Troubled waters, p.7
Troubled Waters, page 7
Patricia pulled and stretched her hair, securing rollers faster than anyone she knew. She never once dropped a hairpin. She coated the curlers in White Rain hairspray, careful to shield Evelyn’s face, then scooted a chair in front of her and took a hand, filing each nail with speedy accuracy.
“Are you doin’ okay, honey?” Patricia asked, squeezing the hand she was filing.
Evelyn nodded but couldn’t speak. Today she would bury her husband. It was the darkest day she could imagine.
“I brought over Race Car Red and Pretty in Pink. You decide which color you want on your nails, and I’ll put on a coat of clear first.”
Evelyn looked at the two colors, didn’t really care which one, but chose the pink. While the first coat dried on her nails, Patricia powdered her face and applied the makeup. She rubbed rouge into her cheeks and put a little of the color over her eyelids, as well.
“You know old Samson Titus died?” said Patricia, stroking the pink polish carefully onto each nail.
“Oh, I hadn’t heard.”
“The funeral’ll be Tuesday.”
“Give Bea my regards,” Evelyn said. She stared down at the hand that was finished. “How long was he ill?”
“Couple of years. Had him in a nursing home since May. I think Bea’s gonna have to go herself soon.” Patricia shook her head, sucked on the end of a Q-tip, and carefully removed some polish from the edge of Evelyn’s finger with it. “Be glad you’re still independent, Evelyn. You have your freedom. Those nursing homes ain’t a place someone like us should be.”
Evelyn silently thanked the Lord that she was not in a nursing home and that they’d been able to at least afford some medical insurance. Patricia stood and instructed Evelyn not to move her hands for ten minutes. She then began removing rollers and picking her curls out.
“Don’t make it too big,” Evelyn said. She reached up and touched each curl Patricia had already picked out. “I’ve always thought Margie’s hair was too big.”
“Well, she’s a Texan,” Patricia pointed out. “You’d expect that from down there.”
Evelyn took a mirror off the table and studied her reflection, while Patricia chided her about being careful not to touch her nails to anything. “I look tired,” Evelyn sighed.
“You look perfectly beautiful. So, what are you planning to wear?”
Evelyn laid the mirror on the table. “I haven’t a thing to wear. Nothing appropriate for my own husband’s funeral, that’s for certain.”
“I betcha we can find something in that big closet of yours.”
Evelyn shook her head. “I can’t fit into most of it.”
“What about that pretty blue dress you wore to Beck and Nina’s sixtieth wedding anniversary party?”
“That old thing?”
“It was wonderful. And who says you have to wear black to a funeral? We know we can celebrate that Jess is up in heaven and having himself a good ol’ time.”
“Kay Timmons will have me beheaded. She’s such a traditionalist.”
“Well, Kay can wear black at her own funeral. This doesn’t have nothin’ to do with her.”
Evelyn nodded, and then, without warning, the tears came. They ran down her face in streams and her chest heaved.
“Oh, honey! Oh, Evelyn.” Patricia rushed to her side and held her shoulders. “Now, now. Goodness’ sakes, your mascara’s gonna run.”
But Evelyn couldn’t stop the sobbing. She already missed Jess so much, and he’d only been gone three days. She turned and clutched Patricia and cried harder than she’d ever cried before. She knew she’d scuffed a nail, but she didn’t care.
———
Macey slumped against a tree, her heart pounding wildly in her chest, her side cramped with pain. The bark scraped her back through her clothes as she slid down it, her body finally resting against the soft grass. She closed her eyes and caught her breath.
She’d run too hard. She knew her limits, and she’d passed them two miles before. Her chest hurt as her lungs struggled to draw air. Her hair fell into her face, dripping with salty sweat.
She moaned and lay down on the grass, her chest heaving up and down. Above her, unseen birds chirped and sang a melody. With shaky hands Macey separated her T-shirt from her skin.
