A Truth for a Truth Read Online Free Page B

She’s small for her age, although athletic and wiry. Deena had fixed her shoulder-length hair, pulling it back from her face with two barrettes that matched her glasses. From what I could tell, Teddy felt right at home where her father so often stood. She read a wonderful poem—and wonderfully short, too—that equated the soul of the departed with birds in flight, winds that blow, stars that shine. I had practiced it with her for two days, but even I was surprised at the sweet resonance of her voice.
    I wanted to turn and smile slyly at Fern, but I’m just one hair too evolved. Teddy came down to sit in the row with the other participants. Ed announced the next one, but his voice cracked, and he had to clear his throat before he tried again. He ended with a sneeze.
    I felt a hand on my shoulder and fingers like steel.
    “If Ed is sick, should he be spreading his germs?”
    I have some training in martial arts. I pictured grabbing the hand digging into my flesh, and flipping Fern over the pew. Maybe the lilies were getting to me , as well.
    Instead I turned my head. “Allergies,” I said firmly. “They’re not contagious.”
    “Perhaps he should have taken some medication.” She sat back.
    Fern is not my favorite person in the congregation. Okay, Fern’s tied for last place with the divorced mother of two who tries to maneuver Ed into corners and tosses her blonde hair over her shoulder at least three times in every conversation. But this was a new low. I wondered if she was fighting grief. Perhaps Win had been a particular comfort to her at a difficult time in her life, or his sermons had inspired her to be a better person.
    Okay, that last possibility was a stretch, unless she had started life as Godzilla.
    I turned back to the service in progress. By now the third reading was under way. My Fern musings had taken me to this point, at least. Trying to be kind, trying to pay attention and listen to the rest of the inspirational readings, the prayers, the anthems, took me a little further. Worrying about Ed, who was sneezing ever more violently, carried me even closer to the moment when we would follow the coffin to the cemetery. Poor Ed sounded worse each time he spoke, croaking now and fumbling, which is completely out of character. I winced so frequently anyone watching probably thought I’d developed a tic.
    Finally the minister of another church, who was representing the local clergy association, got up to give his remarks. We were on the homestretch. Only the open mic, the eulogy, and the final anthem and prayer were left. The minister finished and left the pulpit, and Ed sneezed twice. Then Ed simply sat there, his eyes half closed, and not, I was afraid, in prayer.
    Agonizing seconds went by. At last my husband seemed to realize the room was silent, and he was supposed to say or do something. He got to his feet. I think he swayed. I wanted to run to the front and catch him if he fell, but I was completely blocked in by knees and feet, as well as a cane. I could only hold my breath.
    Ed made it to the pulpit, which he gripped with both hands, knuckles a sickly lily-white. For a moment I thought he might apologize or explain, then I remembered his gender. Besides, even if he had been capable of mastering his own biology, his desire not to focus attention on himself would squash the impulse.
    With what appeared to be superhuman effort, he outlined the procedure for the next part. Two microphones had been set up, and people were asked to come forward and speak. I wondered if Easter week would be over before they finished, but I was wrong. The remarks were brief and few. Fifteen years had passed since Win was minister here. Twenty minutes later, when no one else came forward, Ed got to his feet once more, again unsteadily. For a moment he looked like a man who didn’t know where he was or why. His eyes were unfocused. He looked like he was going to pitch himself on the coffin for a twofer.
    Then he began to