Under the Harrow: by Flynn Berry

next to me and start to offer theories. The church doors are shut now, and I wonder if anyone would mind if I locked them.
    There are too many people I don’t recognize, which I hadn’t expected. I thought I would be able to note any strangers. Whoever did it might come today.
    I find Keith Denton in the crowd. Lewis has him in view, across the aisle, and I’m glad since I can’t watch him myself. A dark-haired woman sits in the rear bench, and I turn to Martha. “There’s a journalist here,” I say, pointing to her.
    Martha clips down the aisle until she reaches the last row. After some discussion, the journalist stands, squeezes past the others on her bench, and leaves through the main doors of the church. Before she does, she gives me a wry smile, like we are in on a joke together. She doesn’t show any embarrassment, even as the church turns to stare at her, and I envy her. She seems free.
    Stephen has arrived, I realize with a sort of terror. He comes up and kisses me on the cheek. He smells of whisky, and from this morning, not last night.
    People shift aside to allow him to rest against the wall. He looks exhausted, and I wonder if he also keeps needing to sit down.
    They almost got married. Close brush, she said. He still wanted to. They slept together a few times a year, and he thought she would change her mind and move to Dorset with him. She might have done, eventually. She did love him.
    I glance at him. His position or balance is wrong, like he might slide off the wall. Moretti said he was at his restaurant, but I wonder if he has proof.
    The air in the church is restive and tortured, the result of two hundred people trying not to make a sound. I wish they would all talk. Outside, through the side door, is the garden. There’s still snow in the shade of the church, and under the cedar elms, and the air this morning is clear and scouring.
    The priest climbs to the lectern. His sermon and the eulogy are wrong. They’re laughable. I look at Stephen and know he agrees. I wish I had done it myself, though even now I’m crying too hard to speak.
    The piano player sets up her music, and I watch, already disappointed. She’s too young, for one thing.
    The song starts and it’s like a rope is cut. Something washes over the crowd, settling it. The song isn’t sad, which is why listening to it agonizes me, and Stephen, I can tell. The point is that she loved it, and she can’t hear it.
     • • • 
    Neither of the town’s pubs is big enough for us, so the group splits. Without discussion, the out-of-towners go to the Miller’s Arms, and the locals to the Duck and Cover. There are a few exceptions. Stephen goes to the Duck and Cover. He walks alone from the church to the pub and looks set on destroying himself. None of the detectives come to the reception. They climb into separate cars and drive back toward Abingdon.
    At the Miller’s Arms, I carry my glass of whisky aroundthe room from group to group. People watch me. Most of the guests apologize for my loss, and then leave me to steer the conversation somewhere else, which I can’t. My wet eyes give the room facets and panels that it doesn’t have. I notice with surprise that everything that has always been difficult about parties is still difficult. I go to the toilet eight times and for a cigarette three times.
    I am surprised that Liam didn’t come, but of course Martha wouldn’t have invited him. Why would she, we aren’t together anymore. I think of the song he always played in the beginning. Never a frown with golden brown.
    Daisy, Rachel’s goddaughter, finds me smoking under the awning. She wears a coat over a thin black matelot top and black jeans. She hugs me and says, “I miss her,” and I nod, my chin pushing into her shoulder.
    They had an arrangement. If anything happened to Helen, Rachel would take in Daisy. Part of me expected it to happen. When Daisy was younger, I thought that if Rachel had to adopt her, I would move in to