37: Last Stand

June was nearly gone. The morning clouds had drifted away, leaving behind wet sidewalks and the scent of daylilies outside Saint Theodora Church. Daria and Jane stood alone on the steps beneath the looming steeple, a light breeze lifting Jane's jet black hair and sending her perfume—something dark and just a touch sweet—to dance around Daria.

They had awoken at dawn and driven several hours to the town where Daria's grandmother was born. Ruth had returned there when her husband died, found friends to join for morning coffee, and recently moved into assisted living. When she suffered a massive stroke in the middle of the night and passed away, her family discovered she had moved in with a kindly octogenarian named Charlie.

Charlie was already at the church when Ruth's family arrived that morning, his watery blue eyes and tweed jacket with tissues spilling from the pocket telling the story of a man who'd lost someone he loved very much. Jake had first spoken with him the night Ruth died, and he knew very little about the man who'd shared his mother's last days.

Daria turned to Jane on the rapidly drying steps and said, "My mom will come get us when it's time for the procession."

Jane looked confused. "The procession? Like some kind of . . . death parade?" Daria gave a little nod. Jane rested a hand on the railing and looked off into the distance, her eyes finding the place where the tree-lined street met the sky. "At my great uncle's funeral, my family did mushrooms and painted with his ashes." Daria gave her a you're shitting me look. Jane raised her hands in a defensive posture and said, "He wanted us to!"

A little laugh escaped Daria. "Just visualize that, and then remove every ounce of joy and personality."

"Oh. Like a candy necklace that's just a stri—" She broke off suddenly as a cluster of elderly mourners rounded the corner. Daria and Jane gave them polite nods as they ascended the steps, and a moment later, Helen stepped out into the morning light. She cut a striking figure in her plum colored skirt suit, posture perfect as ever and her mahogany hair—colored frequently in recent years in defiance of grays—shining in the sun. She took a slow, deep breath of morning air and released it in a controlled stream. Daria watched her mother gather herself in real time like a ship in a bottle with its string pulled, sails rising to meet the wind on a painted sea. Gazing toward the street's distant end, Helen asked quietly, "Ready, girls?"

They followed her through the heavy wooden doors and sped up to match her stride as her low, black heels clicked over the old hardwood floor. They made a left turn before reaching the gathering space and entered a religion classroom for small children. As they joined the group of Ruth's family members preparing for the funeral procession, Daria noticed she was being watched by colorful drawings of saints—including a particularly morbid child's depiction of Saint John the Baptist, his head on a platter and cascading down crayon blood while a pigtailed stick figure in a triangular skirt looked on with insane glee.

Daria turned her attention to the small and rather round funeral director, who was just now beginning her procession tutorial for the bereaved. Although she maintained an appropriately neutral expression for the most part, her bubbly nature couldn't be contained. It shimmered through in pink lipstick, the tiny yellow flowers on her navy blue gown, and the many gestures of her fluttering hands. She wrapped up her overview of the day's events by starting a "hug chain" that wound its way around the room, then presenting Jake and his sister Angeline with handmade cards. As she began to line up the mourners with the aid of a mnemonic device she'd created, Daria whispered to Jane, "It's like the Cat in the Hat presiding over the Nuremberg Trials." The corner of Jane's mouth twitched as she closed her eyes and fought off a laugh.

They took their places by Quinn, whose nail polish somehow perfectly matched the pink satin ribbon around the waist of her black gown, and murmured brief hellos. Then the procession began to move, and soon they were taking their places in an uncomfortable wooden pew.

As the pallbearers shifted the weight of the casket onto the bier, Daria looked through stained-glass filtered sunlight to her terrifying Aunt Angeline. Daria's aunt ("Angel" for short, ironically) had an air of permanent coldness that went well with her ice-blue gaze and the tight, pale blonde ponytail at the nape of her neck. Her build was light and strong, and from what Daria understood, she was an excellent personal trainer. Helen had once said she thought some of Angel's clients paid extra for the humiliation. Because Jake and his older sister rarely spoke, Daria only saw her at occasional family events. Angel's decidedly unathletic husband was so sweet that Daria suspected it was a hostage situation.

Daria's train of thought was interrupted by the priest's welcome, and the ceremony began. The thing she was most conscious of as gospels and psalms washed over her was her wife's cool, steady hand in her own. Meanwhile, Jane observed the unfamiliar service as intently as an anthropologist dropped into the lost city of Atlantis. Jake wept quietly, Helen gently caressed his back, and Angel tried to check emails on her phone as discreetly as possible.

Soon, they were standing on a sunny hillside in a very old cemetery as the hour crept toward noon. The wind had picked up, and it fluttered through the pink roses and white lilies atop Ruth's casket as her priest spoke the final words.

It was a quiet, crowded ride back to church for the luncheon. Daria was sandwiched between Quinn and Jane in the back seat of Helen's compact SUV, occasionally getting poked by a manicured nail or a stiletto heel as her sister tried to get comfortable. Jane mostly looked out her window at the passing cottages and periodically checked to make sure her wife wasn't bleeding.

When they returned to the church, Helen led the way to the hall where luncheon was being served. Daria and Jane joined the line for sandwiches and potato salad, and as Daria waited for the pickles with paper plate in hand, she took a moment to look around the room. She was considering how many funerals Ruth's silver-haired guests had attended on average in the past six months when she noticed her family's table had a new member, and he was sitting across from Jake with his back to Daria.

Beyond the old man's thin frame with its baby-fine white hair, Jake's mouth was set in a grim line. A bit concerned, Daria quickly speared her pickle and followed Jane back to the table. As they got settled, Daria saw the conversation had migrated to the late Ruth's beau, Charlie, and his career as a professor at Middleton College. Their mystery guest was observing, stone faced and silent, beside Daria. Helen remarked, "Charlie, what a small world. Jake and I both went to Middleton."

Charlie raised his eyebrows and asked, "Did either of you take a philosophy class? That was my wheelhouse, you know." Daria could swear she heard the faintest scoff from the man on her left.

Jake replied, "Actually, yes. Did you ever wear a tie-dye necktie and a Grateful Dead lapel pin? I think there was a peace sign, too."

Charlie smiled faintly. "Well, I did. They were relics from the Vietnam era."

This time, there was a completely audible snort from Daria's left. The mysterious gentleman cut in with, "You know, some men had to fight in that war."

Unshaken, Charlie quietly responded, "I never had an issue with the people, just the policies."

Jake shifted uncomfortably in his chair and made an attempt at a casual tone. "Charlie, this is my late father's friend." He paused, sounding a touch frightened as he added, "Jeremiah Tate."

Jeremiah remarked, "We served together." He shifted his focus to Jake. "I thought when your dad sent you off to military school it would toughen you up, but I see you ended up taking philosophy classes at a beatnik college anyway." The disdain was thick in his words, but he made a half-hearted effort to veil it all with a thin smile.

Since everyone at the table knew a little something about Jake's dreadful relationship with his cruel father, it suddenly grew very quiet. Helen's gaze slid over to her husband, who was either deep in thought or had lapsed into a coma with a forkful of potato salad halfway to his mouth. Slowly, he lowered the potential poking device to his plate. Daria couldn't read his utterly blank expression and searched for Jane's hand under the table. She found it just as Jake was wiping his fingers on a napkin, which he crumpled and tossed lightly onto the remnants of his potato salad. He said quietly, "No, I guess it didn't toughen me up after all. And you know something? I don't think I'll ever forgive the bastard."