Читать книгу Cemetery Silk - E. Joan Sims - Страница 6

Chapter One

Ah, funeral food. I’d forgotten how tasty it truly is. And so many dishes to choose from! The aluminum folding table in William’s shabby dining room almost buckled under their weight. Big platters of crunchy golden fried chicken, watermelon rind pickles, spiced crabapples, and cole slaw competing for space with creamy potato salad, deviled eggs, and pickled okra. Casseroles galore, from green beans and mushrooms to sausage and grits. Plus at least four jewel-toned congealed salads quivering with mandarin oranges, Bing cherries, bananas, and enough miniature marshmallows to float a boat.

William had been nearly eighty-two when he died. Since most of his friends were at least that or older, some had been too ill or infirm to attend the funeral so they’d paid their respects by sending this food. A few had even attached little cards to the sides of their dishes. Mother said it was so they could get their containers back, but I think they were staking claim to their particular gastronomic specialty. Surely no one but Amby Tucker could be responsible for the tender ham baked in Coca-Cola gravy.

The same for Ouida Prine’s meringue-covered banana rum pudding and Mary Agnes Hammond’s golden lemon pound cake. I could understand why. Each dish was a masterpiece. The cake was so moist and delicious I would be tempted to fake my own death just to get access to a slice.

I tried to look dainty and abstemious. The truth was that we had skipped breakfast and I was famished.

My elegant little mother watched me like a hawk as I filled my plate to the brim. She excused herself from a conversation and sashayed over to offer a gentle whispered reproach.

“Paisley, darling, a lady never makes a pig of herself, especially in front of friends and family.”

With the skill of a ventriloquist she managed to say this while smiling sweetly in the direction of the twenty or so people crowded in the tiny house.

“These are friends of yours, not mine,” I replied. “And what little family there is here was William’s not ours, and he’s dead.”

“Don’t say ‘dead,’ dear. It’s so common. Dear William has ‘passed away.’”

“Dead’s dead in my book, and I’m alive and starving.” I waggled my plastic fork in the direction of the buffet. “Have you tried that green bean casserole? It looks like something you’d find at the bottom of a garbage disposal, but it tastes delicious.”

“For heaven’s sake, Paisley!” she hissed.

“Speaking of heaven, weren’t you just a tad surprised to see a Catholic priest officiating at William’s funeral? I almost wet my pants.”

She managed to look furious and nonplussed at the same time. My mother would be sixty-two next March, but in her stylish Castleberry knit suit she displayed a figure some teenagers would envy. Her handsome face was still smooth and relatively unlined, with fine high cheekbones and lovely brown eyes. A cloud of silver white hair was pulled back from her forehead in a chic French twist, and the Sterling family pearls gleamed on her slender neck. I was proud of her. It was obvious at this moment that the feeling was not mutual. I was definitely in the doghouse.

“It’s apparent that you have let that place alter your vocabulary as well as your behavior. You are quite a different person from the proper child I raised.”

She squared her slender shoulders and marched off in the direction of a tired-looking woman with adult acne. I recognized her as William’s second cousin.

By “that place,” Mother meant New York City, where my daughter, Cassandra, and I had lived for the last ten years. In spite of what Mother would like to think, Cassie and I had been happy and as well mannered as it is prudent to be in the mean streets of Manhattan.

When my husband, Raphael, disappeared, my parents begged us to come back to Kentucky and live with them on Meadowdale Farm, but I had reluctantly refused. It was not that I didn’t want to go home. I yearned desperately for the safe refuge of my childhood after the tumultuous life I had led in Latin America. But I knew I needed to break free of the past and make a new life for Cassie and myself. If I stayed on the farm or in our hacienda in San Romero, I would never stop listening for a familiar voice, or looking for a beloved face. Rafael Luis Alberto DeLeon had vanished without a trace. He had to be dead. After all these years, I was sure. Almost sure, anyway.

I finished off a fried chicken wing and surreptitiously licked my greasy fingers.

