“What choice does she have? This is the latest medicine there is for what she’s got.”
“I just—I don’t know. It scares me, you know?” I said. “So listen, I’ve got news, too.”
“Tell it,” she said.
“Sharon died of natural causes. Not one bee sting. The coroner’s office released her body.”
“Dear God! What a relief! You going to the funeral?”
“I don’t think so. Maybe I should send flowers,” I said.
“Send flowers? You could just donate flowers! What the hell is going on in our yard?”
“The bees are pollinating like mad, probably celebrating the death of the evil one. But, if there is a funeral, I don’t feel good about going. I don’t want to see her parents.”
“You’re chicken shit, you know that? They won’t even know who you are. I’ll come with you.”
Sharon’s obituary was printed in the Post & Courier the next morning and it also gave the details of her funeral. There was to be no wake. And Momma was to go into MUSC the day following the funeral.
“She was a Catholic!” Momma said. “What do you know?”
“You never know,” Leslie said. “She sure didn’t appear to be a devout anything except a dedicated pain in the butt.”
“Amen to that. Momma? If your tumor was a big panic, your doctors would have you there, like, right now,” I said.
“That’s true! That’s got to make you feel some better,” Leslie said.
“Oh, yeah, I feel really great about having a cancerous tumor on my liver,” she said. “I should call Suzanne. I promised I would.”
“We’ve got to get you your own cell phone,” Leslie said.
“I have a very strong feeling that you’re going to be fine,” I said, even though I had no such feeling.
“Sweet Mother of God, I hope you’re right,” Momma said.
And then there was the discussion of the funeral.
“The gates of hell opened wide when she croaked,” Momma said. “I smell sulfur.”
“Momma! You know it’s bad luck to speak ill of the dead!” I said.
“I’ll take my chances,” Momma said.
“Sulfur,” Leslie said. “You’re terrible.”
The QB harrumphed.
“What am I going to wear to this?” I said.
“Wear your beekeeper getup,” Momma said. “You know, make a statement.”
“Boy, Momma, you’re on a roll today!”
Leslie said, “If I were you, I’d wear anything but black.”
“Too bad I can’t wear that pink dress,” I said.
Even Leslie agreed. “It’s a bit bright for a funeral. Let’s dig in my closet. I might have something.”
There was a navy linen sheath dress we decided was just right. And my neutral sandals from the wedding were fine with it.
“Well, it’s a good thing we’re about the same size,” I said.
“Wear sunglasses,” Momma said. “Be mysterious.”
“Was she like this in Las Vegas?” I asked.
“She?” Momma said.
“We know. We know. Meow,” Leslie said.
Momma cleared her throat. “I think we should all go to the funeral. After all, we are their neighbors.”
What Momma really meant, and she had not taken this position often, was that she wanted to be there if anyone tried to corner me or blame me. I had my mother and sister on my side.
“Dial Suzanne for me,” Momma said.
Leslie did and handed Momma the phone. Momma got up and headed to her bedroom to have a private conversation.
“Momma’s sweet on Suzanne, whose real name is Buster.”
“No kidding?”
“Yeah. Like seriously sweet.”
“Wow.”
The next morning at nine thirty, we piled into Leslie’s Benz and rolled down Middle Street to Stella Maris Church. The bells in the tower were ringing a mournful dirge.
Everyone on the island loved a good funeral, and given the circumstances of Sharon’s death, it was no surprise that the church was packed to the rafters. And it was the second time Archie and his boys were burying someone in a short period of time. I recognized many people from part-time teaching at the Island Elementary School, and I assumed there were a lot of Archie’s colleagues present as well. There were many massive flower arrangements on the altar and the tone was appropriately somber.
Archie and his boys followed the casket up the aisle and were seated in the front row on the left. We were in the back of the other side of the church. Momma and Leslie were giving tiny smiles of recognition and little waves to people whose eye they caught. I was engrossed in prayer and self-examination. I was deeply troubled by the reality of Sharon’s funeral and the fact that whether or not I was directly or indirectly involved, there was still suspicion, even in my own conscience, that some of the responsibility