During a lull, I wandered away from the family and took a look at the flowers that had been artfully arranged around the coffin like floral soldiers at attention on pedestals. One was from Markham Motors; another came from my father’s Masonic chapter. A couple were from distant relatives. A late-arriving spray didn’t get a pedestal, but sat on the floor, so I bent over to read the card. “In deepest sympathy.” It was from Anthony Marcone.

That spray, pink gladioli and ivory lilies, sits on the chancel steps, its stems crushed together with those of all the other arrangements. When we go to the cemetery, they’ll all be arrayed around the grave, left there until the coffin is lowered, a sight Americans don’t usually watch, despite how it’s portrayed on television. Soon enough, they’ll be trashed, tossed out with the rest of the debris.

At the end of the service, before the funeral home guy collects the flowers, I pluck that telling card from the holder and pocket it.

*   *   *

Despite Tony’s protestations, I moved us to Seattle, swearing that this really would be the better life. Six months later, I was collecting unemployment again. When Tony didn’t come home from school on a Thursday afternoon, I went into his bedroom in the sublet we were renting and found a note on his desk. “Mom, I’ll be okay, and I’ll call you when I can. Love, Tony.”

My son was gone.

*   *   *

The family files out of the church to the waiting limo and I follow slowly, the little card from Flora.com in my pocket. I pause on the church steps, wishing I could just pile into the Lexus with the boys, but the rear door to the limo gapes open, waiting for me.

“Justine?”

A man in a black suit stands on the steps beside me. Moderately tall, he is clean-shaven and has the deepest blue eyes beneath a wide forehead. His hair is short, and in the sunlight it is tipped with silver. I know him but can’t place him.

“It’s Mitch.” He’s seen my confusion. “I’m out of context. Besides, you only really ever knew the back of me.”

“My Harley rider?”

Mitch, on two feet, comes closer. “I’m here. At your service again.”

Going down the steps, I figure out that he’s wearing a prosthesis. He’s pretty facile, but there is a little hop in his gait that isn’t quite normal. “You don’t look like you came here on a bike.”

“Left it home. That’s my ride.” He points to a Camry parked across the street. “Not very glamorous, but I figured that we may have a lot of driving to do.

“I don’t know where I’m going next.”

Mitch touches my elbow. “Wherever the search takes us.”

*   *   *