Рита Браун - Claws And Effect

"I'm glad you're home. Have you heard the terrible news about Larry Johnson?"

"No."

"He was found shot at Twisted Creek Stables."

"Larry Johnson." She couldn't believe it.

"Listen, Tussie, Sheriff Shaw and that tall deputy of his are going to be all over the hospital. We're going to have to cool it for a while."

A long pause followed. "I understand."

28

The streets, alleys, and byways leading to the Lutheran Church were parked solid. The funeral service slated to start at eleven A.M. brought out all of Crozet, much of Albemarle County, plus the friends and family flying in from places Virginians often forgot, like Oklahoma.

At quarter to eleven some people were frantically trying to find places to park. Sheriff Shaw figured this would happen. He instructed the two officer escorts for the funeral cortege to ignore double-parking and parking in a No Parking zone. He did not waive the rules on parking by a fire hydrant.

Businesses opened their parking lots to everyone. The crush of people was so great that over two hundred had to file into the offices and hallways of the church, the church itself being full. At eleven there were still over seventy-five people standing outside, and the day turned crisp, clear, and cold.

The Reverend Herbert C. Jones, anticipating this, hung up speakers outside as well as in the hallways. Yesterday had been Ash Wednesday, so he wore his Lenten vestments.

Herb had known Larry all his life. He pondered over his eulogy, pondered over the life of a good man being snuffed out so violently. As a man of God he accepted the will of God but as a friend, a human of great feeling, he couldn't help but question.

The upper-management staff of Crozet Hospital filled the left-hand, front side of the church. Behind Sam Mahanes, Jordan Ivanic, Dr. Bruce Buxton, and others were those support people who worked with Larry over the years, Tussie Logan, other nurses, secretaries, people who had learned to love him because he valued them. Larry hadn't had an ounce of snobbery in his soul.

On the right-hand side of the church, at the front, sat distant relatives, nephews and nieces and their children. Larry's brother, a lawyer who had moved to Norman, Oklahoma, after World War II, was there. Handsome people, the Johnsons shared many of Larry's qualities: down-to-earth, respectful, hardworking. One great-nephew in particular looked much like Larry himself at twenty-five.

When Mim Sanburne saw this young man she burst into tears. Both Jim and Little Mim put their arms around her, but this reminder in the flesh, this genetic recall, tore at her heart. Larry was irretrievably gone and with him, Mim's youth and passion.

Harry, Susan, and Miranda sat together near the front on the right-hand side of the church. All three women wore hats, as was proper. In Harry's case the hat also served to cover the stitches.

The walnut casket, closed, sat at the nave, down below the altar. The scent of the massed floral arrangements overpowered those in the front. For those in the rear the sweet odors brought hopes of the not-too-distant spring, an exquisite season in the Blue Ridge Mountains.

The murmur of voices hushed when Herb opened the door behind the lectern. Two acolytes were already seated, one by the lectern, the other by the pulpit. When Herb entered, the congregation stood. He walked to the center, held his hands up, and the congregation was seated.

As the service for the dead progressed, those who knew the good reverend felt the force of his deep voice, felt the genuine emotion. By the time he read his sermon, liberally sprinkled with pawprints from his cats, people knew this was the greatest sermon Herb had ever given.

He eschewed the usual easy words about the deceased being with the angels. He spoke of a life well lived, of a life spent in service to others, of a life devoted to easing pain, to healing, to friendship. He spoke of foxhunting and fly-fishing, Larry's favorite pastimes. He recalled his record in the Navy, his youthful practice, his rapport with people. He argued with God, Herb did.

"Lord, why did you take Thy faithful servant when we have such need of him here on earth?" He read Psalm 102. "'Hear my prayer, O Lord; let my cry come to Thee! Do not hide thy face from me in the day of my distress! Incline thy ear to me; answer me speedily in the day when I call! For my days pass away like smoke and my bones burn like a furnace. My heart is smitten like grass, and withered; I forget to eat my bread.'"

As Herb continued with the psalm, Mrs. Hogendobber quietly recited it with him, her memory of the Good Book being a source of comfort to her and astonishment to others.

At the end of the service, Herb asked that people join hands and repeat the prayers with him. "Larry spent his life bringing people together. Whoever is on your right, whoever is on your left, remember that Dr. Larry Johnson has brought you together even in death."

After the service the church doors opened. People slowly left the church, almost unwilling to go because the emotions holding them there were so powerful.

Mim, in control now, walked to the car. From here the group would wind its way to the cemetery just southwest of town.

Harry reached her truck, stepped on the running board to get in, and noticed a dead chicken, its neck broken, in the bed of the truck.

She reached over, picking it up. There was nothing special about it except that it was tossed deliberately in the back of her truck.

She had an old canvas tarp which she pulled over the bird. It wouldn't do to drive to the entombment with feathers flying.

She knew in her bones this was a cheap warning.

29

Mrs. Murphy's tail stuck out from under the canvas in the back of the truck.

"Throw it down to me," Tucker's bright eyes implored her kitty friend.

"No way, José." The tiger cat sank her fangs in one red leg, backing out, pulling the heavy chicken with her.

Pewter, also sitting in the bed of the truck, called out, "We aren't stupid, Tucker."

"I just want to sniff it. I can tell you how long it's been dead."

"Liar." Murphy inspected the corpse. "Been dead since this morning."

"It's cold. Maybe it's freezing up," Tucker called from the ground.

"Maybe." Murphy hopped over the side of the truck, softly landing on the ground.

Pewter chose the less athletic route. She carefully eased herself over the closed tailgate, her hind paws touching the bumper. Then she dropped down on her front paws and jumped off to the ground.

The animals heard the story of the funeral and the dead chicken when Harry and Miranda returned to work. The post office front door was always unlocked but the back door and the counter divider could be locked. There was a pulldown door, like a garage door, which pulled to the counter divider, locking from the back side. Because stamps were valuable, Miranda and Harry had wrapped up everything tight before leaving for the funeral. It wasn't that anyone had ever stolen anything from the post office other than rubber bands and pencils but the murders inspired them to caution. Then, too, they had put the cats and dog in the locked portion along with a big bowl of water and crunchies on the small table out of Tucker's reach. As there was an animal door in the back of the post office, Harry had locked that, too.