16 “I never did,” I say truthfully enough. Is avoiding an uncomfortable truth as bad as selling a falsehood? Guilt pricks, prompting me to amend my statement. “But we were acquainted for eighteen years or so.” “Ah.” The Drooper nods. “He was my son. I never thought he’d go first.” “Accidents are a terrible shock.” “Yes. Yes, they are.” We hold our positions in silence. I stroke yesterday morning’s stubble, occupying tensed hands in seemingly calm repetition. The Drooper lets the stillness between us hang for a few seconds, then sighs and begins creaking toward the funeralgoers. The left leg, the one supported by the cane, buckles. I leap from my bench and grab him by the coattails before he can sink into the mud. “Thank you,” he gasps. “My knees. Not what they used to be.” None of us ever seem to be, I note but refrain from saying. “Good thing I was here to catch you, then.” He nods. “Would you mind helping me over to the coffin?” I blink slowly. I had not planned on approaching the coffin. Hovering in the funeral’s background seemed fitting to my relationship with the deceased. But how can I refuse to help an old man, even this old man? His son was not—what, not his fault? A stupid question. But even if I refuse, he probably won’t make it over. I think I don’t want to refuse, regardless. “Of course,” I say, painting on a smile. I was never as good with brushes as I am with pens.
RkJQdWJsaXNoZXIy MTM4ODY=