Chapter 18: The Memorial Dinner

The fellowship hall smelled of coffee and ham casserole.

There were a dozen long tables and a hundred and twenty folding chairs.

A framed photo of Dean's brother stood on an easel by the stage.

He was grinning in it, in a hard hat.

I sat at a middle table with my mother on one side and my father on the other.

Nobody had stopped me at the door.

Joan had seen me come in, and she had looked at me for a long time.

Then she had turned back to the pastor and said something low.

Dorothy sat at the head table beside her, in a black dress, with her hands in her lap.

Ricky was down the hall in the children's room, coloring with a church volunteer.

Eli stood at the very back, beside the coat rack, in the one jacket he owned.

When I looked, he lifted his chin a fraction.

I folded my hands on the paper tablecloth.

The pastor said a prayer.

Then he said, "And now a few words from the family," and Dean stepped up to the lectern.

He wore a navy suit and a black tie, and his hair was wet and flat.

He adjusted the microphone and let the room settle.

"Thank you all for coming," he said. "My brother would have hated this fuss."

People laughed softly, wiping their eyes.

He was good at it. I had forgotten how good.

"Three years ago I lost the best man I knew," Dean said.

"He taught me that you take care of your own. Family comes first, even when it's hard."

He looked down at his notes, and his voice thickened.

"Some of you have noticed my wife isn't here."

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