A soft breeze rustled the leaves in the trees, cooling her a bit. Mingling with the sweat were the tears, and her body now shook with grief and pain instead of exhaustion. There was hardly a building in sight, and Macey let her sobs escape without restriction.
Sounds of her own laughter as a child replayed in her mind as she wept. She could see her father swinging her around and around in the backyard of the farmhouse. She squealed with delight, begging him to do it again.
One mistake. One horrible mistake had ended it all. But she still didn’t know whose mistake was worse. She still didn’t have the answers her heart had longed for.
Now she never would. In a few hours, her father would be deep inside the earth, silenced forever.
Seven
Macey’s legs trembled as she climbed the porch steps. An unfamiliar car was parked in the driveway, and when she opened the door, she knew it was Patricia’s. Her mom stood by the kitchen table, dressed in a pastel blue dress with a lace collar and pearl buttons. It wasn’t the type of thing Macey would wear to a funeral, but her mother’s expression indicated that she should approve immediately.
“Mom, you look beautiful,” Macey said, grabbing a kitchen chair and sitting down.
Evelyn touched the string of pearls around her neck. “Are the pearls too much?”
Macey glanced at Patricia, who was shaking her head. “Of course not,” Macey said. “And the earrings are a nice touch, too.”
“I’m not sure too many people will approve of wearing blue to a funeral,” Evelyn said as she smoothed down the collar.
Macey saw her own black dress hanging on the coat closet door. Evelyn didn’t miss a beat.
“I ironed it for you. Packing does quite a number on clothes, doesn’t it?” Her mother looked at her, obviously hoping she wouldn’t be mad.
Macey wasn’t accustomed to people going through her belongings. Today, though, she’d just have to let things go or she might fall apart. “Well, I hate to iron, so thank you.”
Evelyn walked to the closet and took the dress off the hanger, gently laying it over her arm. “You better go get ready.”
Macey looked at her watch. It was 8:09. She knew for a fact she could shower and dress in precisely twenty-two minutes, but instead of stressing her mother out, she decided to take her advice and go upstairs. First, she went to the kitchen to get a drink of water. Patricia joined her.
“I can hang around and do your hair and nails, too, if you’d like,” Patricia offered. “How I’d like to get my hands on that beautiful brown hair of yours.”
Macey smiled and then gulped her water. “That’s okay. But thank you for offering.”
“Alrighty. I’ll be off, then. I gotta go check on Mrs. Williams before heading over to the funeral home.” She looked at Evelyn. “Are you sure you don’t need anything else?”
Evelyn nodded, and Patricia packed her sacks and left. Macey was just finishing the last bit of water when something caught her eye—the corner of a piece of paper barely showing on the top of the cupboard. Macey rose to her tiptoes to try to reach it. After three attempts, the ends of her fingers moved it enough so that it fell off the cupboard and floated gently to the floor.
She was surprised to find it to be an old school paper of hers, probably from her sophomore or junior year. It was from English class, a story she’d written about a moth named Abigail who was in love with a beautifully colored butterfly named Prince. Macey stared at all the carefully-thought-out descriptions. No one knew what this story really meant. No one knew who this story was about. No one but Macey.
“What are you looking at?”
Macey jumped and set the paper down quickly. Her mother stepped around her, glanced at the paper, and grinned. “Oh, one of your school papers.”
“From English class,” Macey said and moved to the other side of the kitchen for a second glass of water. She gripped the edge of the counter to keep her hands from shaking. “It was on top of the cupboard. That’s strange.”
She watched her mom pick up the paper and look at it and then at her as if she knew something she shouldn’t. Macey turned and filled her glass with ice. Her mother couldn’t possibly know what the story was about. To anyone but Macey it was just a silly story about an ugly moth and a beautiful butterfly.
“I better get ready now,” said Macey, avoiding her mother’s eyes. “We don’t want to be late.”
