I wanted to smart-aleck back at him that I’d straighten my crooked spine if I could. Instead, I mumbled, “Sorry,” and I faux-unslouched, briefly lifting onto my toes before sinking back to my regular, defensive posture. I conceded he was probably correct in his accusation, though, as I was suddenly feeling extra slouchy, like I was actively shrinking, or shriveling. Which was fine by me. Although my blazer was still two sizes too small, I ached to disappear into its billows.

Mr. Stephens said, “At the request of the deceased, the brief ceremony consists solely of the following reading. The gentleman we are seeing off this afternoon is Mr. Tom Jones. He died ninety-two years young.” Mr. Stephens levered his giant glasses off his face and onto his forehead. He squintily read from a single sheet of paper. “Life and death have taken turns being cruel to Mr. Jones. His beloved wife and partner, Linda, died in 1966 of colon cancer and their daughter, Donna, died four years ago due to the same insufferable, greedy illness. Despite having his heart shattered twice, Mr. Jones stubbornly if not foolishly went on living. If hope is believing there will be one more moment of joy, then despair is knowing there was a final one—”

A click, flash, and whir. Mercy snapped a photo of Mr. Jones’s body.

“He specified no photography during the ceremony,” Mr. Stephens said, without missing a beat.

Mercy said, “You’re making that up.”

“I am not.” He flashed the typed page at Mercy but did not hold it out long enough for it to be read.

“Mmm-hmm.” She plunked the photo onto the kneeler.

Mr. Stephens continued reading. “Mr. Jones is survived by everyone else, however none of those people are immediate family members. Someone must always finish last. Mr. Jones wishes to specify he was named after the eponymous protagonist of the farcical novel published in 1749. While he enjoyed the impishly handsome Albert Finney’s performance in the film, he thought the screenplay was a bit too bawdy. If anyone would care to respond, please do so now.”

I stammered something about his being at peace.

Cayla said, “I hope he’s with Linda and Donna.”

“I liked Albert Finney in Wolfen,” Mercy said.

I might have said that to you at some point, but not at the end of the ceremony. You make me sound like an uncaring asshole.

* * *

We ferried the casket to the hearse, a winding trip that went smoothly if not quickly as we didn’t have to contend with lugging the deceased down any stairs. Once the coffin glided down the tracked gullet of the hearse and the rear door closed, I cracked my knuckles and rolled my neck like a preening weightlifter, making a show of how little physical exertion was expended.