Then she leaned toward my father and whispered. She must have thought nobody could hear her. But the church was so quiet, and the stone walls carry everything.
“Richard. Richard, do something. He knows. He knows.“
The people in the second row heard it. I watched Harold Benning’s head turn slowly toward my mother.
My father cleared his throat. He stepped forward into the aisle with his hands up, like he was calming a frightened horse.
“Arthur,” he said loudly. Too loudly. “Arthur, you’re confused. You’re tired. Let’s get you to a seat.” He turned to the crowd and gave a little laugh. “I’m so sorry, everyone. As many of you know, my father-in-law has been struggling with dementia for years. Sometimes he gets mixed up. It’s the disease talking.”
He reached for Grandpa’s arm.
Grandpa lifted his cane and set the rubber tip, very gently, against my father’s chest.
