Polly thought of how little it might bother her if they all circled Graham with rocks. But that wasn’t true; it would bother her immensely.

The minister spoke, and members of the family read Bible passages and tributes. After Ariel’s stepfather sat down, the microphone was opened to others—Ariel’s friends, some teachers, the people she ran with. Ned spoke, and read notes from Polly and Josie and Drake. When Connie read about forgiveness, the Delgados looked uneasy.

Graham, through it all, stared at the ground. His face was puffy, maybe from crying. Everyone was stealing looks at him, wondering.

When it was Harry’s turn, he talked about Ariel as a child, as they all had, but he moved on to his hopes that she would eat life up, have great loves, give great love. He talked about how badly they had all, always, wanted to protect her.

Extinguish my eyes, I’ll go on seeing you.

Seal my ears, I’ll go on hearing you.

Harry folded his wrinkled piece of paper. Polly focused on plumes of clouds and fought the hot heavy feeling again.

Many waters cannot quench love,

no flood can sweep it away.

When Polly looked again, Graham and Vinnie were gone.

A half hour later she hustled everyone to the car. Maude was in no hurry; Maude said they had plenty of time before the party, without acknowledging that she was doing nothing to make it happen. The proximate problem was the blue-black wedge of cloud approaching from the west. Polly pointed it out, without making a dent on Maude’s agenda, and in the end Ned and Drake, seeing her panic, left to cover at least the tomatoes.

Polly decided to be indifferent, in a return of yesterday’s thinking during the rose massacre. Why would she give a flying fuck about her tomatoes when Ariel was dead? Though she did, as she watched the evil black meringue of clouds decide where to open up. The faces around her, odd in the storm lighting, were oblivious to the change in the air, and mostly, she thought, to grief, but the vegetal smell of shrieking chlorophyll from the storm’s progress reached her before the hail did. It didn’t matter anymore: death, a deluge, destruction. She and Josie held trays over Maude’s and Sam’s and Helen’s heads so that they could reach the car in an onslaught of ice, the skies opening up for Ariel.

They all sat together in the roar, waiting for the windshield to shatter. Maude rattled on about how a hailstorm reliably made her mother say the F word, then did an imitation of Dee yelling, “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

“Fuck fuck fuck,” said Helen.

Once the storm stopped, Polly drove on little balls of ice without caring about Helen swearing. Her delivery was perfect. Maude rebounded.

“What do you think of that boy, the one who lived?”

“Graham? Not much,” said Polly.