Upstairs, Macey showered, dried off, and slipped her dress on and carefully buttoned it. She combed and pinned back her wet hair. She realized then she had no makeup. She found her mom downstairs, sitting quietly in the living room and staring out the bay window.
“Mom?”
Evelyn turned as if snapping out of a trance. Macey noticed she was still holding the school paper. “What? I’m sorry?”
“Can I borrow some makeup?”
Her mom thought for a second. “Well, let’s see here. I have a little compact of pressed powder, and I think I have a lipstick somewhere.” Evelyn rose from the sofa and found her purse. Digging through it, she said, “Patricia, she has a whole store full of makeup. I don’t have much these days. It doesn’t seem to make too much of a difference. I do have some wrinkle cream, though.” Her hand emerged with a tube of lipstick and a compact of powder.
Macey took the lipstick and looked at the color. “Hot Mama Red?”
Evelyn’s blue eyes glowed bashfully. “Your father always did like that color.”
“I guess this is going to have to do,” Macey sighed and headed back upstairs. Facing the mirror, she moisturized her face, put only a dab of color on her lips so she wouldn’t look like she’d just left a Broadway stage, then used the lipstick to create some color on her cheeks and brow bone. She wasn’t here to win any beauty contests. Meanwhile she rehearsed what she would say to the guests at the funeral. A tight smile and a “Thank you so much” would probably do for most comments. She had no idea what anyone knew about why she’d left so many years ago, and a funeral wasn’t the place to discuss something like that anyway. But Macey was smart enough to know there would be a few old women who would make what was none of their business their business.
She could maneuver through a crowd, act busy, seem occupied, serve coffee, sit in the bathroom—all tricks she’d learned at social functions. She was a master at seeming present without really being there.
After a quick check in the mirror Macey went downstairs and was ready to leave. Her mom was dusting.
“Mom, should you be cleaning house?”
Evelyn began strategically placing coasters on all her wood furniture. “I’m going to have a houseful of guests here in a few hours. I can’t have my house looking messy.”
“The house looks fine,” Macey assured her, steering her away from the furniture and taking the feather duster from her hand. But Evelyn immediately went to the dining room table.
“This silver hasn’t been polished in over a year. I think I need to—”
“Mother, please,” Macey said, exhausted just watching her, “let it alone. It’s your husband’s funeral today.”
Evelyn stopped. “I know, I know.” She shook her head. “Maybe I’m just trying to forget that.”
Macey looked at her watch. 8:37. “You said you wanted to be to the church by nine.”
Evelyn took her purse off a chair. “It’s at the funeral home, not the church. It’ll be a twenty-minute drive. They thought too many people would come, and the church only seats a hundred and fifty, comfortably that is. They can pack more in, but in July you risk people fainting.”
Macey spent another five minutes convincing her mom that the house was in order and that Margie and all the women would be able to find everything they needed for the reception. By the time they made it outside, the sun had dried the final dampness from the steamy ground and the temperature had reached at least the upper eighties.
She helped her mom to the small car, pushing the passenger seat back as far as possible before helping her to sit down. Carefully closing the door, Macey hurried around, got in herself, and started the car. They waited a minute for the air-conditioner to blow cold.
“Nice little car you got here,” Evelyn said. “Does it have power steering?”
“It’s a rental.”
“Oh. Our old Pontiac doesn’t have power steering.”
“You’ve had that thing for years.”
“Yes, well, it still runs. No need to get a new one until the only other option would be walkin’. I don’t do that too well these days.”
For the first ten minutes of the drive, Macey was thankful that her mom was content to point out landmarks and acquaintances’ houses. It was easy conversation, the kind where one could nod, raise an eyebrow, ask a leading question, all without any emotional effort.
But soon the conversation ran dry, and the only noise was the constant hum of the air-conditioner. Macey tried to think of anything they hadn’t covered but there was nothing. They’d talked about the house needing painting, the chickens hating the heat, Patricia’s dating life, the 112-degree temperature they’d had on this day last July. So Macey just drove, and her mother just sat.
