Excerpt: Calling Hours

Brad and Greta walked past the coffin, stopping briefly to look down at the body. The mortician had done the best she could, but the body, worn down from disease and age, looked like a fragile shell. The hushed murmurs of the calling hours hushed even further. Brad could feel dozens of eyes on his back.
He tried to hide his shock at the appearance of his father. Greta could not: she gasped and Brad squeezed hard on her hand--a signal she was showing too much emotion. Greta immediately controlled herself. She glanced up at her husband and shrank by habit to become a smaller target.
Brad moved past the head of the casket and steeled himself for the obstacle course of siblings seated nearby. Each one watched him carefully, those that could rising from their maroon upholstered side chairs. The crowed room remained quiet.