She shot me an incredulous glance. “I’m glad I don’t have your driving lack of curiosity.”

“Yeah, well, I thought I’d wait until after the funeral. I’ve lived in the South for a while and developed some manners.”

She reddened. “All right,” she said curtly, then checked her watch. “I’m late for work. Better eat your pie.”

The check arrived as we finished. We split the bill and hurried silently to the car. She looked wryly across from the passenger seat, as if trying to ease the strain. “No Holy Mother on the dashboard?”

“I’ve given all that up.”

“Have you really?” she asked, more serious.

“Haven’t you?”

“Yes and no. I still remember things like my first confession: the priest chewed peppermint Lifesavers, I could smell them through the screen. I was too terrified to laugh.”

I started the car. “You got the whole dose, then.”

“Lord, yes. Mother says the Rosary every day. I remember when a Russian family moved in behind us, poor people. One morning I caught Mother sprinkling holy water in their backyard. She was saving them from communism.”

“Back then you couldn’t be too careful,” I smiled. “Even Ike had it. Anyhow, we all have our mothers.”

“Do we not. Where is your family?”

“Cleveland. My mother, anyhow. My father’s dead.”

“What does she do?”

“Works for the clerk of courts. Files things, mostly.”

I turned from the parking lot toward downtown. Culhane’s hair rippled in the breeze. “So how did you get to Birmingham?” she was asking.

“My wife’s from here.”

“Is she the tall, dark-haired woman?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I saw her at the party. She’s absolutely beautiful.”

“She is that.” We were near downtown. “Tell me where to drop you.”

She pointed to a parking garage. I pulled over and stopped. “One thing,” I asked. “How’d you get past our receptionist?”

“I said I was late for our appointment.” She got out and gave me a fleeting smile. “Thanks for the time.”

“Sure.”

She walked to her car. I drove off to take Kris Ann to the funeral.

Eleven

ELEVEN

By the time we reached downtown the dance of bad memory was like tocsins in the brain. “I know you hate these,” Kris Ann said finally.

I shrugged. “It’s just that Protestant funerals are such dismal affairs. There’s no catharsis, just one more dutiful rite of forebearance. No one will cry—not even Henry—and then we’ll all go home.”

But then that was all I’d done when they’d buried my father.