The parlor smelled like lilies and the lemon oil they used on the podium and the particular cool of a room that had been air-conditioned for grief. Soft lamps. Rows of chairs with paper programs on the seats. A guest book open to a page already half full of names that meant well. The casket was polished and closed for the moment the director had asked for, then open again because Vera Lang had said she would not have him shut before the people who loved him had seen his face. She was sixty-two. Black dress. Pearls her husband had given her at forty, the clasp tight. She stood by the casket with her hand on the wood and not on him.
In the family row, where Auntie Ruth should have been sitting, a woman sat in a simple black coat. Forty, or near it. Hands around a locket worn smooth at the edge. She was not family. Keisha Lang, thirty-five, black dress, program crushed in one fist, saw the chair and the coat and the locket and did not stay quiet.
“Mama, who is that in Daddy’s row? She is sitting where Auntie should be sitting.”