“Hallo, Paisley Sterling. You’re lookin’ mighty good, sugar.”

Joseph Thomas Roth had lost a considerable amount of hair since I last saw him. His voice sounded greasier than my fingers felt.

“Nobody but a gal from New York City would wear pants to a funeral in Lanierville. But you sure can pull it off.”

“Well, well, Joe Tom. I see you haven’t changed at all.”

I flicked a crumb off my smart black linen jacket. It was the top to the designer outfit that cost me more than I would care to admit.

“And for your information, it’s a pantsuit. I wore it to keep you from looking up my dress like you used to when I was a little girl.”

“Too bad! It would be a lot more fun now.”

Joe Tom was the only child of William’s first cousin. He was a pain in the butt when we were twelve years old and I was sure thirty years hadn’t changed him a bit. He peered wickedly over his little John Lennon glasses and looked me up and down. Joe Tom must have thought he looked sexy. I thought he looked overheated and myopic. I hated married men on the make, especially sweaty, bald, married men. It was time to remind him of that little fact.

“How is your wife? Did she pick out your tie? I just adore purple dinosaurs.”

He straightened up and quit trying to look down the front of my blouse.

“My little girl gave it to me. She picked it out herself. Caitlin was three last week. She loves your Bartholomew the Blue-eyed Cricket books. I bought her every last one of them.”

He smiled and I warmed up a bit. After all, what author wouldn’t be pleased to hear that?

Joe Tom pulled a plastic sleeve of photographs out of his pocket and proudly showed me pictures of an overweight toddler with his eyes. She was stuffing birthday cake into her greedy little mouth. Our other childhood friend whom he had married straight out of high school was not in any of the pictures.

“What happened to Missy?”

Joe Tom’s face took on a mottled flush. An oversized chameleon trying to hide on a plaid tablecloth came to mind.

“Missy left me,” he mumbled. “Good riddance, I say. She was always jawing at me to quit the liquor store and go back to college. But Daddy wouldn’t let me. He’d always planned for me to take over so he could retire; then he died. Left me no choice. Damn place makes too much money, Paisley. I woulda’ been a fool to let it go. Missy was a fool to let me go. She’ll really be mad when she finds out Cousin William is gone and I’ll inherit this little hovel. She always wanted to move her mother into town so the old lady could be closer to us. She used to say this place would be perfect.”

He guffawed loudly. A soggy piece of chewing tobacco shot out of his mouth and landed on my buffet plate. My appetite vanished abruptly as I stared at the little brown chunk on my potato salad.

“Fixed up, of course,” he continued. “A hog wouldn’t live in a pen looking like this. But then, her mother was a hog.”

Joe Tom grabbed a slice of buttermilk chess pie with his fingers and took three enormous bites. As he swallowed in one big noisy gulp, my stomach gave a decidedly nervous turn and I began to deeply regret my own gluttony.

He flipped through his little plastic packet and pulled out a bathing beauty shot of a blonde with a terrific figure and a greedy little mouth.

“Things always turn out for the best,” he assured me. “Look at the little honey I got waitin’ at home for me now.”

I dutifully studied the photo for a moment and then looked up to see my own beautiful daughter angling over to join me. She was just a little younger than Joe Tom’s new trophy wife. His jaw dropped as he caught sight of Cassie. I was not going to let this small town Lothario lust over my baby. I put my unfinished lunch on the table and handed him a plate of deviled eggs.

“Here, try some of these. They’re great.”

I stuffed an egg in his mouth. The squinty little eyes above his red bulbous nose widened in surprise. With enormous restraint, I resisted the impulse to laugh at his clownish appearance and bid him a polite farewell. Mother would have been proud of me.

Cassie was headed toward the dining room but I got to her first. I pulled her out of the side door onto the little back porch.

“Mom, I’m starving. Why did you bring me out here? I’ve been trying to get away from that dreadful Mrs. Dibber for the last forty minutes. Please let me have one of those deviled eggs at least.”

