Chapter Eight
Later, Myrtle and Elaine squeezed into a packed pew in the packed sanctuary of the church for Parke’s funeral. “Too bad we couldn’t get better seats,” Myrtle muttered, pulling her glasses out of her pocketbook, and closing the purse with a snap.
“Well, it’s not a play. We should be able to follow what’s going on from back here.”
“Not a play, but maybe a circus. Is that a brass section in front of the choir loft? What’s this thing they handed us?” demanded Myrtle.
Red plopped on the pew between them and put his arms around them because there wasn’t enough room for his arms next to him in the pew. “These things are programs, Mama.” He chuckled at the stricken expression on Myrtle’s face. “Apparently we’re going to be treated to most of Handel’s “Messiah” while we’re here.”
