Mercy continued. “I also saw the flyer on the front windows of the White Hen Pantry, Beverly House of Pizza, Super Sub, the post office, stapled to telephone poles on Rantoul Street, taped to mailboxes—I don’t think that’s legal, by the way—a tornado of them swirled around the Burger King parking lot, and I watched seagulls fight over one at Dane Street Beach.”

She was definitely not in high school. Maybe a college student. Maybe someone’s mom? I no longer anticipated her becoming a future club member. She had likely anger-dialed to lodge a complaint about my carpet-bombing the town with flyers.

I said, “Yeah, sorry, I put up one hundred and twenty-three of them yesterday.”

“How precise. So, is this club legit?”

“Legit?”

“Is the club and the flyer for real or is it a joke? I honestly can’t tell.”

“Yes, the club is real. It’s, like, so real. We attended a service not this Saturday but the one before, and Mr. Stephens wants us back this—”

“I ask because the Pallbearers Club stencil on the flyer looks like the logo of a cheesy hair metal band, like something a bored kid doodles in their algebra class.”

I chafed at the comparison to a doodle. I had spent more than an hour on design, getting it just right. I had used slash-drawn power letters. Like a mountaineer’s flag planted on an impossible peak, a small but unimpeachable “the” perched atop of the Pallbearers “P.” “Club,” not an afterthought but the uppercut punch after a left-right combo, dangled off the end of the word and it didn’t care what you thought of its reckless boldness.

I said, “I wanted the flyer to be cool and attention-grabbing.”

“You’re one for two. At best. But I’m in. Let me know where and when.”

* * *

Mr. Stephens admitted to being pleased Eddie was no longer a member of the club, saying, “He was a cloud that hung over your honorable venture.” He was not pleased, however, that our newest member was late. He declared the service would begin in fifteen minutes with or without her. He, Cayla, and I continued our vigil in the funeral home’s front foyer.

Mr. Stephens asked, “Can you be a club if you number only two members?”

“Art is still working on the bylaws,” Cayla said. I couldn’t tell if she was being commiserative with me or conspiratorial with him. Either or any of the ways, I didn’t care and was thankful she was here, even if this service was to be her last.

“I do love a thorough set of bylaws—” An unlit cigarette stuck to Mr. Stephens’s lower lip. It bobbed in rhythm with his jaw, the baton of a symphony conductor. “Though you cease being a club at two. You’re a partnership. The Pallbearers Partnership.”

Cayla snorted a hard laugh at this.