“Where shall we keep the body?”

My body freezes to a halt just behind a corner. When a long pause follows from the chapel, I pray I am not known.

“He does not deserve a traditional burial.

His body shall be placed in a glass coffin, where every part of him is seen.”

I peek around the walls to find Father Marcus’s face as hard as stone. Why is their disdain in his voice? What did my husband do other than help the church gain more followers? After service, they used to have conversations that’d potentially last for hours if I didn’t politely intervene. They had no connection by blood, but the way their lives so easily intertwined with one another almost made it seem so. I smile at the thought.

“But, Father, I do not think that is within our budget—“

“And who’s problem is that?!”

At his demand, I jump, an electric shot surging through my rattled heart. His boasting voice that once inspired all spits impatience and frustration. I can hear the stained glass murals shaking within their windowpanes, as if they’re just as afraid as I am. I brace myself for if they shatter on top of me under the heavy pressures of fear.

“Mine, Father…it’s my problem. Not yours. I will arrange for a glass coffin right away.”

The assistant rounds my corner, too rattled to catch my eavesdropping. Folded in his arms are multiple folder filled with stacks of papers. His strides are quick in the effort to get away, the , thin, dark red trim on his white robe billowing behind him. There weren’t many opportunities for me to find out his name, but I know Father Marcus is usually never cross with him. Or anyone.

But before I could speculate further, something inside me tells me to hide, to run. I do not hear movement from Father Marcus, nor do I see the assistant coming back. Yet, my heart beats faster. My stomach lurches, wanting to pull me away.

“Good morning, Diane!”

It seems my prayers to be unnoticed went through one ear and out the other.

He is behind me with no warning. I cannot turn around. There his a chance his cold stare will damn me to hell.

“Good morning, Father Marcus.” I keep my voice leveled as I speak. “I was just heading to the restroom.”

“Diane, there is no reason for you to lie to me. I know you’ve been in deep mourning. I know you’re reaching for every last sliver of him. Sometimes I find myself doing the same.” His large, imposing hand touches my shoulder. On that very wrist is a black watch with silver accents. The initials D.M. are pressed into the leather.

It was my husband’s watch.

He would never pass it down to anyone, even Father Marcus. It was from his uncle.

“Thank you for your words of comfort.” I smile through the little lie, wipe at non-existent tears. “I really needed them.”

“Anytime, my dear. Now I suggest you get some rest. You’ve been through a lot with funeral preparations. I will take care of everything, okay?” His expression is no longer stern, nor is it covered in a faux sweetness of a liar. With this expression, he must have learned to fool hundreds of people in his lifetime. Out of those hundreds, I am not apart of that quota.

“Okay, I’ll get my beauty sleep! I’ll see you next Sunday!” Leveling my voice is found to be much more difficult. I can only hope he thinks it’s the greif unbalancing my words.

As Father Marcus strides away, the thick, dark red trim on his white robe billows behind him.