He looked up from the bench and his walker, with a squint and a smile,
and when I realized he thought he recognized me, I felt a moment of
discomfort. I thought, do I pretend to be who he thinks I am or
correct his misconception? Do I smile and nod–or let him know his
mind has strayed?

If I chose the first option, he felt better, but someone else might
correct him and I would look deceitful. If I chose the second, then I
confirmed that his mind was indeed going.

“I know you–you are Dan Jacob’s girl.”

He rattles on about how he knows me and I reach a hand out to stop
him, my decision made. People surrounded us, all waiting to hear my
answer, so I had little choice.

“I’m sorry, I must look like someone you know.”

His sun-etched face fell, he looked confused and I walked past him.

The town bustled with more activity than usual for a Wednesday
evening. As it turned out, two viewings were taking place at the
rival funeral homes situated across the street from each other. I
just knew about the one, but the collected mourners ranged up and down
the street, mingling in mixed groups. It was not customary to wear
black so there was a mix of bright colors. There was a festival
atmosphere as people met on the sidewalks, chatting with overly bright
eyes.

“How did you know him?”

“Yes, it was just awful.”

“Did you see? They did such a nice job on him–he looked just like
he were sleeping.”

I navigated the throngs of people, stopping now and again to say
hello. The party feeling of viewings and funerals escaped me, being
an outsider.

Three hundred people crowded into the funeral home, elbowing each
other. The scent of people overpowered the chrysanthemums. There was
a massive memory board erected memorializing the young man’s life. I
looked at the photos of him as a baby; as a teenager with his first
car; as a young man winning his first race; getting married. He was
only twenty-eight.

I had not known him well, but I had known his mother. I could see her
standing near the casket and I made my way toward her. Behind the
casket, stealing the focus from the artfully made-up corpse, loomed a
floral arrangement of the number fifty-seven.

I grasped his mother’s hands and said, “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

She was a sparrow-like woman with hands like tiny bird claws, all
lined and knobbly. The navy blue dress she wore hung off her
shoulders with lines where it had come off the metal hanger. She had
brushed the dust from it, but had forgotten a few spots. Her little
hands folded into my big ones.

“Thank you. Thank you for coming.”

“Please, let me know if you need anything. Call anytime.”

I gave her a hug, pressing her fragility against me. The kindness was
too much and she began to sob. I felt guilty I had triggered her
breakdown and turned away.

I looked at the young man in the casket with the floral fifty-seven
hanging over him. He had made a small name for himself on the lesser
NASCAR circuit and fifty-seven was the number of his car. The funeral
directors had done a great job; even I had to admit that. They had
dressed him in a white racing firesuit with his sponsor’s patches
still decorating him. The man was taking Valvoline to the grave with
him. They repaired his face as best they could, covering the burns
with putty and paint.

His mother’s weeping stilled for a moment as she spoke to a redheaded
man. He pushed a beefy hand forward and handed her a ring. I saw it
glint from the corner of my eye. It was a man’s wedding ring and
looked large in the palm of her hand.

“The crew, well, we thought you should have this,” he said, “he only
took it off for races, even though she’s been gone for three years.”

His mother closed her fingers over the ring and said, “I thank you kindly.”

The man nodded to her and walked off, giving a small salute to the man
in the casket. She opened her hand and looked at the ring, then
whispered, “Do you have a dollar?”

I looked around. She raised her eyes and met mine.

“Please, do you have a dollar?”

“Uh, sure.” I dug around in my purse, coming up with a single so worn
it felt like suede.

“I’ll need a pen, too.” She said as she took the bill from my hands.

I found one and handed it to her.

Using the casket to bear down, she wrote on the bill, “Verge Naillon’s
Wedding Ring, given to him by his mother on the day she buried him.”

She handed my pen back and folded the dollar around the ring in sharp
creases, then she mounted the small step stool next to the casket and
tucked the ring into her son’s pocket. I offered my hand to steady
her when she climbed down.

“Mrs. Naillon, why did you do that?” The words tumbled out of my
mouth without my thinking. I knew people sometimes behaved strangely
at funerals, but I didn’t understand.

She gave me a teary wink. “That ring meant something to him and he
should have it.”

“I understand, but why the dollar bill?”

She peered up at me blinking. I had said something only an outsider would say.

“Oh Honey, that’s so the gravediggers don’t steal it.” She patted my
hand like I was a slow child. “Don’t worry, you’ll get your dollar
back.”

I assured her I was happy to contribute and did not need the dollar.

But I did get that dollar back. It came back to me in change a few
weeks later when I broke a twenty. I smoothed it out on the counter
of the Shell station, folded it carefully and placed it in my
billfold.