Anne Tyler - Breathing Lessons

" 'Love is Nature's way of giving . . .' " they sang together.

They knew all the words straight through, which Maggie found surprising, because earlier she had forgotten what it was that makes a man a king. "

'It's the golden crown,' " she sang confidently. You had to sort of step forth, she decided, and trust that the words would follow. Durwood carried the melody and Maggie went along with it, less quavery now although she could have used a little more volume. It was true that her voice had once been compared to a bell. She had sung in the choir for years, at least till the children came along and things got complicated; and she had taken real joy in rounding out a note just right, like a pearl or a piece of fruit that hung in the air a moment before it fell away. Though age had certainly not helped. Did anyone else hear the thread of a crack running through her high notes? Hard to tell; the congregation faced decorously forward, except for those confounded little blonds.

She thought time had gone into one of its long, slow, taffy-like stretches. She was acutely conscious of each detail of her surroundings.

She felt the fabric of Dur-wood's sleeVe just brushing her arm, and she heard Ira absentmindedly twanging a rubber band. She saw how accepting and uninterested her audience was, taking it for granted that this song would of course be sung and then some other song after that. " 'Then your fingers touched my silent heart,' " she sang, and she remembered how she and Serena had giggled over that line when they sang it themselves-oh, long before that fateful Harvest Home Ball-because where else was your heart but in your chest? Weren't they saying the lover had touched their chests! Serena was facing the pulpit but her head had a listening stillness to it. Her tail of hair was gathered into one of those elastic arrangements secured by two red plastic marbles, the kind of thing very young girls wore. Like a very young girl, she had summoned all her high-school friends around her-no one from a later time, no one from the dozen small towns Max had lugged her to during their marriage, for they hadn't stayed in any of those places long enough. Maggie decided that that was the saddest thing about this whole event.

The song came to an end. Maggie and Durwood sat down.

Sissy Parton moved directly into "Friendly Persuasion," but the Barley twins, who used to harmonize as closely as the Lennon Sisters, stayed seated. Serena seemed resigned by now; she didn't even give them a look.

Sissy played just one stanza, and then the minister rose and said, "We are gathered here today to mourn a grievous loss."

Maggie felt she had turned to liquid. She was so exhausted that her knees were shaking.

The minister had a lot to say about Max's work for the Furnace Fund. He didn't seem to know him personally, however. Or maybe that was all Max had amounted to, in the end: a walking business suit, a firm handshake.

Maggie switched her attention to Ira. She wondered how he could sit there, so impervious. He'd have let her slog through that entire song alone; she knew that. She could have stumbled and stuttered and broken down; he would have watched as coolly as if she had nothing to do with him. Why not? he would say. What obligated him to sing some corny fifties song at a semi-stranger's funeral? As usual, he'd be right. As usual, he'd be forcing Maggie to do the giving in.

She made up her mind that when the funeral was over, she would stride off in her own direction. She would certainly not drive back with him to Baltimore. Maybe she'd hitch a ride with Durwood. Gratitude rushed over her at the thought of Durwood's kindness. Not many people would have done what he had done. He was a gentle, sympathetic, softhearted man, as she should have realized from the start.

Why, if she had accepted that date with Durwood she'd be a whole different person now. It was all a matter of comparison. Compared to Ira she looked silly and emotional; anybody would have. Compared to Ira she talked too much and laughed too much and cried too much. Even ate too much! Drank too much! Behaved so sloppily and mawkishly!

She'd been so intent on not turning into her mother, she had gone and turned into her father.

The minister sat down with an audible groan. There was a rustle of linen a few pews back and then here came Sugar Tilghman, bearing her black straw hat as smoothly as a loaded tray. She tip-tapped up front to Sissy and bent over her, conferring. They murmured together. Then Sugar straightened and took a stance beside the piano with her hands held just the way their choir leader used to insist-loosely clasped at waist level, no higher-and Sissy played a bar of music that Maggie couldn't immediately name. An usher approached Serena and she rose and accepted his arm and let him escort her down the aisle, eyes lowered.

Sugar sang, '' 'When I was just a little girl . . .' "

Another usher crooked his arm toward Serena's daughter, and one by one the family members filed out. Up front, Sugar gathered heart and swung gustily into the chorus: Que sera sera, Whatever will be will be. The future's not ours to see, Que sera sera.

When they stepped out of the church it was like stepping out of a daytime movie-that sudden shock of sunshine and birdsong and ordinary life that had been going on without them. Serena was hugging Linda. Linda's husband stood awkwardly by with the children, looking like a visitor who hoped to be invited in. And all around the churchyard, members of the class of ' were recognizing each other. "Is that you?" they asked. And, "How long has it been?" And, "Can you believe this?" The Barley twins told Maggie she hadn't changed a bit. Jo Ann Der-mott announced that everyone had changed, but only for the better. Wasn't it odd, she said, how much younger they were than their parents had been at the very same age. Then Sugar Tilghman appeared in the doorway and asked the crowd at large what other song she possibly could have sung. "I mean I know it wasn't perfect," she said, "but look what I had to choose from! Was it just too absolutely inappropriate?"

They all swore it wasn't.

Maggie said, "Durwood, I owe you the world for coming to my rescue."

-"My pleasure," he told her. "Here's your coupon, by the way. None the worse for wear."

This wasn't quite true; it was limp around the edges and slightly damp.

Maggie dropped it into her purse.

Ira stood near the parking lot with Nat Abrams. He and Nat had been a couple of classes ahead of the others; they were the outsiders. Not that Ira seemed to mind. He looked perfectly at ease, in fact. He was discussing auto routes. Maggie overheard snatches of "Triple A" and "Highway Ten." You would think the man was obsessed.

"Funny little place, isn't it?" Durwood said, gazing around him.

"Funny?"

"You couldn't even call it a town."

"Well, it is kind of small," Maggie said.

"I wonder if Serena will be staying on here."

They both looked over at Serena, who seemed to be trying to put her daughter back together. Linda's face was streaming with tears, and Serena had set her at a distance and was patting down various parts of her clothes. ^'Doesn't she still have relatives in Baltimore?" Durwood asked.

"None that claim her," Maggie said.

"I thought she had that mother."

"Her mother died a few years ago."

"Aw, really?" Durwood said.

"She got one of those diseases, some muscular something."

"Us boys were all just, like, fixated on her, once upon a time," Durwood said.

This startled Maggie, but before she could comment she saw Serena heading toward them. She had her shawl clasped tightly around her. "I want to thank you both for singing," she said. "It meant a lot to me."

"That Ira is just so stubborn I could spit," Maggie said, and Durwood said, "Beautiful service, Serena."