“Ugh, you definitely won’t like them. That food has been sitting out for hours. All kinds of strange people have picked over it. No telling how many germs.…”

I put a hand over my mouth and tried to stifle the sound, but she heard.

She laughed with delight. “You burped! You little pig. You’ve been stuffing your own face and now you won’t let me eat because that old letch is grazing at the buffet.”

“Just wait till he’s gone,” I begged. “It won’t be long. He’s William’s heir apparent. I imagine he came just to see if there’s anything he wants among William’s sorry little belongings. He’ll be gone soon. There’s nothing of value to keep him here.”

Cassie looked down from her height, a good four inches above my own meager five feet six.

“You’re going to have to get used to the idea that I’m a big girl now. I can take care of myself. You must think I’ve never handled his type before.”

She sneered at Joe Tom’s wide backside through the open door and went back into the house without another word. She was right. Things were changing. I had better get used to it even if I didn’t like it. I guess I would always miss a tiny little hand grasping for mine and the warm feel of chubby arms around my neck. Once a mommy, always a mommy.

The fresh air outside felt good after the stuffy confines of the run down little house where William and his wife, my cousin Abigail, had lived for the last forty years. From the outside, the tiny cottage already looked abandoned and forlorn. The clapboard siding was in dire need of scraping and painting, and the gutters were full to the brim with dead leaves and twigs. The windows were so dirty on the outside they were opaque, like cataracts in old eyes.

Abigail had died suddenly six months ago, and William “passed away” two days ago. Both events had taken us by surprise. William was in his eighties and had two minor heart attacks in the past, but he was doing quite well. Abigail was fifteen years younger than her husband and had never been sick a day in her life.

Abigail was my mother’s first cousin and her best friend. Each girl was the only child of older parents and had been like a sister to the other. I knew that Mother missed Abigail terribly. I missed them both. They were the only “aunt and uncle” I had ever known.

William’s next-door neighbor was Ernest Dibber. He lived with his wife and five children in a house as small as my cousin’s little cottage. The children were grown now and lived away from home, but it must have been a zoo when they were young and constantly under foot. Abigail told me once that the kids fought so much she was afraid they would kill each other.

Ernest and Sue Dibber had been quite visible all day. The couple reminded me of the nursery rhyme about Jack Sprat, but in reverse. Ernest was tall and bulky with a broad, fleshy face and squinty little eyes that almost met at the bridge of his nose. His wife was also tall, but definitely not bulky. Her cheap flowered dress hung loosely over a bony frame, her rough-skinned elbows poking out like knobs below the short sleeves. Her long, faded-blond hair was arranged in tight little constipated knots over each ear, accentuating the flatness of her plain and colorless face. I avoided looking into her eyes. There was something dark and shifting behind the pupils that made me shudder.

When we arrived that morning, Sue stiffly informed us that she and her husband had taken care of everything. They had arranged the funeral service, selected the coffin, and planned the splendid feast I had just enjoyed. I had to thank them for that, but I was somewhat surprised at their involvement in William’s affairs. They were, after all, only neighbors, whereas William was survived by two cousins besides Joe Tom, and then there was Mother. She and William had always been close and after Abigail died Mother was his only emotional support. It was unfortunate that she had been visiting a college friend in California when William was taken ill. He had been forced to depend on someone else.

I peered through the rickety fence that separated William’s backyard from that of his neighbors. Dibber’s lot was overgrown with weeds and strewn with broken pieces of old toys and empty tin cans. A dilapidated doghouse and a couple of badly chewed plastic water bowls seemed to have no present owner. Just in case, I moved cautiously as I squeezed through a space between rotten boards. I don’t know why I was playing the sneak. I guess I was curious because of the contrast between the Dibber’s neatly manicured front yard and the disarray of the back.

