Fiction by Christie Harper

Christie Harper is an English professor, writer, and storyteller drawn to the quiet, complicated moments that shape who we become. Her work often blends humor and heart, exploring family, memory, and the unexpected ways life unravels and reassembles itself. Influenced by her Southern roots, she is especially interested in voice, place, and the stories people carry but don’t always tell. When she’s not teaching or writing, she’s usually collecting material from real life, where the best stories tend to find her first.

The Pilot’s Locked and So Is the Casket

I truly believe that only my family could turn a funeral into a tactical operation involving oven mitts, a Maltese in a tuxedo, and the only car key to a Honda Pilot locked in with the body.

It all started the night before the service. We were eight hours from home at the family church, Crooked Creek Baptist, red carpet and all, the kind so old it feels sacred and sticky at the same time. The visitation was winding down, and folks were drifting out into the parking lot, swapping casseroles and stories about how Mama used to run the day care as if it were Fort Knox.

Inside, my aunt Leah was standing next to the casket, holding back full-body sobs and clutching her purse as if it might float away. She’s a nurse practitioner and smart as a whip, but she’s the kind of woman who carries sutures, a can of SpaghettiOs, and a YooHoo all in the same bag. You never know what’s in there. One time I saw a stethoscope tangled up with a pack of gum and a box of tampons from the early 2000s.

My other aunt, Sarah, stood beside her, a general on a battlefield. She used to run a hospital, the type who labels her Q-Tips and wipes her Lysol can before putting it away. I love her to death, but she sneezes from looking at a petting zoo.

And that’s when Cuddles made his entrance.

Cuddles was Mama’s dog, sort of. He was technically Aunt Leah’s, or maybe all of theirs, but he lived with Mama so long that he thought he was hers. A 17-year-old Maltese who hated everyone but Mama and hotdogs. Aunt Leah had dressed him in a tuxedo for the occasion, don’t ask me why, but she stopped at multiple stores looking for a dog tuxedo on our way to Alabama and insisted he come in the church to “tell Mama goodbye.”

I should’ve known it was going to go sideways when she set her purse on top of the casket to lift Cuddles up, so I sat down on the front pew to watch what happened next.

Cuddles took one look inside, saw Mama lying there, and jumped.

Straight into the casket.

Aunt Leah screamed. Aunt Sarah sneezed. And the purse, Lord help us, the purse flipped over and dumped its contents into the casket right behind him.

The flashlight, a YooHoo, a bag of trail mix, sutures, fingernail clippers, fingernails, a travel Bible, a chocolate Santa, and, most importantly, the only key fob to Aunt Sarah’s Honda Pilot, the one we all rode in from Memphis to Alabama. None of them said it out loud. Nobody had to. The look Aunt Sarah gave Aunt Leah said everything.

That key was going in the ground.

Aunt Sarah didn’t say a word. She looked at Aunt Leah as if she were responsible for everything wrong in the world, including humidity and gas prices, which were predicted to go up over the weekend. Then she pinched the bridge of her nose, turned on her heel, and disappeared into the church kitchen, ready to perform emergency surgery.

Meanwhile, Aunt Leah was circling the casket, as if she might try to dive in after the dog herself.

“He’s under her feet,” she whispered, panicked. “He crawled down to the end, and now I think he’s stuck.”

“I told y’all not to bring that dog in here,” Aunt Sarah said when she came back, pulling on a pair of oven mitts she must’ve grabbed from the church kitchen.

“They were the only things thick enough,” she added, glaring toward the casket. “That dog already tried to take my finger off.”

“And I told you not to let him wear a tuxedo.”

“Well he had to look nice to come in the church,” Aunt Leah sniffed, wiping her eyes with a balled-up Kleenex already wet on both ends. “He had to say goodbye.”

“Y’all are going to be saying goodbye to me if we don’t get that dog out of the casket,” Aunt Sarah said, already halfway back inside the sanctuary. “Block the doors.”

So that’s what I did. I stood lookout while Aunt Sarah got down on one knee in front of Mama’s casket, ready to propose. She withdrew a tiny flashlight from her purse and held it between her teeth. One oven-mitted hand went in, then the other, and pretty soon she was elbow-deep in satin and grief.

“I see the YooHoo,” she muttered.

Aunt Leah flinched. “Do you see my necklace?”

Aunt Sarah paused. “Why in the hell would you put a necklace in a purse?”

“I don’t know! But it has a picture of Mama and Daddy in it, and I need that.”

Aunt Sarah turned her head slightly. “More than what I’m looking for?”

At this point Cuddles growled from somewhere down by Mama’s ankles. Aunt Sarah froze.

“He’s in her lap now,” she said.

“He always loved to curl up in Mama’s lap,” Aunt Leah offered, teary again. “Poor thing. He doesn’t understand.”

“Leah! I DO NOT CARE what this dog loves,” Aunt Sarah hissed. “I care about getting him out of this casket, and you had better not ever bring this dog to another funeral.”

She shifted. We all heard a faint metallic clink.

“I think I found the key!” she said. “And next time I’m bringing both of them.”

“You found it?” Aunt Leah gasped. “Thank God!”

“Don’t thank Him yet,” Aunt Sarah grunted. “I think it’s under her thigh.”

“Oh don’t lift her!” Aunt Leah said.

“You wanna get buried in this church parking lot? Because if I get stuck in this casket, that’s what’s gonna happen.”

Another sneeze. Another shift. A can of SpaghettiOs flew out onto the carpet, and then, like Moses parting the Red Sea, Aunt Sarah emerged, hair frazzled, oven mitts still on, holding the key fob up in the air as if she’d yanked Excalibur from the stone.

As Aunt Sarah pulled herself upright, the double doors at the back of the sanctuary creaked open. I turned to see Brother Harold’s wife poking her head in, followed by a long line of Baptists in windbreakers and floral blouses, all holding their funeral voices and Pyrex dishes.

Aunt Sarah shoved the key fob into her purse. Then my mom, who had been keeping an eye on the casserole table, appeared in the doorway holding a green bean bundle, looking as though she’d seen the ghost of every family member that ever lived.

“They’re comin’ in,” she whispered.

Aunt Leah was already scooping Cuddles out of the casket like a sack of potatoes. He gave a weak growl but didn’t put up much of a fight, winded from all the drama. His bowtie had come undone, and he looked like a drunk gremlin at a muppet wedding.

The three of them moved as a unit: Aunt Leah clutching the dog, Aunt Sarah smoothing her jacket, and my mom balancing the casserole dishes that she refused to leave in Alabama. I held the side door for them and followed behind as they hustled down the redshag aisle, past Mama’s favorite pew, past the felt-board Jesus still hanging by one Velcro hand in the Sunday School room.

Outside, Uncle Wilson was leaning against the Pilot, sipping from a Sonic cup as if nothing had happened. He gave us a little wave.

Aunt Sarah didn’t even stop. She dropped the key fob into his hand, like a nurse handing off a surgical instrument.

“You’re driving,” she said, eyes narrowed.

He blinked. “We’re not staying to eat? Everything okay?”

“Nobody died,” she said, climbing into the passenger seat.

“Well,” my mom said softly, “except Mama.”

Aunt Leah buckled the dog in by his halter. Cuddles looked out the window, done with all of us.

I stood there for a second, watching them settle into the Pilot as if it weren’t the single weirdest funeral in Crooked Creek history.

Aunt Leah cracked open a warm YooHoo from her purse and took a sip with both hands.

“Amen to that,” she said.

The End.