Iris Attends a Funeral

The sole of Iris’ black flat caught in a pit in the sidewalk, and she tripped, then caught herself, righting her purse, straightening her jacket, giving a quick look around to see who may have noticed. Nobody. And that was no surprise. Iris lived in a fairly secluded neighborhood. Parts of Laurel Park were kind of crowded where former summer cottages-turned-year-round-houses were so close together you had to practically turn sideways to walk in between them. Iris’ section was wooded and quiet. Iris liked that.

Out on Route 5, though, only a quarter mile or so from the funeral home, traffic was heavy, and when cars passed by, they were headed somewhere in a hurry. Like the blue metallic-looking Honda heading in Iris’ direction.

“I could jump right in front of that car,” Iris thought, looking down at the very narrow strip of grass that separated the sidewalk from the road, feeling the breeze as car whizzed by. “I could make that decision. Just, leap out there.”

“I could do that,” Iris said out loud, slowing her pace and nearly stopping, caught up in the enormity of that thought, the suddenness of that piece of knowledge: that anything could change in a moment, that she was in charge.

She kept thinking about it, thinking how she’d never really noticed how narrow that dividing line was. How she was here, and the cars were there, and how quickly she could change that; move herself, there.

Focusing on a mini-van headed toward her, Iris pictured the scene that would develop if she hurled herself into the road. In her head she heard the crunchy bump it would make, like when you swerved too late and watched that little squirrel disappear under your car. You felt that bump and the kind of squishy pop that made you have shivers for a half an hour afterwards.

“Ooh,” Iris said, rubbing her arms through the heavy jacket. “I’ve got goosebumps.”

It occurred to her that her thought pattern was unusual. She tried to shift it, but what she ended up thinking was whether it would hurt, getting squished. She wondered if a person would feel the pain right away.

Then Iris began writing her obituary in her head. That entertained her until she arrived at St. Phillip’s Church.

Most everyone was seated when Iris entered St. Phillip’s. Duncan was standing near the lectern with the man who appeared to be the priest. Duncan’s eyes looked dry, and he had that sedate, self-assured look he often had in writing group when he was focused on being critical without criticizing. Iris gave a little wave, a smile, but Duncan didn’t catch her eye, and she immediately felt silly. Flirtatious. Settle down Iris. The man’s burying his wife.

Iris selected a pew in the middle of the church with only an elderly woman in it and began to settle herself. As she reached her arms over head to pull her purse off of her shoulder, her breasts popped themselves out of her strapless pantsuit. Thank God for the blazer, which hid the problem.

“Damn,” she thought. “I forgot that happens!”

She looked around, tried not to panic. Noticed the irony in Duncan’s finally making eye contact with her at the moment she was least able to appropriately respond. An eager wave was, at this moment, out of the question. She nodded and smiled, then resolved not to move until the service was over. Afterwards, she would find a restroom and put things back in order.