The illusion of simple, p.13
The Illusion of Simple, page 13
The night before, Billy screwed up his courage and asked Nadine to accompany him. It was one of those times, he said, when her absence would be noticed and tongues would wag. With an election coming next year, it would sure help if she went along.
“I don’t ask that much of you,” he rested his case.
She’d been drinking, of course. There was a long pause. Spire braced for a blast of temper, but she simply said “okay” and went back to the find-a-word puzzle in her magazine.
Billy is still admiring the rising sun when she comes out of the bathroom.
Nadine’s appearance almost puts the sun to shame. Despite so much neglect, so much smoking and alcohol, she is still a very pretty woman when she wants to be. She knows how to apply makeup. How to mask the delicate web of broken blood vessels across her cheeks and the bridge of her nose. She uses moisturizer like a sorceress, rubbing away wrinkles at the corners of her mouth and between her brows. Wrinkles that come from scowling. Dark eye shadow brings out the luminescence of her green eyes. Her black, shoulder-length hair is even more compelling with wisps of gray. She piles it on top of her head and pins it in place with an ebony comb.
Because it is the darkest and therefore most funereal outfit she owns, Nadine wears a fitted charcoal pantsuit. It features a gambling motif. A full house of queens and deuces fan over one breast. Oversized dice tumble across her ribs. A red-and-black roulette wheel spins at the small of her back. She brushes past Billy and stands before the hall mirror, taking a long thoughtful look before going outside. She squints though cigarette smoke.
“Don’t you look pretty?” Spire gushes.
“I’m a goddamn mess,” she snaps. “Don’t know why I let you talk me into this.”
She grabs her coat and purse, slams the screen door behind her. Billy takes his turn at the mirror. Puts on the Stetson, adjusts it just so.
“You look nice, too, Billy,” he says to himself. “Given what you got to work with.”
They ride to the Haycock place in silence, save the unintelligible squawking of Spire’s police radio. Nadine cracks the pickup’s window to vent her cigarette. Her hands tremble as they flutter between the smoke at her lips and a refugee strand of hair she keeps pushing back into place. Billy would like to touch her arm and comfort her. But he knows that would only make things worse. Upon arriving, they find more than twenty cars already there.
“Good turnout,” he observes, shutting off the engine.
“Everybody loves a freak show,” she answers.
“No. They’re just trying to be decent.”
“And what does that make me?”
Spire is not sure what Nadine is asking. Is she the freak on display? Or does she lack decency? Nothing good can come from clarification, so he doesn’t try. Such is life on pins and needles. He goes around and opens her door. Together they join a slow procession toward the grave. Billy returns many hellos. Nadine smiles tightly when told how nice it is to see her. Her fingers anxiously dig into her husband’s arm.
Using equipment borrowed from Ewing County Public Works, Ace has skimmed the Haycock property free of clutter. It’s all in the dump now, being picked over by rodents and birds. Only Haycock’s shed still stands. Cordoned off with yellow tape until the sheriff can complete his examination of hate literature.
The mood is semi-somber. It would be far more solemn were the deceased a community pillar. But this was Russ Haycock. People talk out loud, even within earshot of his casket. They are careless about disturbing his slumber. Twenty-four folding chairs face the grave in four rows of six. The front row seats carry paper tent cards marked “Reserved.” Spire wonders for whom.
The grave is a neat rectangle cut deep in the ground. Haycock’s casket sits on a wheeled conveyance, which, in turns, rests on an AstroTurf mat. It is an aluminum box with molded corners, metal rails, and thick orange straps at each corner that serve as handholds to lower the coffin. The mound of displaced dirt is almost black with fertility. Best soil in the world, Ewing County likes to boast. A pair of long-handled shovels are stuck into the mound. Each is shiny new and adorned with a black ribbon.
Beyond Russ’s grave lies that of his wife. Mr. Morris has adorned her marker with the prettiest bouquet from Walmart. Mourners wander over in twos and threes to look. They marvel at the curiosity of it. Her name in buttons. Russ Haycock’s love professed in copper wire. Some onlookers are amused, even charmed. Others disapprove, clucking that the bastard was too cheap to buy her better. All shake their heads at the tragedy of Honey Haycock. A beautiful girl, tiny and perfect, who could have done so much better.
