comment to Clayton and was astonished to see his longtime partner swaying in his seat, his eyes closed and his face contorted.
Over the next hour, there was more singing, a lot of praying, a reading of the obituaryâthough anybody who could read had already done so since it was printed in the funeral programâand condolence messages from seemingly every church official, elected official, and civic group in all of North Carolina.
âWeâve been here two hours, and they still havenât gotten to the eulogy,â Archer whispered.
âShh,â Clayton said. âWelcome to a black funeral in the South.â
âOh, my God,â Archer moaned, as he rubbed his temples.
Finally, the Reverend Toussaint le Baptiste rose and came forward in the pulpit.
âBrothers and sisters, we are gathered here this afternoon to say our final earthly farewell to our beloved sister in Christ, Sister Ana Mae Futrell. Iâm not going to be before you long . . .â
âThank God for that,â Archer muttered.
The comment earned him a jab in the arm from JoJo and a pinch from Clayton.
â. . . but before I begin, I think itâs only fitting that anyone who wants to say a word about Sister Ana Mae have the opportunity to do so.â
âOh. My. God.â
âShh!â
âNow I know this isnât on the program, but I donât think Sister Futrell or the family will mind.â He looked at Delcine, who shook her head. A rousing round of âAmensâ rolled through the deaconsâ area, and the organist played softly as people rose across the sanctuary and lined up for a turn to sing Ana Maeâs praises.
A bald-headed deacon with pop-bottle glasses passed a hand-held microphone over, and the first of about twenty people in line testified about the sweetness of Ana Maeâs spirit, the time she cooked dinner for my family when I was laid up by sickness, the quilt she made me, the Sunday school lesson she taught us.
Bringing up the rear was a pudgy white man in his late fifties or early sixties. He resembled the actor Tom Bosley and cleared his throat twice when he took the microphone.
âGood afternoon. My name is David Bell, and I wasnât going to come forward,â he began, his voice starting to quiver.
A gasp from the second pew had a few heads turning.
âBut when I heard that Ana Mae was gone, I just . . . ,â He started crying.
âTake your time, brother. Take your time.â
David Bell pulled a monogrammed handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his eyes, then his brow.
âIâm sorry about the display of emotion,â he said, âbut Ana Mae, she just meant the world to me. Iâve listened to everyone else say what a good woman she was, and I, I have to agree. We, weâve known each other a long time and whenever she came to visit . . .â He sniffed again, and again he got encouragement from the mostly black congregation to take his time.
âWhenever she came to visit, weâd talk for hours, just hours. She loved this town and all of you,â he said. âAnd I, well, I loved her.â
He broke down crying again as the congregants applauded his testimonial.
Delcine leaned forward and across her husband to tap Claytonâs knee. âHowardâs father?â she mouthed.
Clayton shrugged and looked down at JoJo, who was also intensely studying David Bell.
So was Rosalee in the pew behind them, and Reverend Toussaint in the pulpit, and all of the folks whoâd spent the last few days wondering about Ana Maeâs mystery son.
David Bell was clearly torn up, and heâd intimated that he and Ana Mae spent a lot of time together. Could that have been time between the sheets?
Bell handed the microphone to a deacon and made his way around the flowers and over to the front pew where the family sat. He reached in his suit jacket pocket and pulled out something.
âIf there is ever anything I