Tracie Newsome’s funeral. The only thing it has in common is that it’s held in a funeral home. It’s not a bad-looking place either. But as far as I can tell, it’s in the smallest room. I can’t blame whoever made that decision. After all, it’s the city that’s paying for it, not the family. In other words, not me. My father is in a coffin at the front of the small room by the time I get there. It’s not a shiny fancy coffin with brass fittings or whatever, like Mrs. Tracie Newsome’s. It’s wooden. It’s polished. But, if you ask me, it looks like plywood. Pine, maybe, stained to look like something darker and more expensive. Not that it matters. My father is going to be cremated, not buried. The coffin is just for show. There are several rows of chairs set out in the room facing the coffin. There is a man sitting in the front row. He stands up when I come into the room and smiles when he sees me. “You must be Lila,” he says. I nod. “I’m Peter Struthers. I knew your dad when he was in prison.
