Donald E. Melville’s short story, “The Millet Road Church” begins at a cemetery one hot, humid summer day where Clayton Gumwood stands at the graveside of his recently deceased cousin, Fred Gumwood, a kinsman he had not actually seen or talked with in 20 years.

Across the newly dug grave, a minister addresses the small gathering. He begins his eulogy by referring to the deceased Fred as Ed. “Ed was … ” The minister stops. “Does anyone have any water?” He repeatedly asks. Silence from the small group of people attending the burial ceremony. Nobody makes an effort to get the minister some water.

Clayton does, however, remind the minister that his deceased cousin’s name is Fred, not Ed.

“Ed, Fred,” grumbled the minister. “What difference does it make? He’s dead! And if we stand out here much longer, we’ll all be dead!”

“And with that, Jerome Blake, minister at large, purchased for fifteen dollars, mumbled under his breath, turned and stormed off.”

Clayton shouted after him, “Where are you going?”

“Anywhere but here,” Blake hollered back. “It’s too blasted hot! Even for the dead! If there’s a brain among you, you’ll do the same.”

Clayton tells the people, “That’s a fine dowdy do. Is there anything anyone would like to say?” One man asked,........

© Finger Lakes Times