I laughed politely, and itchingly eager to share something personal, I confessed that I’d never been inside a funeral home before and the only funeral mass I ever attended was when I was four years old, for a great-uncle. Uncle Heck. Short for Hector of course. I had no memory of his funeral, but I remembered him letting me grab his nose with my tiny hands. My parents and other family members frequently told me that was what I always did to Uncle Heck when he was alive, so it was possible my memory was a staged, mental reenactment of what they told me. How could I know the difference?

Mr. Stephens ignored my weighty contemplation of the nature of memory and said, “To have never been in a funeral home, I don’t know if you are fortunate or not. The law of averages tends to catch up with us all.”

* * *

Mr. Stephens wasn’t nearly as friendly with Cayla and Eddie as he was with me. (Perhaps he sensed I needed kindness more than they did. Perhaps he was annoyed by how loosely Eddie’s skinny black tie hung around his neck, and that Cayla—while wearing a respectful black dress—loudly chewed bubble gum.)

He led the Pallbearers Club up a set of wide stairs to a viewing room on the second floor. The room was much smaller than the ones downstairs. I wanted to ask if this room had a name, or perhaps suggest one (Mourners’ Pantry, given its smallness?) but the proper moment had passed. An open casket was set against the far wall.

The club moved as one as we entered and flowed left, tracing the perimeter, sticking to the wall opposite the coffin. Speaking as president of the club, we were having second, third, and fourth thoughts about our being here and about our club’s charter and mission statement.

Mr. Stephens told us the woman’s name was Kathleen Blanchet and she had died from complications associated with untreated tuberculosis. She was a former resident of the Shore House (a local homeless shelter), and an anonymous donor paid for her viewing and service. He didn’t know if shelter residents would be attending, though an invitation had been extended. We might be the only attendees. We were to wait for Father Wanderly to arrive and lead a brief prayer service. Mr. Stephens did not ask if we had any questions. He told us he was going downstairs to make a few phone calls, but he would return shortly. He pointed out where the restrooms were on the second floor, “if you must use them.” His footfalls echoed as though he descended a staircase of infinite depth.