Sarah, for sure, would reject the notion that Christians, whatever their beliefs about heaven, are to be pitied Christian Life provides meaning for her in the here and now. Children her age do not think about death, anyway. In my work I can’t seem to avoid it.
Shane follows with a eulogy, and I listen closely to see if he will lay down any clues about Chet’s death or his own possible role in Art’s murder. Once again, I realize Chet’s death can be understood as a conscious decision not to betray Shane. Is that why he killed himself? After recounting an anecdote about Chet’s boyhood in Helena, Shane says, “Almost immediately after becoming licensed, Chet established himself as one of the better defense attorneys in the state, and within a decade my lawyer friends tell me he was with out equal in his chosen field. Now, I’m sure, like a lot of you, I have questioned the value of so many lawyers in our society. The very afternoon after I baptized him we were sitting in my” study and I asked him how he could continue to represent people who are considered the lowest form of life in our society drug dealers, pornographers, murderers, child abusers. And you know what he told me? He said, “Pastor Norman’ I couldn’t get him to call me Shane back then ‘what you can’t really know is that these people are not always guilty, as the public thinks they are. Most of them are poor;
some are addicted to drugs or alcohol; many are without education; but all are at the mercy of the system when it cranks itself up and decides to get rid of them.” He said, “Pastor, you know much better than I do that it was the prostitutes, the thieves, the despised, the sick in mind and body that our Lord and Savior cast his lot with during his ministry. I can’t turn my back on these people, especially now that I have such joy and hope in my own life….” ” Dan nudges me sharply in the ribs and whispers, “I give you two to one, now he’s gonna mention Leigh.”
Shane pauses to take a sip of water from the glass on the lectern.
“And, lo and behold, my own daughter, in the eyes of society, not the members of this church, praise God, became one of the despised Chet talked about that day. As everyone here knows, Leigh, my youngest and gentlest child, has been accused of murder.
Unable to find the killer of her husband, the authorities have pointed their fingers at her. So, finally, brothers and sisters, my own arrogance and assumptions about persons accused of crime have dropped away, because I know my daughter is innocent of murder. And, as many of you already know, Chet volunteered to undertake her defense free, out of gratitude, he told me.
So it was an enormous shock to me personally when yesterday, on the morning Leigh’s trial was to begin, he took his own life. So that we can put the gossip mongers to rest, Wynona Cody, Chet’s widow, has authorized me to state that Chet was suffering from terminal cancer and was in great pain that was no longer being completely controlled by medication.”
The overflowing congregation (folding chairs have been placed in the aisles) sits rapt as Shane stops to swallow more water. I wonder if he is more nervous than I realize. This story can’t be easy, even if he has conducted a thousand funerals.
“Even as my heart aches for Wynona, Trey, Chet’s family and friends, and for my own loss because I considered Chet a personal friend,” Shane says, almost shyly, “I have not been able to avoid worrying how his death will affect my daughter’s defense. Again with Wynona’s permission, I am going to ask Mr. Gideon Page, if he is here, to stand.”
When I hear my name, it almost doesn’t register that he has asked me to get to my feet. How can he do this in a funeral? But it is his church. He can do anything he wants. Will he ask me to speak? Agree to refuse to try the case tomorrow? I try to fight down a rising sense of panic that I will be humiliated if I acknowledge my presence. Dan’s elbow stings my ribs again.
“Get up!” he whispers.
“He obviously knows you’re here.”
I push myself up, sweat pouring down my sides. I feel as though I were in one of those dreams I’ve had where I am naked in front of other people but can’t quite seem to get my clothes on. Shane says, “Mr.
Page’s daughter, Sarah, has begun coming to our services and been assigned a ‘family,” so I feel he is almost a member himself. Please bow your heads.”
What is he doing? I close my eyes, almost expecting to be shot. Instead, Shane offers a simple and eloquent prayer for my efforts on Leigh’s behalf. When he concludes, he nods for me to sit down and when I have done so, his voice slightly apologetic, he says, “I think Chet would have wanted us to pray for Mr. Page.”
While Shane continues in a more traditional manner, mentioning Chet’s family in Helena by name and telling a couple of anecdotes obviously supplied by his family, Dan mutters out the side of his mouth, “Talk about slick! He’s boxed you in tighter than a rubber on a donkey’s dick.”
Hoping no one has overheard this pearl of wisdom, I nod, so he won’t feel compelled to repeat himself. Is this what Shane was after? I concede the possibility.
How could I dare stand up in court tomorrow and accuse him of murder? No wonder Leigh refused to come with me. He would have had her come up and stand beside him. Yet, the sincerity I have heard in Shane’s voice leads me to believe otherwise. When he began to speak, he seemed like a man caught up in events entirely out of his control, admitting he had no more access to the mind of God than his congregation. All he can do is pray. Hardly a diabolical act, since that is what preachers do.
After more prayer and Scripture, the service ends, and I am surrounded by people, wishing me well on Leigh’s behalf. So many people speak (none I know), it takes a full ten minutes to move from the sanctuary to the front steps. I get a glimpse of Jill walking to the parking lot and wonder if it ever crossed her mind to investigate Shane. I tell Dan to wait for me in the car, because I should speak to Wynona and Trey. Chet will be buried in Helena, which is more than two hours to the east, so Dan and I will not be going to the graveside service.
It takes another ten minutes in line to work my way up to the black limousines where mourners are consoling the family. Tongue-tied as usual in these situations, I simply hug Wynona, who squeezes me hard against her. She and I are the last persons who saw Chet alive.
Wynona, surprisingly dressed in gay colors (red and green) rather than the traditional black, whispers, “Call me when the trial is over.” I nod, and she does not say more. I turn to Trey, who is standing beside her. In his little suit with his hair slicked down, he looks like one of those small-town-looking kids Norman Rockwell used to draw for the Saturday Evening Post. If Chet has sinned by taking his life, it is against Trey. By his expression he doesn’t have a clue.
“Hi, Mr. Page,” he says, his face brightening when he sees me, offering his hand to me the way his stepfather would have wanted him to.
“I hope you do good in the trial,” he says.
“I wanted to come, but Mom won’t let me.”
My hand swallows his, but I let him squeeze, remembering the pressure of his previous handshakes. I can’t imagine he even knows what he is saying, but maybe he thinks he would see chet’s ghost instead of a pale substitute.
“Gotta do what your mom says,” I tell him.
“I’ll come out and see you and her next week, okay?”
“Great,” he says.
“Maybe we can play some catch.
It’s almost baseball season.”
“Yeah,” I tell him, amazed at this child’s aplomb.
“That’d be fun. We’ll do that.”
Riding back downtown to the office with Dan, I have the feeling I am fighting to wake up from a dream. I tell Dan about Trey, and his face softens. He would like to have a kid in the worst way.
“What a little trouper,” he says admiringly, as he barrels down the freeway at seventy miles an hour.