on McIntyre Street, so I dropped Hilda off and went to find a parking place. By the time I got back to the cathedral, Hilda was in an intense conversation with the Dean. I waved to them and made my way to the chapel. The last time I’d been there had been on Mieka and Greg’s wedding day. It had been at 2:00 in the afternoon, and the late summer sun had poured through the stained-glass windows, suffusing my daughter and her new husband in a glow warm as a blessing. As she knelt at the altar, Mieka’s profile, under the filmy circle of her bridal hat, had been a cameo. Today the shafts of light that split the chapel’s gloom were murky, and as the rain drummed against the windows, I shivered with a nameless apprehension. I slid into a pew, pulled down a kneeler, and prayed that my daughter would come through childbirth safely and that the new baby would be whole and healthy. Then I prayed for my other children, and for Eli and Alex and for all of us.
When Hilda came and knelt beside me, I felt foolishly relieved. I was the mother of four, and soon I would be a grandmother; nonetheless, there were times when I was overwhelmed by the need to hand over all my problems to a grown-up. That morning was one of them.
As we walked back into the church, Hilda touched my arm. “Did you say a prayer for Mieka?” she asked.
“Among others,” I said. “How about you?”
She gave me a wry smile. “I prayed for strength.”
When the service got under way, I found myself hoping that Hilda’s prayers would be answered. Justine Blackwell’s funeral was a standing-room-only affair, but despite the crowding, the congregation had divided itself to reflect the two warring halves of Justine’s life. On one side of the church sat men and women whose bearing and grooming suggested a privileged past and a promising future; on the other were people with wary eyes and faces which spoke of their hard lives. Hilda and I took our places with those whose cause Justine had championed in the last year of her life. During the wait for the service to begin, the two camps regarded one another with mutual suspicion, but when the first chord of the opening hymn sounded, all eyes followed Justine Blackwell’s daughters as Eric Fedoruk led them up the aisle.
The Blackwell women were a striking trio: Lucy, in a black scoop-necked, miniskirted, floral-print dress, seemed more seductress than mourner; Signe, her thick blonde hair braided into a Valkyrie’s coronet, looked powerful enough to storm Valhalla; Tina, in black from head to toe, head covered by a lace mantilla, face hidden behind a black veil, suggested minor European royalty. When they took their place in the front pew, the church fell silent. Almost immediately, there was a second stir. Wayne J. Waters may have been wearing a cheap, ill-fitting suit, but he carried himself with the unmistakable air of a man who demanded respect. When he slid into the pew opposite the Blackwell sisters, it was obvious the show was about to begin.
For a while, it seemed Hilda had made all the right choices. The Mozart mass she had selected was pure beauty; the carefully barbered young men who had accompanied Justine’s mahogany casket to the altar disappeared on cue; the Dean’s prayers were comforting; and the eulogy by Eric Fedoruk was affectionate without being mawkish. He made no reference to the direction Justine’s life had taken in the year before she died. When Eric Fedoruk went back to his seat, I glanced down at my program. All that was left was the closing prayer and the recessional. I picked up my purse and let my mind wander to thoughts of curling up on the couch with the Saturday paper and a pot of Earl Grey.
Suddenly, Hilda sat up ramrod straight, cutting short my reverie. Wayne J. Waters had slid out of his seat and started up the aisle towards the casket. As he reached it, he nodded, touched the lid affectionately, then turned to face the congregation. For a moment, I thought he was going to share one of those painful personal memories that have become the vogue at funerals. I was wrong.
“This one’s for Justine,” he said. “Not the judge Mr. Fedoruk was talking about, but the woman I knew. I learned this for her, because it was her favourite.” In a deep and