NYU Black Renaissance Noire Spring 2015 - Page 63

“I’m so sorry,” I tell Marty. “I read about that, some months ago. And yes, around the time you and your sister came in. Now, I understand the large order. Three dozen sprays of white lilies, stone and granite vases, bespoke style, bronze Chinese centers.” “Well thank you. Stella and Tony and I do take our time here. We do.” I have a few high school and college girlfriends who call me up sometimes when primetime television is over. They give pretty loud-mouthed, comprehensive recaps of anything worth mentioning that could have gone on in our parts. There usually isn’t much. I am not sure how much I will tell them, or even Marlon, about Marty Kline. She appears to be so crippled and debilitated, withered even, that confidentiality seems not only critical but humane. Mrs. Kline, Marty, forgot to bring the official program from the funeral home, but she promises she will. I may have seen it already. A few obituary paragraphs in the back of the Northwest Indiana Times or Hammond Tribune are hardly noticed or remembered. Most of them are natural c W6W2