Moving On

Maggie sat alone in the silence of her car. The parking lot was quickly filling up; the only reason she was glad she had arrived early. She could easily have walked here, but today she drove so that she could make a quick getaway. She smoothed her black wool skirt, the itchy fabric reminding her why she never wore it. It was a clear, autumn day, but the vibrant blue sky served as a garish backdrop for the somber-faced mourners, the brightly hued foliage, a jarring contrast to their dark clothing.

Lost in thought, she considered driving back home. Despite her discomfort, she forced herself to get out of the car and stood blinking in the obnoxiously bright sun until she finally mustered up the courage to go inside.

By the time she entered the packed church, there were no more seats available. She accepted a program from an expressionless woman and found a spot in the back to stand with the other latecomers. Nervously she opened the program, trying not to look at the cover, which was adorned with the smiling face of the deceased. The altar was framed in flowers, the choir was assembled behind the pulpit, and the casket, to her horror, was open. Again, she considered leaving, but unlike the coffin, the door was now closed, and the organist started to play the first bars of the appropriately sorrowful, Abide with Me.

Maggie knew all the hymns, but she had no voice today. She had no desire to be seen, let alone be heard. She fumbled through the program, trying to follow along. The minister introduced the man’s brother, who stood at the altar, carefully unfolding the eulogy he’d prepared. “Marty was not just my brother,” he began in a shaky voice, “he was also my best friend.”

The brother shared happy memories with Marty, from boyhood mischief to poignant examples of family love and loyalty. The brother broke down a few times, and Maggie could hear other sniffs and stifled cries throughout the church. The expressionless woman from earlier now appeared up front, where she set up a screen for a photo montage of Mary’s life that played as melancholy music filled the church. More sniffling and crying. Some awkward chuckles at goofy photos of Marty as a kid, Marty going to prom in a light blue tux, Marty directing the church choir.

As the slideshow finished, Maggie once again flipped through the program. Surely this was the end. People stood and started leaving the pews, but not, as she hoped, to exit, but to file past the casket. “Absolutely not.” She looked around to make sure she hadn’t said that aloud. Her plan to stay put was foiled when the man standing beside her nudged her gently forward, committing her to filing toward the casket with the rest of the bereaved.

The line moved slowly as mourners passed by the coffin, some pausing briefly over Marty’s body and others lingering for quite some time before returning to their pews. Maggie focused straight ahead, not wanting to see anyone she knew. She had no desire to socialize and had no plans to attend the reception. Being here was hard enough.

The person in front of her walked solemnly to the casket. Maggie’s heart was pounding. “You can do this,” she whispered to herself. She had no idea how much time was appropriate to peer at a dead body, but she wanted to be as brief as possible. Suddenly and far too quickly, it seemed, it was her turn. She gulped and stepped up to the coffin. There lay Marty, looking slightly smug, in the suit he always wore for choir concerts. She closed her eyes, the wretched memory of his hot breath against her face bringing tears to her eyes.

Not long after she’d joined the choir, He promised her that with some help, she could become a soloist, something she’d only dreamt of and never thought she could actually do. She eagerly accepted his invitation to coach her privately. At first the tutoring went well. Marty was encouraging and Maggie worked diligently, until the evening he blocked the door to the choir room as she got up to leave.

She squeezed her eyes shut more tightly, wringing out more tears. The man behind her, the one who had nudged her forward, coughed slightly, as if to prompt her to move on.

She clenched her fists as she recalled Marty telling her that no one would believe her. Ashamed of what he had done to her, ashamed that she’d believed she could be a singer, she vowed to quit the choir.

The next day, she returned to the church to get her things. She’d left the last fateful lesson abruptly, practically running all the way home, leaving behind her coat and purse. She crept in the back door to avoid meeting the church secretary. The choir door was open, but she hesitated before going in. She desperately tried to block it out, to stop replaying it, but the nightmare was recurring. Furtively she grabbed her stuff and darted back outside. As she turned the corner, she froze. Up on a ladder, changing an outside light bulb, was Marty. He didn’t notice her. His ear buds were in, and she could hear him humming “Great is Thy Faithfulness.” Her solo. Shame turned to rage, an unbearable hot swell of anger bubbling to the surface. Furious, she kicked the ladder and turned back the way she came, the sound of her pounding heart briefly drowned out by the loud metallic sound of the ladder hitting the ground.

Maggie stopped. She hadn’t meant to knock it over. It was an impulsive move; her brain trying to evict her overwhelming feelings. “No one will believe you.” The sick memory replayed. And then she kept on going without turning back.

It was later that night she started getting texts from the other choir members. “Can you believe it?” “I’m gutted.” “You must be devasted; you two were so close.” Maggie shuddered, recoiling as she dropped her phone. She caught her breath and picked it back up. “What happened? I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she texted back.

“He died. Marty is dead. It was an accident. He fell off a ladder trying to help out at church. Horrible news, Maggie, I’m so sorry.”

Maggie felt a gentle squeeze of her arm as the man behind her in line said, “I’m so sorry miss, but it’s time to move on.”

She startled, gasping audibly.

“Maggie? Maggie??”

Marty stood in front of her. The other choir members stood awkwardly as the choir director, in a condescending tone said, “well welcome back to practice, Maggie. You’ll never make soloist by daydreaming.”

Maggie stared at him blankly, concealing her hatred behind the imaginary armor she had built for herself in the wake of the assault. “Well? Shall we start from the top?”

“No,” Maggie replied with a strange perkiness. “It’s time to move on.”

She grabbed her things, and walked out the choir door, laughing triumphantly as she headed for the police station.