The funeral of Sarah Grubin took place on a foggy afternoon. Our local church wouldn't take her casket, so we gave her a sea burial. Her body sailed off at 6 PM on a boat headed for a cemetery on an island nearby.
How miserable did the visitation render its patrons? You wouldn't have to look far to find a happy face, for contrasting Frederick's sullen eyes laughed the gullet of Charlie, son of the harbourmaster. He and I don't get along at the best of times, and this time I found myself tasked with escorting him off the premises.
People watched with disapproving grace as I led him off the harbour. He refused to see the "big deal" about his conduct, and he wouldn't listen to reason. There's a time and a place, see, and a corpse's greeting strikes me as the kind of situation for which you'd leave your joys at home. But stubbornness will be stubbornness, so the two of us stood just out of the area until he'd calm down.
Charlie assured me his laughter had been produced by a friend's joke, and I in return assured him I understood. "I was asked to help you out, so that's what I'm here for."
He questioned who sent me, saying he could take care of himself if people let him know of his inappropriate actions.
"I don't want this to become another feud. Just don't worry about who asked me," I said as I lit up.
He proceeded to mock me for my tobacco habits. "How is smoking at a funeral any more appropriate?"
I replied, "I'm smoking to Sarah's memory. Frederick appreciates it."
"Does he really, or are you just using it as an excuse?"
I asked him if he thought I needed one.
"Good point. You're the kind of brute who smokes more than he breathes." Charlie walked back to his house without another word.
The rest of the funeral continued without interruption. Frederick returned to his home a newly-lonely man, inviting me in for a cigar.
We savoured the taste in mourning, taking sips of cider until darkness took our vision, sleep's serenade our siren in the deafness of grief.
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