A Truth for a Truth Read Online Free PDF Page A

speak. Although Ed always makes a copy of his eulogy for the family, normally he only peeks at the text to ground himself. Not this time. Clearly my husband realized he was not himself. Sneezing and wheezing, he began to read, word for word. Considering how awful he felt, he was masterful, awe-inspiring.
    Without considering that? Not so much.
    Halfway through, Ed turned a page, and stared at the next one, as if he wasn’t sure why it was there or what he was supposed to do with it. His eyes began to close. Before I could catch myself I moaned softly.
    He straightened, forced his eyes open, and continued in a monotone.
    We were so close. So close! I sat rigid, as if the energy my effort took would somehow transmit itself to my husband.
    Hours passed. Okay, maybe not, but at last the eulogy ended. We had learned about Win’s early years, his call to ministry, his family, the many churches he had served. I had heard very little, but I was practically moved to tears, just because the service was nearly finished.
    The choir sang their final selection, a musical setting of the Twenty-third Psalm. Since this anthem is not their best effort, Esther, our organist, was trying to drown them out on the old tracker organ. As she got louder, so did they. If the building collapsed, I was willing to claw my way out.
    I was counting down the minutes. Ed had only to do the final prayer, and give instructions to the mourners about what was to follow. The plan was for all of us to rise as one after the coffin was removed and the family made its exit. We should file respectfully out of the church and load ourselves into cars for the short trip to the graveside service. Luckily—oh, so luckily—Hildy had asked a friend of Win’s to do that one. Then we would all come back to the church for the reception, and after a brief appearance, Ed could go home and sleep off the antihistamines.
    The anthem ended. Ed stepped up to do the closing prayer, and in that moment of silence, as he struggled to keep his eyes open and his body upright, “Rocky Raccoon” began to play. Like everyone else, I looked around trying to figure out where the sound was coming from. Ed didn’t appear to notice. I guess his Eustachian tubes were blocked, as well as the blood flow to his brain.
    Understanding came in baby steps. The noise was a cell phone. The cell phone was nearby. The cell phone was in my purse. The cell phone was Ed’s.
    In college Ed’s nickname was “Rocky Raccoon.” Something to do with Gideon Bibles, and Ed’s desire to enroll at Harvard Divinity School for his graduate work. When the girls and I gave him the iPhone last month, Deena, in charge of all things techie in our household, had been in charge of programming it. Here was proof she’d done it well. Playing away. In my purse.
    I froze. Technology is not my friend. Last week I braved YouTube to watch a video made by Teddy’s class, and instead I got an ancient Belorussian woman singing Polish folk songs. Now every time anyone turns on our computer, the kerchiefed one picks right up where she left off. No one can make her stop. For some reason, they blame me.
    The strains of “Rocky Raccoon” finally ended. By now my cheeks were bright red. I tried to look innocent, but I wasn’t fooling anybody. I stared straight ahead.
    Ed made his way unsteadily to the pulpit, and I closed my eyes in gratitude and humiliation. “Rocky Raccoon” began again.
    This time I knew I couldn’t ignore the phone. Fern Booth knew it, too. I felt her fingers on my shoulder again. “Turn it off!” she said, her breath scalding my neck.
    I grabbed my purse as Ed began the prayer. I am as unfamiliar with the iPhone as I am with quantum physics. But even I could read the directions on the screen. I slid my finger where it told me to, and held the phone up to my ear.
    I don’t think Ed knew what was happening, but as if he felt obliged to make up for wobbling his way through the eulogy, he was nearly shouting