Lie of the Needle(50)

            “It may as well be a funeral,” Eleanor murmured.

            The only spots of color on Martha were her chestnut hair and the redness around her eyes.

            “What are you doing here?” she also demanded of Eleanor when she had given us both a hug. Or as much of a hug as she could manage due to the constraints of the hat. “I thought you didn’t believe in organized religion?”

            Eleanor shrugged. “I live my life so I can look at myself in the mirror every day and be proud of the person in the reflection. That’s enough for me and my God. She’s okay with it.”

            Martha just rolled her tear-puffed eyes at me. “Do you guys believe that someone took my flyers down last night? Every single one. Who would do such a thing? How can people be so mean?”

            “Never mind about that now,” I said. “It’s freezing out here. Come on. Let’s go in.”

            Inside the church, Joe sat on my left, Eleanor was on my right, and Martha sat on the other side of Eleanor.

            As the reverend asked us to pray for the recently departed, tears pricked my eyes and I felt as though I could almost see Alex Roos’s spirit winging its way up into the rafters of the beautiful old church. I prayed for a sign that Cyril was okay and touched the pack of cigarettes in my pocket like a talisman. A wave of desperation threatened to sweep me under, and I prayed for the strength to continue to believe he was still alive. To not give up hope.

            My lack of sleep was catching up to me, the effects of early-morning caffeine were long gone, and I breathed in several deep breaths, trying to suck in more oxygen to clear my head. Eleanor was busy pulling tissues out of her bag as fast as she could and handing them to Martha.

            Althea Gunn led the chorus in her usual wobbly contralto. The rest of us were used to the racket, but Eleanor looked at me wide-eyed, and in spite of my sadness, I had to smile at her shocked expression.

            “Holy Toledo. Is this for real?” she whispered. “She sounds like a ghost. No, wait, a constipated phantom.” She moaned, fluttering her hands in front of her. “Or one that’s laying an egg.”

            “Stop it,” I hissed.

            “Woo-hoo-ooh!” Eleanor moaned again, a little louder this time, the sound almost drowned out by Althea’s out-of-

tune but resolute singing.

            The wailing vibrato grew in intensity, like someone was doing karate chops on Althea’s back. I could feel the shaking of silent laughter where Eleanor’s arm touched mine, and I struggled against the hilarity bubbling up inside.

            “Hey, Daisy, remember that scene in When Harry Met Sally?” Eleanor wiggled her eyebrows suggestively. “‘I’ll have what she’s having.’”

            “You are evil.”

            The more I knew I shouldn’t laugh, the more I wanted to. Joe looked over at us and simply shook his head. I cupped my hands like blinders around my streaming eyes so I couldn’t see her, but at that moment Althea hit a high note.

            Eleanor grabbed the pew in front of her and threw her head back, as if in the throes of the greatest climax she’d ever experienced.

            That did it.

            I jumped up, slid quickly past Joe and the couple next to him, and practically ran out of the church with a hand over my mouth before the geyser inside me could explode.

            I ended up in the graveyard and collapsed on a nearby gravestone, where my wild howling and choked laughter were enough to wake the dead. I laughed and laughed until I couldn’t laugh any more.

            “I’m glad our sermons are so entertaining, Daisy Buchanan.” I looked up to see Father Morris standing over me. He had a light Irish accent and a melodious voice as rich as heavy cream.