Sixfold Fiction Fall 2013, Page 3

  Chapter Two of my book would illustrate proper funeral attire. While the dressiness of the mourner correlates proportionally to their closeness with the deceased, and while the deceased did indeed enjoy both fishing and the company of fishermen, waders are never appropriate. I’d make a shiny illustration of a fisherman with a big X over it. Similarly dreadful funeral attire includes tight black satin dresses with butt-bows (just because something is black does not mean it is suitable); stonewashed denim (this is never appropriate); and Tar Heels baseball caps. Walter and I walk over to Austin and Nate, who’re both wearing dark suits and blue ties. Exemplary. They sit side by side and I’m struck by how much they look alike. Maybe it’s the outfits, or the way Austin adjusts his posture to match Nate’s. I sit beside them, resisting the urge to pull Austin onto my lap. I pick up Walter instead.

  “How’s my kid?” I ask. I’m worried. Austin’s never lost someone.

  “Hungry,” he says.

  Nate ruffles Austin’s hair. If I did that, Austin would have a fit. “We’ll break for lunch soon and head back to Grandpa and Grandma’s,” Nate says.

  Austin uncrosses his arms. He squints up at Nate. “Uncle Nate, can I ride with you?”

  Nate doesn’t answer because we’re hit by a wave of condolence-givers, Nate’s friends. He stands and shakes hands. A grasp and one solid pump. A back slap given. A back slap returned. I busy myself with Walter so I don’t have to hug any of them. This batch of Nate’s friends is the sort to carry soda bottles as portable spittoons.

  “Honey, I want to give you this card.” A hand on my shoulder. Kind eyes. Royce. “You open it when you get home.” Royce massages my shoulder, his hand staying a fraction longer than comforting requires. Chapter One, sub-chapter one: hitting on mourners at calling hours is a faux pas. While proper comforting necessitates a certain amount of touching, anything beyond the standard three-second pat is unsuitable and should be avoided.

  Nate slaps the last of his friends on the back and turns, extending his hand to Royce. “Thank you for coming,” he says. Nate knows that Royce and I worked together, once. He probably knows we had an affair, but he doesn’t know it from me, and he doesn’t show it, thank God. I know I should run interference between Nate and Royce. Chat about real estate. Talk about the time May brought my lunch to work and we all ate burritos outside. But all I can do is run my fingers through Walter’s soft fur. That’s all I can do for now.