“No!” I screamed.
“Excuse me, Miss,” one of the cemetery workers said. “But we think you should find your way home now.”
“What?”
“We’re finishing up here. The service is over.”
I looked at the two of them. The other man had boarded the backhoe.
“You can’t do that,” I said. “He’s not really dead. He’s just . . . doing this to annoy his parents. Ryder!” I called down to the coffin.
“Holy crap,” the cemetery worker on the backhoe said. He pulled out his cell phone.
“Now, just take it easy, Miss,” the one near me said. He put his hand out, palm up. “You back up a little now, please.”
I looked at him, down at the coffin, and then back at him.
“We’ve got a problem out here,” I heard the man on the backhoe say to someone on his cell phone.
“Now, you just take it easy, Miss,” the first worker said to me.
I backed away. Then I turned and ran to my car. As I was driving off, one of the police patrol cars that was at the funeral pulled in. In my rearview mirror, I saw the cemetery workers talking to the two patrolmen. I sped up, made a turn, and then pulled over to catch my breath. I sat there with my eyes closed. I was
shaking so much that my teeth tapped. I hugged myself and rocked from side to side until I heard someone tap on my car window and saw both the patrolmen standing there. When I didn’t respond, one tried to open the door, but it was locked. He knocked on the window again.
“Please unlock your door, Miss, and step out of the car.”
“Leave him alone!” I screamed. “If you hadn’t put those handcuffs on him and dragged him away . . .”
He knocked on the window again. “If you don’t open the door, we’ll have to break the window,” he said. “Shut off your engine, Miss.”
I took a deep breath and did as he asked. Then I unlocked the door, and he opened it quickly.
“Are you all right?”
“No, but there’s nothing you can do about it, and there’s nothing I can do about it,” I said.
“Can you step out of the car, please? Please show us your license, too,” he said.
“I don’t have my license with me. I got into my car without taking anything,” I said.
“Where’s your car’s registration?” he asked. I recalled Donald telling me that he had put it in the glove compartment. I reached in, found it, and handed it to the patrolman. I stepped out of the car.
“Sasha Porter?”
“Yes, that’s who I am.”
“What went on back there at the cemetery?” he asked.
“My boyfriend was buried,” I said.
“Boyfriend?” the other patrolman said, more to his partner than to me.
“Yes, he was my boyfriend.”
“Well, look, are you all right? Would it be better for us to take you home?”
“I’m okay,” I said. “Thank you.”