I stepped gingerly over the debris and around several piles of dried animal feces. Before I went any farther, I decided to make sure there was not some ravaging beast sleeping in what was left of the doghouse. I bent down and looked inside the dark interior. The putrid odor of decaying flesh almost knocked me down. As I staggered back, I grabbed onto what was left of the roof to keep from falling. A shingle crumbled away in my hand and the rest of the rotten structure fell off in a cloud of dust to expose the sad and sorry sight inside. The carcass of a medium-sized dog lay decaying under a thick blanket of swarming flies. They buzzed angrily at being disturbed. Before they settled back down I saw a piece of rope tied around the sunken neck and deeply embedded in the reddish fur. The other end of the short tether was nailed to the floor. The dog could not have been able to move more than a few inches. When the flies shifted again I could see deep scratches and dried bloodstains on the wood where it had pawed frantically in a desperate effort to escape. It was obvious that the poor creature had been left to die of starvation and thirst.

An intense wave of anger at the person who had committed such an act of cruelty propelled me toward the house. Faded curtains were drawn tightly across the windows at the back of the house but I thought I saw movement behind one. I was climbing the steps to look in the back door when Mother saw me.

“Paisley! What on earth are you doing? Come back here this instant!”

She was still shaking her head when I slid back through the fence to join her.

“You’ve changed so much, Paisley. I hardly know you.”

“You’ve changed too, Mother.”

I bent down to brush the beggar lice off my pants and compose myself. She had been through enough today. The fate of the dog next door would have to be my sad little secret at least for now. I straightened up and smiled at her.

“You need a little goosing up, Mother. What have you been doing for fun lately?”

“Certainly not peeking into other people’s houses.”

“All us Yankees are no-good peekers,” I teased.

She suddenly looked pained.

“I’m sorry, Mother. I really am trying to be considerate.”

I pulled her over to a small wooden bench. The paint on it was peeling, and it had definitely seen better days. I hoped it would hold us both. Mother was right as usual, I thought woefully. I had stuffed myself. I felt ten pounds heavier and more than a little nauseated. The sight of the rotting carcass had done nothing for my digestion.

She pulled a dainty lace handkerchief out of her sleeve and dabbed at her eyes.

“It’s just that you said something that Abigail used to say. You must have heard her many times when you were little. Every night she would pull the blinds down so the ‘peekers’ couldn’t see in. I used to tease her about it.”

She smiled and patted my knee.

“You come by your teasing naturally. And you’re right. I could use a little goosing up. Things have been rather dismal around here since Abigail died. I wish you and Cassie could stay and visit a little longer.”

“You know I have to get back to work, but what about Velvet? When was my world-trotting sister’s last visit home?”

“The flowers Velvet sent were lovely, don’t you think?” she asked ignoring my question.

“Ten dozen exotic orchids!” I snorted. “For a funeral? Besides, I bet Joe Tom’s already got them in the truck of his Cadillac.”

She stood up and smoothed down the nonexistent wrinkles in her skirt.

“Oh, dear,” she sighed ignoring me again. “Duty calls. I must go back inside. Will you join me?”

“I think I’ll sit here awhile. I’m tired of people I hardly know asking me how I managed to lose a husband in the jungle.”

She bent down and kissed my cheek and then patted me on the head. I had been forgiven my trespasses once more.

I thought about going next door again but I knew Mother might be watching me from the window, so I sighed and decided to let it go. The day had been a long one and I was tired.

Cassie and I had been traveling since the predawn hours. Immediately upon our arrival at Mother’s farm in Rowan Springs, we had left for the little town of Lanierville fifty miles away where William had lived.

I was not kidding when I told Mother I had been surprised to see a Catholic priest take the podium at the funeral home service and introduce himself. When I had married Rafe in a Catholic ceremony twenty years ago, it caused quite a stir. Most of my family, including William and Abigail, were Protestants. This morning I sat in stunned silence and watched the little white collar of Father Barnard’s vestments bob up and down with his Adam’s apple as he spoke. I was too busy wondering what in the hell he was doing there to listen to what he had to say.

When the cleric was finished, Ernest Dibber rushed up to shake his hand and thank him. I remembered then that William had mentioned his neighbors were Catholic.

