something important. But on those few occasions when she did wonder, she was usually sitting beside Maisie at church.
After the service, the mourners followed the hearse a few miles to the cemetery. The arctic cold had finally broken its hold over the region, and the day was bright and comparatively warm. Big drifts of snow still remained, most of it filthy, but where the snow had been undisturbed, as in much of the cemetery, it was still gleaming white. A clear path through the snow had been made to accommodate the mourners to the plot Mr. and Mrs. Turner had bought long ago to hold them in their rest.
Kelsey stood at the double gravesite, holding Maisie’s hand. Mrs. Crane, Maisie’s mom, stood beside her daughter, holding her other hand. Kelsey’s mom stood at Kelsey’s side, holding her hand. They made a line of the women who loved the Turners best, who had been, in part or in whole, raised by them—daughters of blood, and daughters of heart.
Mrs. Crane and Kelsey’s mom weren’t as close in age as Kelsey and Maisie, who were only a few months apart. They knew each other well and were friends, but not especially close. Kelsey and Maisie, however, had grown up together for the first years of their life and had never lost the bond of sisterhood.
Maisie and the Turners were the only reason Kelsey retained any memories of her first years, when she and her mom had lived next door, in a little house with her grandfather, who’d been in a wheelchair. Her mom didn’t like to talk about those years, when Kelsey’s dad had been in prison and Kelsey hadn’t known he existed. Maisie’s memories had preserved Kelsey’s.
Truthfully, Maisie was, and had always been, Kelsey’s only real friend. She had lots of acquaintances, lots of people she cared about and who cared about her, a whole huge, lively family full of people she cared about, people she loved.
But—at least in her mind—real friendship was a bond even deeper than family. A true friend was a confidante, someone who held your secrets without judgment and with unconditional trust. Someone who didn’t have to be told those secrets, because they shared them.
She’d never understood how people could say they had multiple ‘best’ friends. A best friend was a unique signifier, with room for only one name. Kelsey’s was, and had always been, Maisie Crane.
Maisie, an extrovert with an enthusiastic disposition, had a wider circle of people she considered real friends, but she, too, considered ‘best’ to be an individual category.
None of those other ‘real’ friends was here at her grandparents’ funeral.
As the reverend said the final words, Maisie sighed shakily and leaned over to rest her head on Kelsey’s shoulder. Her own eyes sore from crying, Kelsey let go of Maisie’s hand and instead put her arm around her friend.
~oOo~
“Hey, you two,” Kelsey said, slipping into a moment when Mrs. Crane and Maisie weren’t swarmed with mourners wanting to share a memory or offer a condolence. “Can I get you anything? Something to eat or drink? An excuse for a break?” They’d been receiving condolences and well-wishes, listening patiently to long-winded stories told in creaky voices, for hours now.
The wake was at the Cranes’ house, another house Kelsey knew as well as her own. Mrs. Crane had fussed to lose control of her own house today, but an army of women, including Kelsey, Hannah, and their mom, had insisted that she was not working on the day she’d buried both her parents.
Mrs. Crane smiled and clutched Kelsey’s hand. “Thank you, sweetheart, but we’re okay.” She turned to Maisie. “Yeah? You okay, baby?”
Maisie nodded wearily. “In this narrow definition of ‘okay,’ yes, I am. But later, I need to get drunk.”
“I will procure the necessary supplies,” Kelsey said with a smile.
Just then, the front door swung open, and Kelsey, Maisie, and Mrs. Crane all looked to see who was coming in. No one—someone was leaving.
“I wish your friend who found them had come today,” Mrs. Crane sighed. “Dexter? That’s his name?”
Kelsey nodded. “His road name, yes. Everybody calls him Dex.”
“I’d like to thank Dex for trying to help them.”
Though she didn’t know him very well, Kelsey used what she did know to try to explain the man. “I don’t think Dex is very good with thanks.”
“Well, hmm. Alright then,” Mrs. Crane said, clearly dissatisfied. Then, with a glance around the room, she added, “Would you mind trying to locate my husband?”
“That’s easy—he’s with my dad and Uncle Gun, out in the garage.”
