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notation with a miniature pencil.
    â€œDon’t announce it yet,” said Sunny.
    â€œWhat about pallbearers?”
    â€œI did that,” said Sunny.
    Dickie took her list and read it aloud. “Very nice,” he said. “I’ve used every one of them before. Dr. Ouimet called me and volunteered for the job. I was hoping you’d pick him.”
    Dickie had a ring of keys, one of which opened the stage door after a half-dozen tries. He left Sunny in a dressing room, alone, sitting at a peeling vanity table, numbly surveying the pots of cracked makeup and dirty brushes.
    â€œI’ve got to admit,” said Dickie as he returned, “I had my doubts about doing this off-site. But it looks like she was a head of state. And more flowers where these came from. You ready?”
    â€œIs anyone here yet?”
    â€œMy wife and my mother,” said Dickie. “They come to everything I do.”
    â€œDo I know your wife?”
    â€œI met her at school in Albany. Her father’s a funeral director in Plattsburgh.”
    Sunny stood up and quickly sat down again.
    â€œYou’re okay,” said Dickie. “I’ll be right there, moving people along, directing traffic. I’ve got Kleenex, Wash ’n Dri, Tic Tacs, water, whatever helps. Just nod and shake their hands. They usually do the talking.”
    â€œIt’s not that. I should have done this earlier. Isn’t that what people do—have a private good-bye?”
    Dickie walked over to the vanity stool and helped her up, a boost from around her shoulders. “She looks like she’s sleeping. I promise. She looks beautiful, if I do say so myself.”
    â€œDo I have a few minutes? Before anyone gets here?”
    Dickie took a diplomatic quick-step away from Sunny. “Absolutely. I’ll ask my mother and Roberta to step outside.”
    He looked at his watch, bit his lip.
    â€œI don’t need long,” said Sunny. She left the dressing room, walked between the maroon velvet curtains that her mother had patched in her pre–leading lady days.
    The coffin was parallel to the orchestra seats and surrounded by potted lilies. Margaret looked small and alone. Worse than asleep—unreachable, irretrievable. Sunny moved closer. She could see that her mother’s brown hair was parted on the wrong side and that her lips were painted a darker shade of red than Margaret had worn in life. The dress was out of season: black, V-necked, long-sleeved, and ending in a point at each wrist. It needed pearls, a locket, a pin, a corsage—something.
    â€œMom?” Sunny whispered.
    The footlights and the lilies flashed white at the edges of her vision, and her knees sagged.
    Roberta Saint-Onge, who’d been spying on Sunny from the vestibule, yelled for ammonium carbonate, for a cold, wet facecloth, for a chair, for help, for Dickie.
    Â 
CHAPTER  7
----
The Viewing Hours
    W ith a firm hand on the back of Sunny’s neck, Roberta Saint-Onge repeated, “Head
down.
The head has to be
down.
”
    â€œI’m okay,” Sunny murmured. “You can let go now.”
    â€œHead between your knees,” ordered Roberta.
    â€œYou’re hurting me.”
    â€œHow long does she have to stay like this?” asked Dickie.
    â€œHowever long it takes for the blood to drain back into her head.”
    â€œIt’s there,” said Sunny. “Let
go,
for Crissakes.”
    Roberta did, petulantly, as if a referee had called a jump ball and repossessed the disputed goods.
    â€œYou’re still pale,” said Dickie. “You might want to touch up your cheekbones with a little color.”
    â€œI’ll be okay,” said Sunny. “Give me a minute without the headlock.”
    â€œThis isn’t the first time we’ve encountered this,” said Roberta.
    â€œI never fainted before in my life,” said Sunny.
    â€œIt’s a shock to the system,” said