Chapter 3 - The Fractured Crowd
"No! Let me go! I heard it!" Toby screamed, thrashing wildly against his father’s grip, his small muddy boots kicking at Arthur’s shins. "I heard three taps! Soft ones! Like she does when she plays hide-and-seek! She’s scratching at the wood!"
"He’s traumatized," Arthur announced loudly to the room, his voice shaking as he attempted to pull the flailing child toward the side exit leading to the vestry. "He was there when the ambulance came. He hasn't slept in three days. Julian, help me get him into the car!"
Julian stepped forward, looking uncomfortable, but reached out to assist his brother.
However, Toby wriggled his arm free, dropping flat onto his stomach on the altar carpet, wrapping both arms around the iron base of the brass catafalque like an anchor.
"SHE IS IN THERE! MOMMY IS IN THERE!" Toby shrieked, his face pressed into the carpet.
Arthur reached down aggressively to pry the child's fingers apart, his jaw clenched so tight the muscles twitched near his ear. "Toby, I am warning you—"
"Arthur, wait."
The voice came from the third pew on the left.
Dr. Thomas Vance, a sixty-year-old family physician who had known Clara since she was a young girl, stood up slowly. He adjusted his wire-rimmed spectacles and stepped out into the center aisle, his eyes fixed steadily on Arthur’s tense, rigid back.
"The boy is obviously in extreme distress, Arthur," Dr. Vance said, his tone measured, calm, and authoritative. "Maybe we should open it, just to be certain. It would take ten seconds and give the child peace of mind."
Arthur’s head snapped toward the doctor. His eyes narrowed into small, lethal points of gray, and his voice rose to an unnatural, booming pitch that shattered the delicate atmosphere of the funeral home.
"ABSOLUTELY NOT!" Arthur bellowed.
The chapel went dead silent.
The shift in the room was instant and terrifying. The guests, who only moments before had viewed the scene as the heart-wrenching breakdown of a grief-stricken child, now straightened up in their pews. Heads turned. Whispers died instantly.
Why would a grieving husband react with such violent, defensive rage to a simple request to ease his son's suffering?
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Dr. Vance narrowed his eyes, taking two deliberate steps toward the altar. "Arthur... it's a closed casket. The latch is right there. What is the harm?"
"I said NO!" Arthur shouted, his chest heaving, his posture defensive as he stepped between Dr. Vance and the rosewood box. "This is my wife! I decided on a closed casket to preserve her dignity! I will not have her memory desecrated because an eight-year-old is having a psychotic episode!"