“Billy and Nadine, you’re in the front row.”
“I’m not so sure,” the sheriff begins as he turns to face Emma Ace. Nadine isn’t going to like this.
“Well, I am,” the forceful woman snorts. “The man had no family. You three found him. That’s got to count for something. Now sit.”
Because arguing would only cause a bigger scene, the sheriff does what he’s told.
“It will be okay,” he promises Nadine.
He realizes that this is a terror for her. Now she’s up front. Where everyone can stare at her. Study the famous alky. He looks down. Her hands are shaking. He hears an electric edge to her breathing.
“Take a good look, everybody,” she mutters. “Pity the poor sheriff. Married to a drunk.”
“No,” he whispers. Absent any other straws to grasp, Billy Spire falls back on the old hope that beauty can come to its own rescue. “You look nice.”
Father Turney emerges from behind Haycock’s shed. He slowly ambles up to the wooden podium brought from church. He is dramatically still and quiet, arranging his notes and doing one last mental run through of the words and intonations. The song and dance of passage. The razzamatazz of pain and meaning. He looks up and sees the sheriff is not alone. He has heard of Nadine, and about Nadine, but he has never lain eyes upon her. Her face is rigid with tension. He smiles, trying to radiate welcoming warmth. She looks back, but her expression does not change. He notices fearful tremors in her cheeks.
Owen and LeeAnn Middleton pull themselves away from old friends talking politics. They take chairs next to the Spires. LeeAnn reaches over to pat Nadine’s hand.
“How you doin’, sugar?” she asks in her sweetest voice.
“I’m doing. Just doing.”
“Bless your heart,” LeeAnn encourages.
Two men walk out from behind Haycock’s shed. The older is wearing an Army uniform. The younger is dressed as a crossing guard and carries an American flag on a wooden pole. Haycock was a veteran, deserving of all the military honors Stonewall could muster on short notice. The older has an accordion braced across his chest. He teaches music at the high school. Looks like Tennessee Ernie Ford in his middle years, with a high forehead and little brush mustache. He squeezes a couple of sad minor chords and the crowd knows to stand.
“‘The Battle Hymn of the Republic,’ in honor of this fallen soldier,” is his invitation to sing along.
The music teacher’s booming baritone mixes with the voices of old women and men. They have sung this hymn so many times that they have worn smooth the rough edges and arrived at subtle harmonies. Spire thinks it is just about the loveliest thing he has ever heard.
Emma Ace stands next to the front row, hip against her husband’s shoulder. She is unabashed in her caretaking, craning left and right to make sure all is in order. The second row is filled with old ladies cocking their heads to find the proper alignment of their trifocals. Every slight gust ruffles their blue-tinged, downy hair. When the song ends, Emma leans across Ace and whispers to LeeAnn and Nadine.
“Don’t they look just like baby birds?” A naturally loud woman, her whisper is as light as an air raid siren.
“You know, Emma, we can hear you,” one old lady sniffs.
“Well, that’s exactly what you look like,” Emma whines. “It’s just the cutest thing.”
Nadine stares straight ahead, frozen in the kind of fear that can be mistaken for aloofness. Another old lady nods at her, then raises her nose in a school-girl pantomime of snootiness.
“Who is that?” Emma asks about a car coming up the road. She scuttles off to find out.
Kathleen and Larry Hammerschmidt knew Russ Haycock only slightly, but they are inspired by the priest’s ongoing attention. He’s like kin now. Visiting weekly, holding hands in prayer, walking around their farm for its beauty and inspiration. And so, on this day they decide to display their loyalty by attending the funeral at which he officiates. Because it will be an outdoor ceremony, no offering plate will be passed and Larry can wait in the car, if need be. They are running late because this is not a good day for Larry. He woke up to labored breathing, which worsened when he put on his dress suit. It was thick with mold after years in the closet. He should have stayed home. But insisted on accompanying Kathleen and showing support for Father Turney. It is what a man must do. But doing it took longer than planned, so they arrive late.
