. . . until, at G’s behest, we head down to the pile of winding sheets, taking lighter fluid and some firewood from Dot’s stash, and Dot has put “Light My Fire” on repeat.

It’s time for a churnin’ urn of burnin’ yearn, whatever the fuck that means, though I’m kinda disturbed that I dropped my g’s on it. Everyone’s armed: Dot, Joy and Ni all have sheathed bolos, and Mir, who’s babbling drunk, has Muriel.

We’re in a semicircle inside the croaker circle, the Piscean Pyre ring, trying to attain a certain gravity necessitated by the occasion. Ni gets the Handycam going. “Miriam, you wanna say a few words about Lou and Ben before they go up?” G asks.

“Sure. May the Goddess . . . oh, fuck it, no,” Mir goes, taking a hit off the bottle of Turkey she’s holding. “The past is never dead. It’s not even past. Faulkner.”

“Very good, Miriam. That’s from Requiem for a Nun, which is very appropriate here.” G’s doing her prof routine.

“Never read it,” says Mir. “Just know the quote. What’s appropriate about a nun here? We got a nun in the sheets?”

“If you’re suggesting I was going to say that Ben had a habit of dressing as a Sister of Mercy for Lent, well, that was the furthest thing from my mind,” G responds deadpan. “The book is the sequel to Sanctuary, and everyone in the pyre has attained sanctuary, you might say. Asylum.”

“Mental asylum,” Mir mumbles. She seems preoccupied with an inner voice. Maybe she has Crow on the brain, but I’m not about to ask. I’m afraid G’s gonna ask me if I read it, Sanctuary or any Faulkner, but she doesn’t. I couldn’t get anywhere with Faulkner, he was impossible, never finished anything I started.