At ten after one, I got out of the truck and went into the church. It was an old building made of dark red brick, with a great black spire that was ringed on this day with a hard crust of snow all along the edges. When I got inside, everyone was standing up, reciting the Lord’s Prayer. I slipped into the back pew just as they all sat down.
There was a closed coffin up front, covered in white lilies. The priest went through the ritual, and everyone seemed to know what was coming and when to respond. It finally occurred to me that everyone else in the place had a printed program. I followed along as best as I could, until the priest finally asked who would come up and speak of Simon Grant. There was a long silence, and then one man stood up and made his way slowly to the pulpit.
He was big, well over six feet tall and pushing 250 pounds. He looked like a former offensive lineman. His necktie was strangling him. He took a few moments to compose himself, then he began to speak. “I just wanna say a few words about Pops,” he said. He went on to describe a long life filled with work and hardship. Growing up as an orphan during the Great Depression, having to act like the man of the house when he was only nine years old, going out every day to shine shoes and run errands or do whatever he could to make a little money for his family. Later joining the navy, and seeing action aboard a carrier in the Pacific. Coming back home and raising a family, working on the docks, back when the Soo Line ran all the way down to the river. Taking his kids out on the water every weekend.
“Pops loved this place so much,” the man said, “even though the winters got harder and harder for him. He never wanted to move away. He said his heart was here and he wanted to be buried here.”
The man stopped and looked down at the coffin. “You made us promise, Pops, that we’d never take you away from here. We kept that promise.”
Another man came up next, a slightly smaller version of the first. He looked a few years younger. He tried to speak but he couldn’t say a single word. His brother held on to the back of his neck and told him it was okay. He walked him back to the first pew and sat down with him.
Then a woman stood up. She walked up to the pulpit, and as soon as she turned around, I knew who she was. God damn it all, I thought, it’s the woman at the house. Chris Woolsey’s mother.
She said a few words about her father, about how he was the strongest person she’d ever known. As I listened to her, I felt a little sick to my stomach. I had gone to this woman’s house and asked to talk to her son about something that happened at the Ojibway Hotel.
The obituary in the newspaper, I thought. It probably listed her as one of the surviving children. Why hadn’t I noticed it? God damn it, I’m such an idiot.
“It’s a hard day,” she said, looking out at all the people in the pews. “But I’m glad you’re all here. Thank you.” She looked back in my direction. For one instant, it seemed like she was looking right at me. Then she sat down.
The priest conducted the rest of the funeral mass. As it drew to a close he raised his hands and gave us the blessing. I got up and slipped out the door before anyone else.
I went back to my truck and got in, firing up the engine and the heater. “Okay, now what?” I said. I watched everybody gather by the church steps. After a couple of minutes, the coffin was brought out the front door, carried by four men. What a cold and bitter day to be doing this. Two were the sons who had stood up during the service, another I didn’t recognize, and the fourth was Chris Woolsey. They carried the coffin down the steps and into the open doors of a hearse.
I should talk to them, I thought. Just go over to Chris and his mother, tell them I didn’t realize it was Chris’s grandfather.
The whole family was standing around in the parking lot as they closed the doors to the hearse. People filed past them and hugged them and kissed their faces. I got out of the truck and crossed the parking lot. I’ll tell them how bad I feel, maybe ask them about what had happened if they seem up to it. Maybe they’ll have an answer for me. Yes, Mr. McKnight, he was doing that all the time. These past couple of years, he was always confused. He kept seeing people all over the place and believing that he knew them.
The biggest son was standing there with his wife, along with two teenage children. Then the other son with his wife, and a young boy hopping up and down in the cold. Mrs. Woolsey was there with the man I hadn’t recognized, one of the pallbearers. It had to be her husband.
And Chris Woolsey, looking a lot younger without the hotel uniform. His face was bright red from the wind, or the grief of this day, or God knows what else.
“Pardon me,” I said as I approached them. I wasn’t sure who to talk to first, but Chris was closest, so I stuck out my hand. “Chris,” I said. “I’m so sorry.”
He shook my hand, but his mouth was hanging open like he had forgotten how to speak.
“And Mrs. Woolsey,” I said, quickly moving down the line. “I have to apologize. I just didn’t realize-”
“You’re the man,” she said, her face calm. “From yesterday.”
“If I had known,” I said, “of the… I mean, that this was your father, I never would have bothered you.”
“Mr. McKnight is it?” Her husband stepped forward and shook my hand. “You’re the one who plowed our driveway yesterday?”
“Yes. As long as I was there, I thought-”
“I appreciate the gesture,” he said. “It made the day a little easier.”
“I was at the hotel the other night,” I said. “I saw Mr. Grant. That would be your father-in-law, right?”
“Yes,” he said. “Let me introduce you to Michael and Marty, Simon Grant’s sons. His daughter, I see you’ve already met. And his grandson.”
Chris hunched his shoulders against the cold wind and looked down at the ground.
“I don’t want to keep you,” I said. “I just wanted to offer my condolences. And, well…”
“Yes?”
“There’s something else I wanted to ask you about, but it can wait, believe me.”
“No, no,” Mr. Woolsey said. “Here, come with me.” He turned to the rest of the family and told them to get the cars warmed up. Then he put a hand on my back and steered me toward the side of the parking lot. “It’s so damned cold out here,” he said. “Let’s get out of the wind.”
“Actually, it’s about Mr. Grant,” I said, walking with him. “Something he said that night. Or rather, something he wrote in a note to me.”
“Yeah? So maybe you’re thinking one of his sons might be able to answer your questions?” He pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his coat pocket. “Do you smoke?”
“No, thanks,” I said. “And yes, I mean obviously his sons might have a better idea-”
“You saw how they were in there,” he said. “They’re kind of in a bad way today. Maybe if you tell me what you want to know, I can pass it on.” He took one of his gloves off and tried to shake one cigarette out. “God, could it get a little colder, do you think?”
“I can’t imagine.”
He looked behind him as he fumbled with the lighter. “I’m feeling a little self-conscious lighting up here, eh? Come on back here a bit.” He took a few more steps toward the back of the building. I hesitated, and as he came back to me, I had just enough time to hear the little alarm bell ringing in my head. He threw the lighter and the cigarettes at my face, and as I reached up to block them he grabbed my arm and swung me around hard. He stuck his leg out in one smooth, practiced move that sent me falling backward onto the hard pavement.
I tried to roll right through it and back onto my feet, but the other two men were all over me before I even knew what was happening. They came from behind the building-they had obviously sneaked around the other way to meet us. They each grabbed me by one arm and dragged me all the way to the back so that nobody in the world would see what they were about to do to me.