"You be strong, Trudy," Daisy Black said. "Gert wouldn't want to see you grieving a long time. Lean on your happy memories."

If I did that, I'd fall on my bubble butt pretty quickly. Was the woman daft?

Another little gray-haired lady hugged me and whispered, "Gert was a great lady. You'll have a time filling her boots"

"Dinnertime," Betsy whispered into my ear, and she headed toward the limousine that would take us back to the church.

"I sure hope someone made hot chicken salad," I said.

She did have the grace to blush. "I never knew you liked hot chicken salad. I mean, I know you make it for Drew, because you told me, but I didn't know it was your favorite."

"Of course I like hot chicken salad. I make it every week for Drew. If he doesn't have it on Tuesday night, it's grounds for divorce." It was amazing how easy it was to dump ashes upon her head and how much I enjoyed it.

I could have sworn I heard Gert's voice whispering that a true lady could weather tragedy and heartache and keep her pride and dignity. I suppose she was trying to tell me to be careful, but I didn't really care about all those old southernisms she'd spouted all the time. I wanted to roll down the windows of the limo and yell toward the single white cloud up there in the ultrablue summer sky, Don't be telling me anything about pride and dignity! I want to kill someone, and I'll gladly start with Betsy or Marty-either one. So take your advice on to the pearly gates and rearrange heaven. Don't be whispering into my ear. You probably knew Drew was cheating, and you didn't bother to tell me, either!

I didn't do it. Instead I sank down into the heavy silence. What on earth was I going to do? My salary at the school wouldn't pay rent and bills on a one-room shanty on the edge of the Washita River. Did I swallow my pride, wrap myself in a robe of dignity, and shut my eyes? After all, evidently he'd been cheating for years. Everyone in town knew and "blessed my little heart" on a daily basis.

If Aunt Gert could have been in that limo right then, she would have told me to stop blaming my cousins and blame the party responsible. She would have said for me to go take care of business so I could hold my head up. She would have kicked my hind end for wanting to kill the messengers when the person I should be thinking of murdering was my lying, cheating, two-timing husband.

Marty cleared her throat to get my attention. "What are you thinking about? You look like you've seen a ghost."

"Aunt Gert," I answered.

Betsy pulled out a compact and applied a fresh coat of bright red lipstick. "What're you going to do if you get that horrid house? We've already decided what we'd do with that eyesore"

I paused.

"Well?" Marty asked testily.

"She'll probably leave it to the church, and we'll all get some of her jewelry. The church can take care of the sale of the place and use the proceeds to buy new carpet or a new piano." Betsy stopped herself. "I can't believe I'm sayin' this. She's not even covered up in her grave yet"

Marty set her mouth in a firm line and narrowed her eyes. "Stop acting like you're sorry she's gone. She was a pain. I hope she doesn't leave me her jewelry. That's the last thing I'd want. All that awful junk she bought at yard sales. I wouldn't be caught dead in any of it."

Betsy sighed loudly. "What we'll probably get is a bill for ten years' back taxes and a house full of termites to split three ways. We'll end up in debt because of our inheritance."

"Don't count your chickens before they're hatched," I snapped.

Marty gasped. "You sounded just like her. I swear, that was even her voice. Did her spirit stick around and crawl inside you?"

The glare I gave her apparently erased all doubt. She shivered and looked out the side window the rest of the way to the church. When the funeral-home limo parked, Betsy giggled in an attempt to ease the tension, but it came out as a highpitched squeal. "Here we are! Dinner and then the will. Are we ready?"

They couldn't get out of the limo fast enough. I didn't know either of them could run in three-inch pumps, but run they did. If I'd tried to keep up with them, I'd have fallen flat on my face right there-in-the church parking lot.

I slowly walked toward the fellowship hall for the dinner. Charity was that teller with the tight little body and straight blond hair, I remembered. Short blond hair at that. I liked to wear my hair short and kinky, but Drew hated it, so I kept it long and fought with straightening irons and hair dryers every single day.

Go to the bank and hit him where it hurts, Gert's voice said.

We had a joint checking account and at least one joint savings account. If I wiped out those two accounts, I wouldn't have to end the marriage; he would.

Was I ready to live in the same town with him and watch each new plaything drive a new Thunderbird? Blast it all, I was driving a five-year-old Chevrolet Impala.

Some folks can't eat when they're stressed out. Not me. For me, food cures everything. Depression. Boredom. Anger. Chocolate cake can take care of ingrown toenails, and potato chips can eradicate acne. I've told my fat cells things like that for so long, my body believes all of it.

The ladies of the church had prepared every Great-aunt Gert recipe they had in their files. There was potato salad. Barbecued chicken. Turkey, cooked long and slow with a stick of pure butter in the cavity to keep it tender. Corn bread dressing. Hot rolls with butter smeared on the tops when they're fresh out of the oven. Chocolate cake topped off with an inch of homemade fudge icing. Baked beans. Hash brown casserole.

Folks lined up for the buffet and talked about how Aunt Gert had made this for Thanksgiving or always brought that when someone died. It was as if they were trying to use her favorite foods to give her the strength to face the afterlife. Those poor folks didn't know that Gert didn't need any extra strength. She could take on Lucifer himself and come out the winner.

My plate needed sideboards by the time I finished loading it, but I just got frumpier every year, so it didn't matter how I comforted my aching heart. By the time I got through the line, the only place left for me to sit was right across from Marty and Betsy. There I was with the best plate of food since last Thanksgiving, and just looking at my cousins nauseated me. It wasn't fair that they'd shattered my whole world and taken my appetite too.

"Feelin' better?" Betsy asked.

I pushed my plate back. "I'm not hungry. I need some air. I'll see y'all at the reading of the will."

Marty whispered but not low enough. "What's gotten into her?"

Great-aunt Gert was barely in the grave, and the dirt was loose enough that she could still claw her way out of that pale pink coffin if I made a public scene, so I kept my mouth shut and didn't tell them what had gotten into fat Trudy, bless her heart. I meandered into the sanctuary and sat down in the pew where she'd always sat. Who cared if my mascara left black streaks, anyway? It was a funeral, and I was the only one in the sanctuary, so I gave way to tears and wiped at them with the back of one hand.

Suddenly I could feel her presence so powerfully that I hesitated before I turned to look to my left. Naturally, there wasn't a ghost sitting there in the oak pew beside me; it was more like a feeling, and it wasn't a happy one, either. It was the same feeling I'd had the time she caught me buying a frozen turkey for Thanksgiving. I had gotten the entire thirty-minute tirade about how a person should buy the live turkey directly from the farmer and dress it herself if she wanted a perfect Thanksgiving dinner. I had stared dumbly at her. Dress a turkey? I wouldn't know where to start with a live bird. I could sense that she had a lecture all prepared for me but I sure didn't want to hear it.