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in a lush purple robe, and is ushered to the altar by a flock of boys in fluttering white tunics. He turns his back to us, raises his arms to the huge crucifix above the tabernacle, lowers them in prayer, and proceeds to a lectern at the left side of the altar, where he begins to speak. He has a boyish face and a clear, calm voice; I try to listen but feel as if cotton is plugging my ears. I’m deaf to religion, and can only fidget. The service drags on and on. You’d think the lack of a body would make things go a little faster.
    Finally the priest leaves the altar, makes his magisterial way down the center aisle, robe flapping. Thomasina and Noah are quick to fall in behind him. Ned’s parents and sister and her family are forced to follow in her wake. Thomasina surprises me with her solemn carriage and dignity; in a pinch she is able to fall back on impeccable upper-class breeding. It’s Phyllis who’s red and heaving, dabbing her eyes. We mourners let them pass, give them plenty of room. The family of the deceased occupies an inner circle of grief that everyone wants to honor, and avoid.
    People begin to file out of the pews. I stay behind, strangely reluctant to leave. I needed something from this service. Some kind of solace, I guess. My eyes fill with an image of Ned, glassy-eyed and bloated, floating a few feet off the scoured-by-trawlers ocean floor, his hair waving around his skull like sea grass in the current, one of the lobsters he wanted to catch trundling across his orange quilted vest.
    My gaze wanders blindly across the painted statues of saints, the flickering red votive candles, the wood-carved stations of the cross. All of it designed to reconcile humanity to suffering and death. I heartily wish that the weird myths of religion worked for me, but they don’t. Still, right now I can’t seem to tear myself away. What if I’m missing something hidden in plain sight? What if I’m wrong?
    I manage to collect myself and join the last stragglers flowing into the marble foyer. There’s a commotion at the front door. I can’t see through the people, but I hear raised voices, then, heart sinking, Thomasina’s shriek.
    â€œWhat are you doing? Take your hands off me!”
    I push my way forward, and the first thing I see when I break through the crowd is Phyllis, stiff and bloated with rage, barring the exit against Thomasina and Noah. She’s wearing a small round hat, dark coat, and dark pumps; her hair is tightly curled and sprayed. She looks like a woman who has worked hard, sacrificed much, asked for little, and played by the rules. A woman, therefore, who considers bitterness her right. One hand clutches a small black purse close to her chest; the other has apparently just shoved Thomasina.
    â€œHow dare you walk in front of us! How dare you come here at all! You ruined my son—he was never the same after he went with you. And now you barge in here and take the first pew as though you were his wife. Why did you come? You don’t belong here! You have no right to walk in front of us!”
    I wince. I see Noah stiffen. Thomasina reaches for his hand. Dozens of people are watching, and no one makes a sound.
    At this point Ned’s father, standing slightly behind his wife, snaps out of his dazed disbelief and steps forward, takes Phyllis by the elbow, and steers her to the door. She stumbles out, her face painfully red, calling over her shoulder, “Look at you! You come into a church dressed that way—like a slut! I don’t care if I burn in hell for saying—”
    The massive door closes on her voice, and the crowd stands stock-still for a moment. Then people begin to move again, to dip their fingers into the holy water and make the sign of the cross with bowed heads and mumbled prayers. It’s as if they’ve decided that whatever just happened maybe didn’t. Or, if it did, it can’t be helped now. Nevertheless, in