Father W. sprinkled holy water on Kathleen and the coffin. We said “Amen” one last time. Mr. Stephens closed the lid. There was one lonely wreath of flowers hanging via a metal stand by the foot of the coffin. A yellow sash across the donut-hole middle silently demanded peace.

Mr. Stephens ascended to the center of the semicircle and addressed the gathered as though there were dozens more of us in the room. “Thank you for the good word, Father W., and for your implacable grace.” The father was already halfway out of the room, strutting like John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever. He acknowledged receipt of thanks with a little bow and a jaunty salute of his left hand. He was halfway down the stairs before Mr. Stephens continued. “Thus concludes this morning’s service for Kathleen Blanchet. Thank you for being a part of our intimate gathering. Though we are few, the grief shared is divided, and the joy of celebrating her life is multiplied. May she finally be at peace and may you go in peace.” He bowed his head, holding the pose.

The two men in black suits left the room, one following closely behind the other. The Pallbearers Club was confused. We looked at one another. The president, of course, should speak for the group. I was reluctant to bother Mr. Stephens, who appeared to be having some sort of moment, but better I asked than Eddie, so I said, “Excuse me, Mr. Stephens. Those were, um, beautiful words, but is that it? Are we done?”

Mr. Stephens animated and clapped me on the back hard enough that I stumbled a few steps away to disperse the transferal of energy and momentum. He said, “Not quite, my friend. It’s time you three bear the pall, as it were.”

“Huh?” Eddie said. At least he was succinct and to the point.

“We need to you help haul her to the hearse.”

* * *

“I’m stronger than I look.”

I didn’t say that, but I shouted it in my head.

The two men in suits were at the foot of the coffin, taking the brunt of the weight, leading us slowly downstairs, while holding their end up higher in an attempt to keep the coffin as level as possible. Cayla and I were in the middle, with Mr. Stephens and Eddie the anchors by the head.

Eddie said, “Is she gonna slosh around inside if we tilt too much?”

Cayla leaked a small, involuntary “Yuck.”

Mr. Stephens named the parts of the casket as we huffed and groaned our way down the stairs. “You saw the pillow box, of course. The interior frame of the lid is called the flange. The cover is the bridge. The apron on the inside, when viewing, the part folded over the crown is the overlay—”