"If you don’t mind a lawyer getting a big fat chunk of it," Marlene said.

The air in the room was heavy with perspiration and cheap perfume. Marlene’s blonde hair clung to her neck in damp strings. She was a natural blonde, all over, Roby had been told. She didn’t meet his eyes, as if she were somehow aware of his secret knowledge.

"Well, there’s the whole funeral thing to pay for," the widow said, wringing her leathery hands.

"Bet that thing there cost a hundred bucks to rent." Alfred pointed at the maple lectern at the room’s entrance. It had a brass-plated lamp and on its slanted surface was a notebook filled with thick, creamy paper. The guests had signed their names, a keepsake book. As if this were a time to be remembered, picked over at some future date to share laughs and what-could-have-beens.

Roby had signed it himself, in his looping, swirling death hand, the florid signature reserved for these special times. He had almost written "good pie" after his name, but he didn’t know the widow well enough. He thought of all the lonely nights waiting ahead, an empty space beside her in the bed where Jacob Davis Ridgehorn’s shape had pressed a hollow over the years.

He knew all about lonely. In life, you had to give your heart to somebody. When you died, all you left behind was the love you thought you had given. And when you died, that was all you got back.

Roby had nobody, no family. Except, for the next few days, these Ridgehorns. And he wanted them to appreciate what they had lost, and what they were gaining. "Now, your pa deserves nothing but the best, so don’t skimp on the arrangements."

"They ain’t much money," Sarah said. "Daddy worked for himself all his life, pretty much hand to mouth."

"We’ll work it out." He nodded to the widow. "I’ll help you straighten out the papers, ma’am. And I know old Barnaby real well. I’ll make sure he does you right."