“Suit yourself,” she trills as she jabs a finger into the red dye-drenched concoction. “Hunger’s a wonderful sauce.” She slurps the glob from her finger and grins. “Mmm, mmm, mmm. I’d eat a horse and chase the driver right about now.”

I bite my tongue as I abandon the fridge and instead fish one of the frozen pans of Mama’s broc-o-glop out of the freezer. In my peripheral vision, I can see Peggy’s head swimming in an odd pool of pale silver, shiny and concave like an empty spoon.

“Is that Effie’s broc-o —”

“Frig off, it’s mine and you can’t have any,” I say, looking up just in time to see the silver around Peggy tilt, tarnish, then disappear completely. I bury my head back into the depths of the fridge.

“Crow, listen, I know we haven’t always seen eye to eye —” Peggy starts.

“Christ, that ham is a monster,” I grumble, like I didn’t hear her.

“Your mother would chew my face off for leaving you here all by yourself. She didn’t want you to be alone.”

“I can take care of myself. Not gonna be here much longer anyway.”

I shove the fridge door shut, only to have it bounce right back at me because the stupid ham is sticking out too far. Two pineapple rings lose their clove pins and slop to the floor, while the electric red cherries escape into the filthy darkness under the fridge.

“Listen, Sarah Spenser is up to something with the land sale. I can smell it,” Peggy says.

I expect to see the gleam of scheming and gossipy glee in her eyes, but instead her meaty hands are squashed together in an anxious clench. There might even be tears trying to sneak out from the puffed edges of her eyelids. The ham finally yields enough space for me to close the fridge door. I pitch the escaped pineapple into the garbage.

“Let’s get this show on the rogue.” Char sashays into the kitchen. Legs in thigh-high black leather boots. Dreadlocks contained in a tall black top hat. Daktari slung on her hip, dressed all in pink. Grinning, drooling, and waving.

“Christ almighty, Charlotte, tuck your tits into your dress first,” Peggy sighs. “And try not to act like you’re out on a day pass from the Butterscotch.”

Everybody knows that you’re not supposed to eat all the sandwiches and squares and drain the coffee urn at a funeral reception before the family arrives. But the pack of gannets who flocked from The Wharf to the fire hall for this one clearly forgot their manners, because all that is left when we get there are Lolly Ferguson’s cucumber sandwiches and a plate of Helen with the Hairy Pits’s gluten-free, sugar-free, taste-free cookies. Poor Helen. She’s a hippy and a Come From Away. New Brunswick, God love her. Fine by me though. I’ll just drink the tea, flash the requisite sad smile, and pretend I know who everyone is. Plus, there’s a pan of Mama’s broc-o-glop waiting for me at home.