The church smelled like dust and old people with a faint undertone of dying flowers. The pews were hard wood without any cushion. Junie sat to the side, with the family, where she could see everybody cough. It hadnât been intentional, but she didnât feel comfortable sitting in the midst of them. She sat with Kristinaâs husband and two kids, who looked like youâd expect them to look. Her husband was red-eyed and shaking. The kids Alex â the youngest didnât understand yet, of course, and Jennyâs mascara was running on her fourteen-year-old face.
The preacher was an old white man who kept calling her Kristine. Everything he said about her was wrong, from her being a practicing member of the congregation to her relying on the community. Kristina never relied on anybody. If heâd seen her in the street, he wouldnât have said hi. She would be missed, though.
What he wasnât saying was the most important thing. The fact that she was dead because she couldnât afford to get a kidney transplant or the meds that would keep her going. These people who were sitting there looking sad couldâve saved her. They wanted it like this, or they were too profoundly stupid to make the connection. They demonstrated it every time they voted or sat in church.
When heâd finished rambling, they started the music. Junie had picked it out, for her best friend. As âYouâre My Best Friend,â by Queen started playing, all these gray heads perked up and looked around. Their expressions were classic. Junie couldnât keep herself from smiling, and when âFly to the Angelsâ by Slaughter started, she saw red faces. Kristina wouldâve laughed her ass off. It didnât make her feel better, but it made her stop hurting for just a few minutes.