The thick scent of flowers, mixed with the heavy odor of ladies' perfume, sweat, and mothballs, surrounded Rob. Beside him stood his dad and brothers as they accepted the offers of condolences from the mourners.

The little girls clung to his pant legs. The tears they were crying were more from fear than anything else. Rob wasn't sure if they understood what had happened. His sisters were too young to understand death. They only knew that everyone else was crying.

Everything seemed surreal. He had been walking around in a stupor for the last three days. He wanted to cry. He needed to cry. His insides had been ripped inside out. He wished he could clear his head of the fog he was trapped in. His mother wasn’t dead, couldn’t be dead. There had to be a mistake somewhere.

With the funeral finally over, the procession made its way toward the cemetery. It was a small procession since Rachel didn't have many friends, and the friends she had were very leery of her husband. They had seen Rachel come to church often, trying to hide blackened eyes behind sunglasses and bruises under the shade of a big floppy hat. 

They arrived back at the house in silence. Rob kicked his shoes off at the door and slowly climbed the stairs to his room. He felt drained. Empty. He still hadn’t cried. He didn’t think he would have the energy to do so, even now.

The bedroom was dark since it faced west, and Rob left the light off and pulled the curtains, making it even darker. This was preferable to the bright sunlight that was a traitor to this day. How could the sun outside shine so bright when they were all so miserable? How, with the light of his life extinguished? How could he even possibly go on?

There was a soft knock at the door. Rob turned from the window just as Caleb stepped into the room.

"Go away." Rob turned back to the window.

"Dad wants us all in the living room."

"I don't care."

"You'd better care.  He's falling apart, and he needs us now."

"He's falling apart. What about the rest of us?"

"The rest of us need to stick together. Maybe that's why Dad needs us in the living room, now." Caleb said, with force on the last word. "Let's go."

He followed his elder brother down the stairs and into the living room. The draperies covering the front windows were closed. His dad sat in his usual chair by the fireplace, his mandolin still in its case. A bottle of Wild Turkey was on the table beside him. A glass was full of brown liquid in his hand.

Rob’s stomach did a somersault at the sight of the liquor. He never saw his father drink anything but beer. The thought of the hard stuff scared him.

"Sit down, boys," he said sullenly.

They all sat down silently and waited. Carl remained silent for a long time. When he finally spoke, his voice held a grim determination that Rob never heard before.

"No more church."

"Dad? What do you mean, no more church?" Rob wanted to ask but Caleb leaned forward with wide eyes.

"Just what I said." He took a long swallow from the glass. "No more church freebies. That was your mother's idea. From now on we're getting paid for our music."

The boys were silent. Suddenly, the old man slammed his fist down on the coffee table, startling them.

"Do you hear me?" he shouted. "No more! We're going to start making some money. You guys are plenty good enough, so there's no reason we can't start right now."

"I have friends, and I can get us gigs in the local places around here."

"You mean bars?" Rob asked.

"I mean bars," he confirmed. "Bars, where they pay you to entertain. And what's wrong with that?"

Rob lowered his eyes to the floor and left his father's question unanswered. He cast a sidelong glance toward his brothers. Caleb was picking lint off the arm of the couch. Jacob was biting his fingernails. Luke stared at the floor, his feet tapping out a rhythm. None of them were comfortable with their father's decision. His mother would never have approved.

"I know your mother wouldn't approve." He took a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket, tapped one out, and put it to his lips. "But she's dead," he said cruelly, struck the match, and held it to the end of the cigarette. He took a deep drag, inhaled deeply, and blew the smoke out. "I'm not. Not yet, anyway."

At the boy's sharp intake of breath, the steely eyes glanced up at them. “You boys have a problem with this?”

The boys knew it wouldn’t matter if they had a problem with it. Dad was going to do what he wanted. If he wanted to smoke in the house, he would. If he wanted to get blind running drunk in the house, he would. He was free from the religious fervor of his wife. Somehow, Rob knew deep inside that his dad would be going on a fast track in the other direction, and they had no say.

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