Nobody stopped to talk to her after the service. They were all too busy. A couple of old biddies nodded sympathetically at her before hurrying over to the pie and cookie cart, where the snickerdoodles tasted like sawdust (and she was stoned). When did Iowans stop knowing how to bake? She’d had better at a macrobiotic cantina in the Haight where the cook was often too baked himself to tell sugar from salt. She exchanged nods with a teenage boy who’d been dragged there by his infirm grandmother, car keys jangling impatiently in his hands. Everybody was occupied. She’d make a clean getaway.

She was halfway across the lot to her red rental Mustang when somebody came running after her, shoes shushing in the snow, asking her to wait. It was Mr. Evans, the slow-talking funeral director. He wanted to know if she’d be taking the ashes.

The ashes. She hadn’t even given them a second’s thought.

“No!” she said, then repeated in a calmer voice, “no, but thanks.”

“I didn’t think so.” The funeral director pursed his lips and started back to the home, snowflakes melting on his bald pate as they landed.

Mary-Sue watched him walk away with mincing steps, shaking his head ever so slightly. Now it was her turn to run after him. She followed him back to the entrance of the building.

“What the fuck did you mean by that?”

“I beg your pardon, Miss Ireland?”

“What did you mean ‘I didn’t think so’? You don’t even know me, you parasite! You feed off the misfortunes of others and you think you’re entitled to judge me?”

“I’m sorry if I’ve upset you in some way, Miss Ireland. I really didn’t mean any disrespect at all.”

“God! You passive-aggressive motherfucker!”

“Well, I really should be going back in to see how the others are doing. Please take care of yourself, Miss Ireland. You obviously need to get some rest.”

He leaned forward to give her a hug. She returned with what her gut told her to do—she clocked him hard on the face with her handbag. Its large metal clasp hit him square in the left eye and an inch-long cut under his brow began to bleed. He staggered back a couple steps, stunned. Before either of them grasped what had happened, Mary-Sue struck him again. This time, he fell back onto a snow-covered bush, sending clumps of white into the air. There was more blood on his face now, and the snow he touched instantly turned scarlet.

“Please, Miss Ireland . . .”

“Stop saying my name, you condescending asshole! You don’t even know me!”