In a moment of angry bravery, Roby stepped forward until he was a few feet from the old man. "Tell me, Johnny. When you died, who ate your pie?"
The old man’s breath came like the stale stench of a grease pit. "Who says I’m dead?"
Roby could only nod. He looked down at the suitcase. He could have looked inside it any time over the past few hours. He could have looked inside the suitcase during any of his dozens of other courier runs. If he wanted answers, he could have found them. Not all, but some.
Even one answer would be too many.
"I’ll give Jacob your regards," Roby said.
"Tell him to come on out and see me sometime," Johnny said.
Roby headed for the truck. He believed that, if he turned, he would find that Johnny Divine had drifted off with the night mist. The garage would be gone. The suitcase and its contents would have never existed.
He started the truck and pulled onto the dirt road. He didn’t glance even once into the rear view mirror.
XI
Jacob Davis Ridgehorn may have been a simple man, a farmer and construction worker, but you would never have guessed it from the attendance at the viewing.
The chapel at Clawson’s Funeral Home was crowded and smelled of cologne, flowers, and Baptists. A line was out the door as neighbors, distant relatives, and local public figures took their turns viewing Jacob in the casket. As they filed past, each person would mutter a few words, say a prayer, or give a somber bow. Then the line led to the members of the immediate family, who shook hands or hugged those who came to pay their last respects.
Or next-to-last, in the case of those who would be attending the funeral itself.
Roby stood with the widow, offering support, keeping her supplied with tissues. Normally the oldest son or daughter ought to handle the chore, but Roby had eased his way into the family cluster and by the widow’s side. Buck and Alfred wore their suits as if they were strait jackets, looking stiff, the flesh of their necks straining over their white shirt collars.
The widow was in a dark blue dress. It was bad luck to wear new clothes to a funeral, and she didn’t own anything in black. Marlene was in a skirt and a blouse that was unbuttoned too far down for such an occasion. She’d been avoiding Roby, staying quieter than usual, keeping to herself. Sarah wore the same print dress as she’d worn for the sitting. Anna Beth wore a yellow sweater and a brown, knee-length dress and shoes that had thick, sloping heels.
They all looked out of place, uncomfortable. But the guest of honor, Jacob, looked as if he had been born for this very moment. His lips and eyes were relaxed, his forehead unwrinkled. Every strand of his gray, thinning hair was in place, curving gently over the peachy sheen of his skull. Barnaby had even plucked the little hairs from his ears. Jacob was radiant under the soft, recessed lights, his casket polished, his body at rest amid the plush interior. He could have been dreaming of a gentle walk toward a distant and brightly-lit gate.
"He looks like he’s sleeping," said a stooped old woman whose blue-rinsed hair was topped with a small black net.
"He’s mighty handsome," said the widow.
"They did a fine job on him, all right."
Roby wanted to step on the old woman’s toes. You’d think she would have learned some manners. After all, she’d probably been to many viewings in her day.
"I only touched him once," the widow said. "Set me off to bawling. His skin was so cold."
"I remember I found my Henry that way, hunched over on the toilet. I thought he was straining away, because he was mighty bound up with constipation there his last few years. But I laid a hand on him, and he was plumb cold. Fell over on the floor and laid there while I screamed."
"Ma’am," Roby said. "Sorry to interrupt, but the line’s long and we don’t want to keep the family out too late."
The old woman bobbed her head in agreement. "I know what you mean. They probably ain’t sleeping much."
She juddered a few steps away and hugged Marlene, then the other girls. "Say, do you know what time the burial is?"
Barnaby Clawson stood near the chapel doors, hands folded and clasped together over the lowest button of his suit jacket. "Ma’am, the information is posted on the sign outside."
The old woman went to him, touched him on the forearm. "You did a fine job on him."
"Thank you, ma’am."
Roby waited until the old woman had exited, made sure the widow was occupied by some concerned neighbors, then went over to Barnaby.
"Marlene didn’t eat none of the pie," Roby said.
"I know," Barnaby said, his practiced expression of sorrow never slipping.
"What am I going to do?"
"Did you ask you-know-who?"
"How come you’re afraid to say his name?"
"Look, a man sees too much in my line of work. Some of it stays behind closed doors. To these folks-" Barnaby gave a small nod to indicate the line of those paying final respects "-the show is everything. We’re all in on the great big lie. Jacob’s gone on but we pay tribute to his flesh in all these little rituals that are supposed to make us feel better."
"Well, you’d be out of a job if it wasn’t for the rituals."
"No. I’m as deep in it as you and Bev Parsons and the old man. We’re maggots eating off the same corpse, when you get right down to it."
"You shoulda known better. You had your face pushed into it all your life."
"My boy," Barnaby said. "He had AIDS. I know he turned out funny, was punished by God and deserved it, but a man will do most anything for his sons, even when they despise him."
"And he’s better now, no sign of it, huh?"
"I don’t ask questions, I just open the suitcase and do what Johnny’s note tells me to do."
"At least you did it out of love. From the goodness of your heart. I reckon that will count for something when you get to Judgment."
"I don’t know," the undertaker said, sounding weary. "I guess we all got our own sins to answer for."
A distant cousin came by, recognizable by the distinct Ridgehorn chin that resembled a burl on an apple tree. He was middle-aged, smelled of bottom-shelf whiskey, and his eyes were watery. "You sure done proud, Mr. Clawson. Jacob looks fresh as a daisy."
Barnaby smiled a little without any of his wrinkles moving. "Thank you, sir. I hate to see him go, but I’m glad I can do my part to help ease his passing."
The man sniffled and moved on, wobbling slightly.
Barnaby dropped his voice again. "We’re all maggots. We all eat the sorrow and then go home, glad that it’s him and not us that had to give up the ghost."
"What if you don’t give it up?" Roby asked, thinking of Johnny Divine’s stubborn belief that he was still alive.
"I’d take the heat of hell over the cold indifference of the dirt. You and me, we know that souls go on, and we believe it more firmly than any church-goer you ever met. We’ve seen it with our own eyes, and that sets us apart."
"I guess it’s kind of a like a holy duty, when you look at it that way." He looked at Marlene, at the exposed fringe of her bra, the soft white curving flesh above it. Harold had arrived and was greeting the widow, taking her frail hands in his large ones. Black grease filled the creases of his fingers and his hair was slicked back with what looked like thirty-weight.
Barnaby put a hand on Roby’s shoulder. "It’s the least you could do for poor old Jacob."
Roby nodded. "Yeah, I reckon." Then, after a pause, he said, "Has Glenn Isenhour come by?"
"They wheeled him in this morning. Don’t worry. He’ll get his turn. He don’t deserve no less."
"And the suitcase?"
"You don’t need to know too much about my part. And I don’t want to know about yours."
Roby felt Barnaby press something into his palm. He took it, glanced down, then slipped it in his pocket.