It’s hard to see who’s who with all these damned umbrellas. I could probably just make a list of important philanthropists in New York City and say they were here – it would be close enough. It's so tempting to get out of this weather. But Bailey sent me here for the research, and maybe some of these people will talk to me after the service. Swear to God, someday I’ll be sending my own little peon out in the rain to interview old do-gooders so I can sit in my corner office drinking stylish blends of organic, free-trade coffee all day. She’ll probably make me write the article, too, although for sure it’ll be her name on the byline.
The rain’s stopping! I’d be doing a happy dance, if it wouldn’t attract attention. The umbrellas are coming down and I can finally get a good look at everyone, even if it’s just from the side. Too bad the casket’s already closed; I’d love to see what Mrs. H looks like after the postmortem work. That’s odd. There are only two people under the tent with the priest. Small family, I guess, although you’d think they would have enough close friends that the tent would be full. There’s the daughter. Don’t know the guy with her. And the typical pimped-out Catholic priest, although he’s not looking so good in this weather either.
There’s quite a mix of people here. She was – what, 65 when she died? She’s been a part of at least two generations of New Yorkers – so it’s not a crowd of geriatrics, at least, although Bailey’s going to want to get those names first for the Sunday paper. I should go back to the church and check the guest book, that’s easy enough to do. Oh, but look at that little clump of people over there – I wonder who they are. They don’t quite fit in, do they? No, they don’t look like a family exactly, although they stand like one. Intimate body language, the blonde girl’s holding hands with the older man, who has his arm around a smaller lady with short, silver curls. She’s so tiny. I think a strong wind could probably blow her away. The boy with them is just adorable, what is he, Korean? Japanese? I can’t tell from here, but it’s too bad he’s not just a little older.
There’s an old man a few feet away from me who looks awfully familiar. Maybe if I heard his voice I could place him And this, ladies and gentlemen, is reason number one why I’m always going to be a shitty reporter. If I could just remember things, real things, not the things that like to dance around in my head – those I remember just fine, it’s the facts that escape me. Poor thing. He looks so sad. His eyes are swollen and red, but I don’t see any tears. Maybe he’s cried himself out in private. No, I don’t think he’s a business acquaintance, he’s taking this hard. There’s something else going on with him. An old lover, maybe? Or unrequited love – he would make such a good story, I have got to write that down, what did I do with that notebook?
No. No, I don’t. I’m not here for short story material, I’m here to get the facts, damn it. Like that brown-haired giant over there. I’d love an excuse to talk to him. Holy shit, is he carrying? I hope he’s a cop; I can’t see any other reason to go to a funeral with a gun. He’s twitchy. He knows he’s supposed to be watching the service but he keeps looking around; what’s he looking for? That must be his mother next to him. She’s tall, like him, although she’s starting to stoop. I’m guessing seventy, maybe seventy-five. Nice hat.
Oh, that’s who he’s keeping an eye on, that ratty-looking guy in the back. Yeah, he’s an odd one, too. That overcoat’s thirty years old if it’s a day, and what the hell is he wearing, galoshes? He couldn’t have brought an umbrella, the guy is totally soaked. And so still. He’s not even shivering. I wouldn’t have even noticed him if I hadn’t been paying attention to the cop.
If only I knew their stories, I could write forever. Then again, who needs the truth when you’ve got a head full of daydreams?
That’s a weird feeling. All the hair on the back of my neck is standing up, and my arms just broke out in goosebumps. What the hell is that about?
The service is over. Time to go to work. There’s reason number two why I’m a lousy reporter; I hate talking to strangers. Especially now, at a funeral, for God’s sake. It’s just rude.
That interesting clump of misfits over there has shifted just a bit. I think they’re about to go up to the gravesite. Maybe they’re friends of the daughter. But that cute Korean kid isn’t moving, he’s turning to – he’s turning to look at me. The goosebumps are all over my body now, and I mean all over, I never thought I could get goosebumps down there, but – no, he’s older than I thought. He’s coming over here. I should walk away. I have other people to talk to, who are probably more important, but look at his eyes sparkle, he’s just fascinating. Yes, walk away, that’s exactly what I’ll do, and quickly, before he makes it all the way over here.
“Hi,” he says, and his voice is deeper than I expected. “I’m Shen. And you are?”
“Jessica,” I tell him.
“Friend of the family?” he asks. He’s smiling, and I can’t see any reason to lie to him.
“Actually, no,” I admit. “I’m with the Times. We’re doing a story about Mrs. Hollister for tomorrow’s paper, and I thought I might get some interviews this afternoon.”
“I see,” he says. “What are you doing after that?”
Pretty much anything you want me to, I think. And that’s a fact.
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