Seventy Horn Horse Ranch blurred as they sped past it. Macey thought about posing a question that might get a conversation going again, but then decided against it. The atmosphere turned solemn. Her mother’s eyes were dark with grief. The silence, while stifling, was the best they could do. So Macey kept the air-conditioner on high, fixed her eyes on the road ahead, and thought about butterflies.
———
“Evelyn, my deepest sympathy for you and yours.” Newt Castles, a very small, nervous-looking man with a bald head and thick wire-framed glasses, shook Evelyn’s hand deliberately and then shook Macey’s.
“Thank you, Newt,” Evelyn replied, gripping her purse and fiddling with the lace collar on her dress. She’d met Newt only a few times before. He ran Castles’ Funeral Home and Cemetery in Chanute, where pretty much everyone buried their loved ones. His father and grandfather and great-grandfather had run the business before him, so Newt was a very proud mortician.
“Everything’s arranged,” said Newt, twitching his eyes and licking his lips. “The flowers are here, and we put out extra chairs, just in case. I’ve already talked to Pastor Lyle and also Howard and Roger. You’re welcome to sit behind the divider or wherever you like.”
“We’ll just sit in the front row,” Evelyn said. She squeezed her daughter’s hand. “If that’ll be okay.”
“Just fine.” Newt seemed to be able to run down a checklist and still convince you he was sorry for your loss, all in the same breath. “You’ve requested a closed casket. And you would like Pastor Lyle to invite everyone to the graveside, which will follow immediately after the service.”
Evelyn nodded and searched for her handkerchief in her purse.
“Now,” Newt said, “the casket will already be there at the front, and we’ll bring you and your daughter in after everyone is seated.”
“Is that necessary?” Macey’s voice was tight and terse.
Newt glanced at Evelyn. “Whatever you want, Evelyn.”
“Oh, um . . . whatever Macey wants.”
“It’s not up to me,” Macey said. “I’m just not comfortable walking down the aisle like it’s my wedding day. Can’t we just come in the side? And maybe a few minutes before the service starts so we’re not the main attraction.”
Evelyn stared down at her newly painted fingernails. She didn’t necessarily want to be marched down the aisle, but in these parts it was customary for the widow to be the last one seated. Newt’s eyes darted to each of them, and Evelyn blotted her forehead with the back of her hand.
“What? Is there some sort of protocol that must be followed in order to get someone into the ground?” her daughter asked.
Evelyn didn’t know how to respond. Her daughter’s sudden agitation caught her off guard. A painful expression in Newt’s direction gave him permission to handle the situation.
“It’s of course at your discretion, but normally the family—”
“Well, this isn’t a normal family, so let’s just be seated before the service starts. I need some air. Where’s the door?”
Newt motioned to the left, but Evelyn stopped her with a gentle pat on the arm. “I’m going to view the body. I was hoping you would come with me.” Macey’s eyes were cold and startled, and Evelyn let go of her arm. “It’ll be the last time I see your father. The last time you see your father. At least on this earth.”
Painful indecision flashed across Macey’s already flushed face. She glanced at Newt as if she wished he wasn’t standing there and then looked around the room.
Evelyn could tell this was the last thing on earth she wanted to do. “Listen, it’s okay. If you don’t want to go—” Evelyn tried to keep her voice steady and calm, but inside she felt her heart quiver with disappointment.
Macey’s chest heaved as she took in a breath. “Fine. Let’s go view the body.”
“One more thing, Evelyn . . .” Newt’s brow glistened with perspiration. “I always like to settle the account before the funeral starts. You don’t need to be thinking of money during or afterward.”
Evelyn nodded and reached into her purse. “Of course, Newt. I apologize. What do I owe you?”
“Five thousand, one hundred and three dollars and fifty-eight cents.” Newt glanced at Macey and back to Evelyn. “That of course includes the casket, the funeral home expenses, the graveside—”
