He would have preferred to avoid people, and the last thing he wanted was to attend a funeral. But it was not in his nature to turn away from those in distress.

— Yes, of course, he said.

The following day, Bernard went with Clara to her father’s funeral. The sky was bright blue. No clouds, little wind, a stillness that penetrated so deeply it was almost odd to find other people in the church. There were not many. There was a handful on one side of the aisle and a smaller handful on the other, all of them near the front. The stained glass windows on one side of the church were sun touched and brightly coloured, but their illumination did not reach the centre of the church, which was in mottled shadow. Clara and Bernard were to the right of the altar, three rows back. In the row before them, alone, was Clara’s sister. In the row before that, Clara’s mother sat. On the other side of the aisle were darkly dressed aunts and uncles. In all, eight people had come to the funeral.

The coffin was in the aisle, not far from the altar.

Before they entered the church, Clara had spoken to no one. Nor did anyone seem interested in speaking to her. Clara had entered briskly, as if there for some other business. She had told him the names of those in the church, speaking her mother’s and her sister’s names with a contemptuous whisper. Hearing Clara’s voice, her sister turned around, stared at Bernard for a moment, then turned away.

The priest began the service. There were two altar boys with him, genuflecting, rising, kneeling, bowing awkwardly, out of sync. Their faces were pale. When it was time for the eulogies, the priest said a few words about Mr. Johnson’s life — hockey, broken knees, devotion to his lovely daughters, amen — and then Mrs. Johnson spoke of him — hard life, bad knees, love for his daughters, amen. Mrs. Johnson spoke clearly, but her emotions were not clear, and there was a hint of defiance in her attitude. She held herself straight, as if expecting a challenge to her words. At the end of her mother’s eulogy, Clara nudged Bernard’s arm and, having his attention, rolled her eyes and shook her head.

When the mourners had knelt a final time and wished Godspeed to the soul of the dead, six young men entered from the sacristy and took up the coffin. They were not as awkward as the altar boys had been. They were freshly scrubbed. The hair on the tallest of them looked pasted to his forehead. Everyone followed the young men out. They watched as the coffin was put into the hearse and the doors were closed. In the brief lull after the hearse’s departure, Clara’s mother spoke to her.

— Where’s your husband? she asked.

— He couldn’t make it, said Clara.

— Well, it was nice that you and your friend here could come to your father’s funeral. Too bad your husband couldn’t make it.

One of Clara’s aunts approached. She was in a violet pantsuit and wore a dark, black lace veiled hat. Brushing at her clothes as if there were crumbs on her chest, she looked mistrustfully at Bernard.

— Who’s this? she asked.

— None of your business, answered Clara.

— Well, for God’s sake, Clara. Can’t you keep a civilized tongue?

— You know how she is, said Clara’s mother. She’s had such a difficult life, she doesn’t remember how to be polite.

— That’s right, said Clara.

Turning her back on her daughter, Clara’s mother said,

— What’s wrong with you, Belle? You get dirt on your clothes, or you just rubbing your tits?

— No, no, said Belle. Arty fell asleep on me in there. I got his hair all over me. When he goes on night shift, he falls asleep all over the place. Honestly, it’s like having one of those long-haired dogs around the house.

They walked away from Clara, to stand with the rest of the family at the foot of the church’s steps. No one else expressed any interest in Bernard. No one spoke to Clara. The family stood by the church to shake the priest’s hand or, as one did, to clap him on the back. Then they left for the cemetery.