“Is everything all right, Ona?” Arthur whispered from four rows back, leaning over the back of the pew in front of him.

“If that’s the funeral home driver calling about the graveside schedule, tell him we’re right on time.”

I didn’t answer him.

I turned the phone face down, pushed it in past the satin hem of the christening dress and snapped the leather purse shut with a loud click.

Let the district man take the register key.

Let him sign the write-up in red ink and hand the six o’clock shift to somebody else.

The gas station job was finished, and I didn’t care if I ever touched another cash drawer as long as I lived.