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in my tracks. I closed my eyes. I couldn't breathe. It felt as if the funeral home itself was pushing me back, telling me to run back to the Bronco and get the hell out of town while I still could. Why did I come up to Columbus in the first place, it whispered? Why dredge up all those horrible memories? Why? The obituaries? They must have been a mistake, some crazy coincidence or somebody's idea of a cruel joke. Whatever, they weren't worth this price.
    I wanted very much to give in, to cut and run, but I couldn't let myself do that. I forced my eyes open and stared at the front door, focusing on it, on the glass and my reflection. I saw my face and forced myself to concentrate on Terri and to remember why I had come here to Ohio. They could fool with me, but not with Terri and not with my memories. With those thoughts, I took a deep breath, then another, and slowly, slowly, I blew on the coals, again and again until the anger burst into flames and became a raging bonfire inside me again. I needed it and I used it, because my memories of Terri were the one weapon I had to keep my feet moving forward. The anger. It was my ally. It built and churned inside me and I knew it was the weapon I would use to defeat anything this funeral home could throw at me.
    I gritted my teeth and pushed on through those front doors, but the Greene Funeral Home wasn't done with me yet. Once inside, I felt the sticky-sweet smell of cut flowers and the soft drone of organ music wrap themselves around me like a hot, wet blanket. It brought back all the pain, the grief, and the plastic insincerity. It turned my stomach. I wobbled back and forth fighting the nausea, trying desperately to keep my grip on the anger, because without it, I could never force myself to go on.
    I took a deep breath and slowly opened my eyes. I was standing in a spacious foyer. Muted lighting. Soft pastel colors. Carpet so thick you could sink into it up to your ankles. And the furniture? Ethan Allen, top of the line. The music? Probably a twelve-hour tape. The sweet flower smell? Some phony spray in the air conditioning ducts. That way, Greene could use artificial flowers and save a ton of money. Well, at least the place wouldn't play havoc with my allergies. As for my claustrophobia? No help there. Funeral homes closed in and squeeze the life out of me like a giant Anaconda every time I stepped inside one. Maybe that was why I hated them. That, and too many dead people.
    In the center of the foyer stood a large pedestal table with a monstrously large flower arrangement that looked like a bomb had gone off in a Hawaiian garden. A wide, carpeted hallway went off to the right and to the left with a chapel on each side. The doors on the closest two were open, but the two at the far end were closed. On each side of the corridor, I saw a black, framed plaque on the wall. The one on the left read “Schirmberger” in gold press-on letters. The one on the right read “Talbott.” Beneath the family name, in smaller type, I saw “Peter and Theresa.” I stood there and stared at the plaque. Terri hated that name “Theresa” and seeing it in bright gold letters pushed me right to the edge. My memories of Terri were intensely private and these clowns had no right to stomp around inside my head with their dirty work boots. It made me want to rip that black plaque off the wall and jam it and the Hawaiian flower arrangement down someone's throat.
    The doors to the “Talbott” chapel were wide open. At the door stood a small writing stand with a curved reading lamp, an open guest book, and a ballpoint pen. I walked over and looked down. The book was open. The page was blank. Not a single entry. Somehow, that didn't surprise me.
    Well, as the guest of honor, I didn't think it was polite to hold things up, so I stepped inside. The chapel had perhaps fifteen long, wooden pews on each side and could easily hold a couple of hundred people if it had to. Today it didn't. The crowd consisted