“You go on,” Larry wheezes to Kathleen, as she parks their old sedan. “We come this far, be sure Father sees we’re here.”
“Fine. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
“Leave it run, so I can have some heat.”
Kathleen walks away from the idling sedan, steadied by an arm of the solicitous Mrs. Ace.
Father Turney clears his throat. It will be an odd service. A hodge-podge of Protestantism and Catholicism, reflecting the ecumenical tastes of Emma Ace. She is not particularly religious but loves ceremony. Eli finds the situation amusing and somewhat liberating. A chance to be looser with the form and liturgy. Not something the bishop would condone, but accommodations must be made in little towns.
“Russell Andrew Haycock,” he roars. His voice powerful enough to be heard by the next county, the deaf, and the dead. Nadine almost jumps out of her skin.
“No emphysema there,” diagnoses Doc Howard.
The priest offers a solid eulogy. One that everyone could admire but no one would remember. He makes a drawn-out analogy of Haycock and a lowly sparrow. Fixed in God’s eye despite its drab and luckless life. Then he pivots, without bothering to connect dots, to the familiar conclusion that every death signals the need for course correction among the living. That brevity of time and glory of God impel us to live more fully and love more deeply. Pop, fizz, spin, and move on. The priest nods at the music teacher, who fingers his accordion and prompts keywords to the coming hymn.
“I sing because I’m happy. I sing because I’m free.” This song is not familiar to the faithful of Ewing County. They struggle with the melody but forge on as best they can. The crossing guard sings all the louder to offset their timidity. He has a wonderful voice, high and clear and free. After it is done, Father Turney studies the group for a moment and decides something more is needed.
“Would anyone be willing to say a word about Russ Haycock?” he asks.
It is an unimaginable question and catches everyone off guard. Every person in attendance looks down at their feet. The if-you-can’t-say-something-nice silence drags on and on. Father Turney feels his face turning red, but not in embarrassment. He’s been in this business far too long to be flustered by an awkward moment or two. His face grows crimson in annoyance at a community that cannot think of a single kind thing to say about someone who dwelled among them for decades. The priest will not have it.
He rakes his eyes across the front row. Ace, the Middletons, the Spires.
“I wonder if each of you would offer something, just a word or two, to help us commemorate this man.”
It’s more than Nadine can bear. She is on her feet and moving. The entire funeral party watches, their eyes and mouths wide open. Staring straight ahead, she tears out the ebony comb and throws it to the ground. Hair spills down her shoulders as she makes a beeline to the sheriff’s pickup. Finding it locked, she turns her back on the whole community and leans against the tailgate. She fishes a cigarette from her purse, lights it, and fills her lungs.
The priest clears his throat and forges ahead.
“Perhaps you might start, Senator Middleton.”
Owen compliantly rises. He turns around to be heard.
“I didn’t know Mr. Haycock very well,” he booms. “But as someone once said, home is where you’re part of it and it’s part of you. Ewing County is our home and we love it. We may have a character or two. Every town does. But each one becomes part of who we are, what we are, and the love we feel for each other. May he rest in peace.”
The crowd is impressed. A campaign speech right off the top of Middleton’s head. Father Turney can scarcely keep from rolling his eyes.
“You, dear?” the priest asks Owen’s wife.
Owen sits as LeeAnn rises.
“I believe that God has a plan for every one of us,” she says with a chipper lilt to her voice. “I didn’t know Mr. Haycock either. But I am sure he was a good Christian and that he’s gone on to a better place.” Some in the crowd wince with skepticism.
“You, sir?”
Leo Ace is a big talker in his shop, surrounded by pals. But this is an actual audience, and they’re really listening. He nervously rubs a palm over his lacquered hair. Looking at the grease left on his hand, he is inspired.
“You can tell a lot about a man by his vehicle,” he drawls. Several people in the back yell for him to speak up. So, he stands and hollers. “That old truck of his. How Russ Haycock kept it running, I don’t know. But he did. And in my book that says something good about a man.”
He sits down. The crowd is stunned.
“At least that’s something real,” Father Turney mutters to himself.
