“No.”
The child surprised her.
“What?”
“She rides with me.”
Vivian stared.
“Lillian.”
“Grandpa said.”
“This is not your decision.”
Lillian’s eyes filled too.
Behind them, the church doors remained open.
Nathaniel Carter’s casket had already been placed into the hearse.
The black Cadillac waited at the curb, polished enough to reflect the church columns.
Nathaniel had purchased that hearse six years earlier for Carter & Sons Funeral Home.
Everyone in Birmingham’s west-side Black community recognized it.
For thirty-eight years, Carter & Sons had buried teachers, mechanics, babies, pastors, Pullman porters, factory workers, veterans, maids, doctors, children, grandparents, and people whose families could not pay until after cotton or steel wages arrived.
Nathaniel had personally driven hearses before he could afford employees.
Now his own body lay inside one.
And his family was arguing beside it about who counted as family.
Ruby reached them.
“Naomi.”
The little girl turned immediately.
Ruby held out one hand.
“Come here, baby.”
Naomi did not.
She looked toward Vivian.
“Did Grandpa know I wasn't immediate?”
Vivian’s throat closed.
Ruby’s expression changed.
“What did you say to her?”
Vivian stood.
“I did not say she wasn't family.”
Naomi cried:
“You said first car is immediate family.”
Ruby stared.
“Vivian.”
“The car is full.”
“Then say the car is full.”
Vivian’s face heated.
“That is what I meant.”
“No.”
Ruby shook her head.
“That is what you should have said.”
Walter Hughes approached from near the hearse.
He was forty-six, a high-school principal, tall and broad in a black suit. He saw his wife’s face and immediately knew the funeral had developed a problem.
“What happened?”
Ruby answered before Vivian.
“Your wife just explained family categories to an eight-year-old at her grandfather’s funeral.”
Walter closed his eyes.
“Vivian.”
“Do not.”
She turned toward him.
“I have handled every detail of this funeral since Tuesday.”
“I know.”
“I arranged the church.”
“Yes.”
“The cemetery.”
“Yes.”
“The food.”
“Yes.”
“Daddy’s insurance.”
“Yes.”
“And now everyone suddenly has opinions because the first car has six seats.”
Ruby stared.
“This is not about seats.”
“It began about seats.”
“No.”
Ruby looked toward Naomi.
“It began years ago.”
Vivian’s jaw tightened.
There.
The real argument.
Lillian tugged Naomi’s hand.
“Come on.”
Both girls turned.
“Where are you going?” Vivian asked.
Lillian did not answer.
She pulled Naomi toward a cluster of men standing near several parked cars.
One of them carried a tan leather briefcase.
Vivian recognized him.
James Holloway.
Nathaniel’s attorney.
Her stomach tightened for reasons she could not immediately name.
“Lillian.”
The girls kept walking.
“Lillian!”
Her daughter broke into a run.