She had one arm draped around Julia’s shoulder, the other around Ali’s. Behind her, her boyfriend, John Norwood, stood with his arms taut by his sides, watching the sheer autumn light fall on the crowns of their heads, steppes of auburn and blond. A small number of floral arrangements from the hospital and the PTA ringed the open grave. Three of the nurses who worked with Ann on the fourth floor of Hardison General were there, standing silently together; two hospital administrators, Dr. Neal Frederickson, in a navy pinstriped suit, and a few parents of Ali’s and Julia’s schoolmates also stood in mute attendance. All kept their distance, from each other, from the family, scared off by the gunshot that reverberated even now through the last words of the Lord’s Prayer. Sandy, her back stiff, face blank, found some scant comfort in her show of dignity; it was what she had left. The only movement came from a young man three yards away, his foot on a tombstone, taking copious notes in a small spiral pad. SANDY LEANED UP AGAINST the open front door, saying goodbye to the last of the guests she had felt obligated to invite back to her house after the service.
