Higgins cleared his throat again, his eyes sliding down to the bare brown dirt where the plastic carnations had stood.

“The funeral home called me at eleven this morning,” he said.

“They have the service set for Tuesday at two in the afternoon.”

“You won’t be standing in that pulpit, Glenn,” I said.

He went still, his right hand frozen in midair near the buttons of his black jacket.

“What did you just say to me?” he asked.

“I said you won’t be preaching Mama’s funeral,” I said.

“I’ve been senior pastor of this congregation for twenty-two years, Ona,” he said, his voice sinking to a harsh whisper.