The Second Sister by Marie Bostwick Page B

the room took up the cry, howling mournfully as the casket was carried down the aisle and out the door.
    It was an odd way to end a funeral, but also strangely appropriate. As I watched the rose-covered casket carrying my sister’s remains being loaded into the hearse for the journey to the cemetery, I couldn’t help but think that Alice would have approved.

Chapter 11
    S itting in the back of a black sedan for the return trip from the cemetery, I felt drained. I wanted nothing more than to go back to Barney’s house, crawl under the covers, and not speak to anyone for two or three days. But there was one more piece of the ritual yet to be performed, the post-funeral reception.
    The car pulled up in front of St. Agnes’s. Mr. Sedgwick’s eldest son, Danny, jumped out of the driver’s seat and ran around the car to open the door for me. The chill November air was startling after sitting in the warmth of the sedan. I stood on the sidewalk and watched as a long line of cars, stretching all the way around the corner, pulled into the church parking lot. One of those cars carried the FOA, who I really needed to talk to, so I could thank them for the quilt. Another carried Peter Swenson, who I really hoped to avoid.
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    In Nilson’s Bay, funerals are potluck affairs.
    People brought Crock-Pots of baked beans, trays of whole sliced hams, pans of lasagna, casserole dishes of Swedish meatballs, and platters of deviled eggs, as well as bowls of layered salads, cabbage salads, gelatin salads, pasta salads, and untold numbers of desserts. They laid them out on the waiting tables, set up by some women who had stayed behind during the graveside service to make sure everything was ready for our return. Almost immediately, a line formed and people began helping themselves to the buffet, piling their plates high.
    Looking over the heads in the crowd, I saw Peter Swenson talking with Mr. Coates, who was holding his bulldog in his arms and shaking his jowly face in response to whatever it was Peter was saying. They were deep in conversation, so I took the opportunity to study my old high school classmate from the back.
    He was a little taller than I remembered, maybe an inch, but he was not quite as muscular as he’d been back in the day. He looked good without quite so much muscle, less hulking. I wondered if he was still as cocky as he’d been in high school. Probably. Is there anything as cocky as a small-town athlete with real talent? Of course, our high school was so small—a total enrollment of fewer than three hundred even though it was the only school for the whole northern part of the county and served seventh through twelfth grades—that we didn’t have any real sports teams aside from cross-country. Peter was the captain. In the winter he played “shinny hockey” on Kangaroo Lake with Clint Spaid, Jimmy Schrader, and whoever else they could round up for a scrimmage. He was a catcher in the summer baseball league, too, and held the record for home runs and stolen bases.
    I remember how he’d crouch down like a crab during the game, skittering from right to left to right along the baseline, rattling the pitcher and charming the crowd, letting the anticipation build. Having seen him do it so many times before, they were waiting for that moment when he’d explode from the bag, run like the wind, and slide safely to the next base just ahead of the ball, drawing a hail of curses from the pitcher and an outburst of applause from the stands, before hopping to his feet, dusting off his pants, and settling his cap back on his head with an easy grin that said, “Didja like that? Wanna see me do it again?”
    Of course they did. They never, ever got tired of seeing Peter Swenson swing a bat or steal a base. Generally, people in Nilson’s Bay could never be accused of being overdemonstrative or throwing away compliments, but after the final inning they’d crowd