faces in the receiving line. One person he’d been pleased to recognize was now sitting in the back of the church. Mr. Kadziolka had given him a warm handshake as he’d made his way down the queue. CJ would have liked the chance to speak with him, to talk shop a bit, to see how the old place was holding up, but the press of people hadn’t made that possible.
He didn’t realize his sister was at his side until she spoke.
“They’re only here because of his last name,” Maryann said.
CJ hadn’t liked Maryann when they were growing up. She was the middle sibling, older than he was by three years, younger than Graham by an equal margin. Yet in some ways she’d taken on the role of eldest child in that she’d grown up faster and had perfected a late teen’s contempt for adults while still in middle school.
It appeared the passage of time had not pressed a diamond from this lump of coal. It probably wasn’t fair for him to make that determination after only two days, but he was pretty good at snap judgments. And where Maryann was concerned, there was much obvious material with which to render a verdict. The fact that she still talked like a sailor didn’t help her case.
Too, he’d heard rumors that Maryann had taken on a new gig—stealing from the store she managed. The only ones he’d heard speak of it were immediate family, and CJ had learned enough to understand the theft had been occurring for years, and the only reason they were concerned about it now was because of the potential for damaging Graham’s campaign. It said a lot about both Maryann and CJ’s family.
The problem was that despite Maryann’s obvious failings, in this case she was probably right: most of these people were here because of the Baxter name. Not that it mattered much. All of them were here for their own reasons, and that included Sal’s family. This day meant different things for each of them. He was in no position to judge the various motives represented by the sea of bodies.
“Then worry about those who knew him,” he said before leaving his sister at the door.
The priest was talking to CJ’s father, another family member CJ had only briefly addressed. But unlike Maryann, CJ would have to talk to his father eventually. He just didn’t have to like it.
All of a sudden it seemed too warm in the room. CJ saw a door on the other side and headed for it, passing by his father without looking at him and hitting the metal door harder than necessary.
The air outside was crisp; it was the kind of air that made him wish he hadn’t given up smoking. Except for the occasional cigar, he didn’t light up anymore, and he normally didn’t miss it, but right now he really wanted a cigarette. He jammed his hands into the pockets of his suit jacket and took a deep breath, which was one of the things they taught you to do when you were hit with a craving. It didn’t help.
“Tough day?”
He hadn’t heard Julie come out, but she was at his side like a specter appearing from nowhere.
“Try getting a manuscript back from your editor,” CJ said. “That’s a tough day.”
Julie’s laugh was light and it matched the look in her eyes.
CJ started dating Julie when he was a junior, and she a freshman. They’d remained a couple until the summer before CJ left for Vanderbilt. By then, CJ’s relations with his family had driven a wedge between him and the whole of Adelia which, as CJ regretted for a long time afterward, encompassed Julie. When he’d left for Tennessee, he didn’t even say goodbye. She’d sent him a single letter, to which he hadn’t responded. He hadn’t even opened it. It was amazing how the passage of so much time had not helped to diminish how much one could feel like a heel.
“I can imagine,” she said. “If I remember correctly, you never liked to be told you were wrong.”
He gave her a puzzled look.
“I’m not sure where you’re getting that from,” he said. “I’m usually pretty agreeable.”
She gave a half smile—more of a smirk—then said, “Second grade. The BB gun.”
He didn’t remember right away; it took one long look at her amused, expectant face before it came to him, and with the memory came a smile of his own.
“It sank in there pretty good,” he said.
“A half inch