“Good morning,” he says. “I’m Rabbi Ari Greenbaum.” He reaches out his hand.

Janie takes it. “I’m Janie Hannagan. This is my mother, Dorothea Hannagan, and my friend, Cabel Strumheller. I am the daughter of the deceased.” She’s proud she doesn’t stutter through it, but she’s been practicing in her mind. “Thank you for helping us with this. We . . . none of us is Jewish. Not, really, anyway. I guess.” She blushes.

The rabbi smiles warmly, apparently unbothered by the news. He turns and they walk together to the grave site. Rabbi Greenbaum goes over the details of the ceremony and hands each of them a card with Psalm 23 written on it.

Dorothea stares at the words on the card. She looks up at the casket. Glares at it. Her mouth quivers but she remains quiet.

The strangers approach and stand around the grave site—several men and a few women as well. “From my congregation,” the rabbi explains. “The men prepared your father’s body for burial and sat with him through the night, then acted as pallbearers and carried the coffin here.”

Janie looks up, grateful. Thinking this is all so very strange, but sort of beautiful, too. How thoughtful of these people to do this, and to take the time to come to the funeral of a stranger.

They stand near the grave and wait. Even the birds are quiet as they approach the heat of the day.

Janie stares into the hole. Sees a thin tree root, freshly cut, its raw, white end sticking out of the dirt. She pictures the casket at the bottom of the pit, under all that heavy dirt, the roots growing and wrapping around it, seizing it, breaking through the casket, seizing the body. She shakes her head to clear it and looks up at the blue sky instead.

Behind her, Janie hears more cars approaching. She turns to look and sees two black and whites. Sergeants Baker, Cobb, and Rabinowitz get out, dressed in uniform. Behind the cop cars is a black sedan and Captain steps out.

Charlie and Megan Strumheller are right behind, still tan from their week at the lake. And then Ethel pulls up with Carrie and Stu. Janie tears up a little. In the distance, a big, brown UPS truck rumbles up the narrow cemetery road. Janie can’t believe it—all these people coming. She looks at Cabe, incredulous. “How did they know?” she whispers. He smiles and shrugs.

It’s time.

The rabbi greets the tiny congregation of attendees and speaks for a moment.

And then.

“May he to his resting place in peace,” the rabbi says.

Before Janie can think, the cemetery workers lower the casket into the grave and soon everyone is looking down on her father in a box. Next to Janie, Dorothea sniffles loudly and sways. Janie grabs her mother around the shoulders and steadies her as the rabbi begins talking again.

And as Janie absorbs the ebb and flow of the rabbi’s words, the musical lilt of the Psalms, a little part of her life suffocates in that pine box in the ground too.

“The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want.” Janie is startled from her thoughts by the group around her, all reciting aloud. She hurries to find her place on the handout and reads along.

And then the rabbi asks if anybody wants to share a story about Henry.

Janie stares at the grass.

After a moment, Cathy, dressed in her standard UPS browns, clears her throat and steps forward. Janie can feel her mother stiffen.

“Who’s that?” Dorothea hisses to Janie.

Janie squeezes her mother’s shoulder and says nothing.

“Henry Feingold was my customer, and over the years we became good friends,” Cathy says, her voice wavering. “He always had a cup of coffee to offer or a cool drink. And when he found out I like to collect snow globes, he started looking for them when he was buying things for his little Internet shop. He was a really thoughtful man, and I’m going to miss him on my route and . . . I’m grateful to you, Janie, for letting me know that he passed on so I could have a chance to say good-bye. And that’s it.” Cathy steps back to her spot.

“Thank you. Anyone else?”

Cabel nudges Janie. She pokes him back.

And then, and then.

Dorothea says, “I want to say something.”

Janie freaks out inside.

The rabbi nods, and Dorothea takes a few unsteady steps to where she can turn around and face the crowd.

What is she going to say? Janie glances at Cabe, sees his eyes are worried too.

Dorothea’s thin voice isn’t easy to hear in this wide-open space.

At least, it isn’t until she starts yelling.

“Henry was the father of Janie, here. The only man I ever loved. But he left me after I quit school for him, and my parents wouldn’t let me back home. He was crazy and a horrible person. He ruined my life, and I’m glad he’s dead!” With that, Dorothea fumbles at the zipper of her purse.

“Dear God,” Cabe whispers.

The small crowd is completely shocked into silence. Janie rushes over and guides her mother back to the spot where they were standing. She feels her face boiling and red. Sweat drips down her back. She purposely averts her eyes from the guests. Mortified.

It doesn’t help that Dorothea manages to get her purse open and makes only a small effort to hide that she’s taking a swig from the flask.

Rabbi Greenbaum hastens to speak.

Cabe rests his hand on the small of Janie’s back to comfort her. He looks down at the ground and Janie can see the amused look on his face. She feels like stomping on his foot. And pushing her mother into the grave hole. Wonders what sort of sitcom that would turn this scene into.