“Seventy-one years we were married. Seventy-one years. And he was a philandering, moody prick most of it. An absolute prick.” And here, in a gesture of great gusto, she raised the bony middle finger of her right hand and forcefully presented it to the casket. The priest waited, appearing unsure about how to proceed. Finally he nodded slowly and said, “Okay. Well … Amen, I guess.” Clara said, “Do you feel it?” “Feel what?” “You didn’t feel it.” “I’m not sure what you mean. I certainly feel weird being here.” She nodded. “You need to feel it. Trust me. Mr. Kaminski. Brighton Beach.”