I turned to ask Mother what she thought, but we were suddenly hemmed in by a corral of aluminum walkers. William’s old buddies were lining up to offer their condolences. Mother smiled and spoke sweetly to everyone as usual, but the depressing smell of Ben-Gay and soggy Depends was too much for me. I had had enough of the Geritol crowd. I grabbed Cassie by the hand, and we went to get the car.

The funeral home did not have enough handicap parking spots for all the debilitated old folks. Some of them had to be wheeled and walked back to their cars at the far end of the lot. By the time we could safely start the car, Mother had joined us, and I moved forward to pull up behind the hearse in the “next of kin” space for the trip to the cemetery. To our surprise Ernest and his wife had already parked their car there.

Mother was outraged. “Who do they think they are? Why they’re not even remotely related to William!”

I felt a stirring of uneasiness, but restrained myself from reminding her that, technically, we weren’t either.

The graveside ceremony was even shorter and more abrupt than the one at the funeral home. The priest had a taxi waiting. As soon as he declared, “Amen!” he hopped in, and away he went. The only people besides us and the Dibbers who came to the cemetery were William’s two elderly female cousins. The four came together in conversation for a few moments and then parted company. They all left without a backward glance at the open grave. None of them had shed even one little tear for the dearly departed.

Cassie sat alone on one of the six or seven folding chairs surrounding the raw dirt of the open grave. She stared forlornly at the plain metal casket. At her feet lay a spray of cheap florist greenery mixed in with some inexpensive fake carnations—the ones that florists call “cemetery silk.” It was a rare moment. Cassie was usually in motion physically and emotionally. I had forgotten how truly beautiful she was. For once she had my blessing to wear her favorite color. She had pleased me by choosing a simple black silk dress. It was one that I purchased for her college wardrobe. I had the misbegotten notion that her need for “a smart little black dress” would be the same as mine had been twenty-five years before. I helped her cut off the price tag this morning. It had hung in the closet for more than a year unworn.

Even standing as far away as I was, I could see her thick black eyelashes. Dark brown hair hung straight and shining to her shoulders. My daughter did not inherit my hazel eyes and freckles. No unruly auburn curls for her. Her hair and eyes were dark like her father’s. He used to say his baby’s hair was the color of castanos. The word always brought to mind visions of castanets. It really meant “chestnut.” That was the wood most castanets were made from. She was truly lovely, and she was still my baby even if she was eighteen.

A few feet away from her three gravediggers were lounging under a big oak tree smoking. They waited impatiently for everyone to leave so they could finish their dismal business. They had on short white cotton jackets resembling the ones supermarket clerks or butchers wear. The name of the funeral home was embroidered over the breast pocket in a bright irreverent green. Underneath their jackets they wore faded cotton work shirts, or, in the case of one man, a soiled undershirt. They all wore dirty jeans and scuffed boots.

They began to grumble among themselves. As their voices got purposefully louder and more obscene I could tell their anger was directed at Cassie because she showed no signs of moving. Foolishly, one of them flicked a cigarette butt in her direction. It landed smack in front of her and bounced off the coffin. Hair swirled around her pale face like a dark cloud as she turned quickly toward them. She glared at the men for a moment until they began to shift uneasily, then slowly wiped the tears from her eyes. She gave William’s casket a farewell caress and picked up the still smoldering cigarette. All of her sadness and grief had found a focal point, and for a brief moment I felt sorry for the men. I watched my daughter, the avenging angel, walk toward them with a sweet and terrible smile on her lips. Cassie looked carefully at their faces and decided correctly who had done the deed.

“I do believe this is yours, Sir,” she said, as she gently lifted a big dirty hand and turned the palm up. The man stared dumbly into that incredibly perfect face and gave only a slight whimper as she ground the burning cigarette out in the center of his lifeline.

Somehow we managed to get out of the cemetery alive. Considering the ugly shouts that followed us to the car, I found it to be just one more unsettling event of the day. Funerals should be peaceful occasions. So why did our attempt to say farewell to our dearly departed leave me with such a sense of foreboding?