Chapter 7: The Body of the Community

The call came on a Wednesday morning.

I was in the kitchen, making coffee, naked as always. Cape was still in bed, his soft snores drifting through the open bedroom door. The fog was thick outside, blanketing the river and the fields in a damp, gray embrace. It was the kind of morning that made you want to stay inside, wrapped in blankets, drinking something warm.

The phone rang. I picked it up.

“Rill?” It was Flora’s voice, and it was wrong. There was something in it—a tightness, a tremor—that I’d never heard before. “Rill, I need to tell you something.”

“What is it?”

“It’s Whisky. He’s—” She paused, taking a shaky breath. “He’s gone, Rill. He passed away this morning. In his sleep.”

I felt the world tilt beneath me. Whisky Tichenor—my neighbor, my friend, the man who’d brought me crackers every Tuesday and Thursday for fifteen years. The man who’d never once commented on my nudity, who’d just accepted me as I was, who’d been a constant, steady presence in my life.

“Rill? Are you there?”

“I’m here.” My voice was thick. “I’m here, Floras. What happened?”

“Heart attack. Sometime in the night. Coquille found him when she went to check on him.” Floras paused. “He went peacefully, Rill. They said he didn’t suffer.”

“That’s—that’s good.” I closed my eyes, trying to steady myself. “That’s good.”

“Rill, I know this is hard. I know he was important to you. But I need you to know—the community is gathering. We’re going to have a service. At the bingo hall. Tonight.”

“The bingo hall?”

“It’s what he would have wanted. He loved that place. He loved the community. He loved—” She paused. “He loved you, Rill. He loved you like a daughter.”

I felt tears prick at my eyes. I hadn’t cried in years, but I was crying now, the tears streaming down my face.

“I’ll be there,” I said. “I’ll be there, Floras.”

“Good. I’ll see you tonight.”

She hung up. I stood there for a long moment, the phone still pressed to my ear, the tears still streaming down my face.

A Cape appeared in the doorway. He was wearing his pajama pants, his hair tousled from sleep. He took one look at my face and crossed the room in three quick strides.

“Rill, what happened? What’s wrong?”

“It’s Whisky,” I said. “He’s gone. He died in his sleep last night.”

Cape pulled me into his arms. I buried my face in his chest, sobbing. He held me, his hand stroking my hair, his voice murmuring soothing words.

“I’m so sorry,” he said. “I’m so sorry, Rill.”

“He was my friend. He was my friend for fifteen years. He never—he never judged me. He just accepted me. He brought me crackers every Tuesday and Thursday. Every single week. For fifteen years.”

“I know.” The Cape held me tighter. “I know, sweetheart. He was a good man. A good, kind man.”

“He was the best,” I said. “He was the best of all of us.”

The bingo hall was transformed that night. The fairy lights were dimmed, replaced by candles on every table. The chairs were arranged in neat rows, facing a simple wooden podium. The electronic board was dark, its flickering numbers silent for once. The room was filled with the scent of flowers—Myrtle Broadbent had donated them, of course, white roses and lilies and baby’s breath.

The community had gathered. Everyone was there—Whisky’s friends, his neighbors, his fellow bingo players. They were dressed in their best, their faces solemn, their eyes red-rimmed with grief.

I was at the front of the room, naked as always. It felt strange, being naked at a funeral. But it felt right too. Whisky had never cared about my nudity. He’d never even mentioned it. He’d just accepted me, exactly as I was.

And now I was here, saying goodbye to him, exactly as I was.

Cape was beside me, his hand in mine. Larkin was on my other side, her body bare, her eyes red from crying. She was fifteen now, a young woman who’d chosen freedom for herself, and she was grieving deeply.

Floras stepped up to the podium. She was wearing a simple black dress, the first time I’d ever seen her in anything other than her deli apron. Her face was pale, her eyes swollen.

“We’re gathered here today,” she began, her voice steady, “to say goodbye to a man who meant so much to all of us. Whisky Tichenor was a fixture in this community. He was a friend, a neighbor, a father, a grandfather. He was—” She paused, taking a shaky breath. “He was the heart of this place. And we’re going to miss him more than words can say.”

The room was silent. I could hear the soft sound of sobbing from somewhere in the back.

“Whisky loved this bingo hall,” Florac continued. “He loved the game, he loved the camaraderie, he loved the community. He came here every Tuesday and Thursday, rain or shine, for as long as any of us can remember. He was our lucky charm. He was our friend.”

She paused, looking out at the crowd. “I know he would want us to celebrate his life, not mourn his death. I know he would want us to remember him with joy, not with sorrow. So tonight, we’re going to do something that Whisky would have loved. We’re going to play bingo.”