A baby bird sitting in the second row leans forward to Ace’s ear. “Leo, if anyone asks you to speak at my funeral. Please don’t.”
Those nearby snicker. Farther back, they wonder what was so funny.
“And you, sheriff?”
Billy stands and looks at the crowd. He scans the faces of the community. The Rotary Club and Ladies Benevolence Society. Meals on Wheels. Effie and a few enduring main street businesses. The couple who own the farm where the hand was found. And way in the back is an unanticipated, towering presence. Ayesha Perez’s shoulders seem even squarer and stronger amid so many stooped with age. His eyes meet hers. He nods his head ever so slightly, in courtly acknowledgment. She responds in kind. Even farther back, hidden behind the pickup, is Nadine. He can see only the crown of her head. Black hair with silver strands. Enveloped in exhalations of smoke.
“Sheriff?” the priest repeats.
Billy starts. “I didn’t know him too well. I did have a few encounters with Mr. Haycock over the years. They weren’t all good.”
“All as in none,” one of the old ladies interjects.
“He pitched in the night the cattle died,” the sheriff points out. Heads nod. None can deny that he was there. That he pitched in. Billy goes on. “And to tell the truth, there were times when I wasn’t much better than him.”
The crowd wonders what this means. But it remains a secret between Billy Spire and Matthew Middleton.
“He had different sides, like anyone else I suppose. But I can tell you this. Russ Haycock loved his wife.”
Eyes shift to her grave marker and the pretty Walmart bouquet.
“And as far as possible for such a man, he was devoted to her. He wasn’t a big success, I’ll give you that. But maybe loving her was enough. Who am I to say?”
The crowd is silent and thoughtful. A few heads shake in doubt.
With the windows up and engine idling, Larry Hammerschmidt can hear nothing of the service. But he is happy watching Nadine Spire, who leans against the pickup tailgate a few feet away. She is a female, so Larry leans sideways for a better look. His oxygen hose snags on the gearshift lever, the cannula yanks from his nose. It falls on the floorboard. When he reaches down for it, his body follows his eyes and within seconds he is pinned beneath the dashboard. Bent so he cannot breathe and is fading fast. In panic, he grabs for the car horn. The sound is explosive, loud, and sharp. And right next to Nadine Spire’s ears.
The sheriff’s wife screams. Not like a human woman, but like a trapped animal. She grabs the sides of her face and slides down into a sitting position. Emma Ace takes off running, holding the hem of her skirt above thick calves. She throws open the car door, pulls Larry up into his seat and reattaches his oxygen line. Then she lifts Nadine up from the ground and cradles her like a child.
“For a big gal with such tiny feet,” Ace observes, “my wife can really move.”
LeeAnn hurries over and, with Emma’s help, bundles Nadine into Owen’s red Lincoln. Hopping in herself, she looks over her shoulder and backs the big car onto the road.
“Don’t you just hate funerals?” she says in sympathy.
Nadine does not respond. She is stiff with humiliation and stares wordlessly out the windshield. A few silent miles down the road, LeeAnn pops a CD into the player. Hyper-produced country pop.
“I like to sing along,” she says to no one, then joins in.
LeeAnn’s voice is soft and pleasant. She sang to her children as babies. It comforted them in a way that never wore off, even when they were teenagers. She hopes the same now. She knows Nadine used to sing and prays that music will set a spark in her. Bring out the voice she used to have. But what works for children offers no solace to the sheriff’s wife. After a few minutes, LeeAnn gives up trying and turns the music off. When they arrive at her house, Mrs. Spire opens the car door but remains seated.
“I don’t know why I let him do that to me,” she says, staring straight ahead. A pause extends, as if there are more words to come. But they never do. Finally, Nadine swings her legs out of the car and walks to the porch.
LeeAnn watches Nadine enter the front door. Through the kitchen window, she sees her grab a tall glass from the cabinet, fill it with straight vodka, and take a deep swallow. The woman’s shoulders relax. She stares at something a thousand miles away and takes another swig. LeeAnn checks the dashboard clock as she starts to pull away. It is 10:27 in the morning.
