Chapter 3: Flock
The star of a funeral is the departed. Understandably, their performance will be low-key and in pantomime. It’s left to another character to anchor the action.
That will be me. And it’s the archetypal actor’s nightmare: I don’t know all of my lines.
I’ve come out of wardrobe dressed for the part. I study myself in the enormous gold leaf mirror I’d rescued from a downtown supper club. Placement on the stairway landing wall was intentional, the final pause for Andy and me to check our look. The reflection connected the dots of our life in this house—when Andy learned home highlighting was a bad idea, that suspenders made me look like Mork, that the male equivalent of camel toe was moose knuckles.
Was it only three nights ago that Andy linked his arm through my own? “We l
