Lindenwood Fun*ral Home smelled like wet wool and carnations.
There were eleven folding chairs filled.
Eleven.
My aunt.
Raul and his wife.
Mr. Lombardi, standing in the back with his hat in his hands.
A nurse from the hospital.
A few neighbors.
My father's c*ffin was the cheapest one in the showroom.
Raul had paid for the white carnations on top, though he never told me.
Millicent Rosenthal did not sit.
She stood at the end of the aisle in black, with the Birkin on her arm and the Cartier bracelet clicking against its clasp.
She walked up to my Aunt Kaitlyn and held out a white envelope.
"The district's final paycheck," she said. "Two hundred twelve dollars and forty cents."
My aunt didn't take it.
So Millicent tucked it into the pocket of my aunt's coat, the way you tip a valet.
"I'm told there are medical bills," she said, lowering her voice just enough to sound kind. "I'd advise the family not to contact the district about benefits. It was a budget matter. Entirely procedural."
