I slide into a pew close enough to the front of the church to be part of the assembling congregation, but far enough back that I can observe the proceedings without being noticed. I first note the flowers. They are certainly exceptional—gorgeous arrangements wrapped around the altar and overflowing on either side of the casket. So very many tributes. Hundreds of them. A profusion of bright colors in that somber place—deep reds and blues and yellows splashed against the dark wooden pews. And the smell, overwhelming. The flowers’ cloyingly sweet perfume making breathing difficult. People are holding Kleenexes to their noses, popping pills. You can barely see the wood of the coffin, awash as it is in this sea of flowers.
I am most interested in the group congregating in front of the coffin, on the steps leading up to the altar. Clearly they’re the family and closest friends of the deceased. Of John, I remind myself. Right away I spot this wife, Deborah, from the photos. A tall, silver-haired woman impeccably dressed in a tailored black suit. She appears completely composed as she greets people. From where I’m sitting I can see she has makeup on, something I had thought of, but dismissed upon considering there was the possibility I could shed tears. Not that I’m a weeper by nature. But even the slight chance that I would suffer the indignity of a mascara-smeared face made me show up here with a naked visage. John’s children are less self-possessed than their mother. They stand apart from her, three young adults, smiling politely when approached, submitting with dignity to handshakes and hugs and quiet whispered words. The girl and the younger boy are both openly crying. The older boy—man—is trying to appear unmoved by what is happening, but failing altogether. His misery written on his face. They look like nice kids. Then a bell chimes and everyone takes their seats.
It is a Catholic service. I know from attending too many funerals for children I couldn’t save that having four priests processing up the aisle to stand at the altar is significant. Catholics take these things seriously. A four-priest Mass, like a four-alarm fire. A person of importance is being prayed into the afterlife. The John Taylor I knew would not have cared, but you can tell by watching this Deborah that such things matter enormously to her. She kneels, and stands and crosses herself, always a few seconds before everyone else. I find her the safest role model for what to do next. She never falters. If a tear cracks the smooth mask, I miss it. Although I do see her surreptitiously yank the robe of one of the altar boys to hide his torn jeans and sneakers as he and the priests walk back down the aisle.
I hesitate about whether to go to the cemetery. I’d hoped to briefly corner Deborah at the church, if I could get even half a minute, enough to get a phone number, an email address, something to follow up discreetly later. Given the size of the crowd, I now doubt whether I’ll have any further opportunity at the graveside. Nevertheless, I go. My other options are to hire a lawyer to contact Deborah more formally or bring in the police to charge a dead man for committing bigamy. Neither attracts me. I’m not even sure what I want. If only it were possible to forget the whole thing ever happened. Erase the last year of my life, obliterate the twelve months since I met John Taylor. I still feel married. I don’t even feel widowed—not yet. I know from my experience with grief counselors how that comes later.