The Stone Necklace

by Carla Damron

  “Mom!” Becca’s alarmed cry cut through. She hurried from the closet, almost forgetting the dress, and said, “In here. What is it?”

  Becca rushed into the room, wearing a sweatshirt and shorts, her hair damp from the shower. “I can’t wear the skirt. Please, Mom, don’t make me. I can wear the gray pants and blazer.”

  “The blue skirt or a dress. You’re going to church.”

  “I saw women in pants last Sunday. Lots of them.”

  Lena slid the rock into the pocket of her robe and laid the purple dress across her bed. “When I am an old woman, I shall wear purple,” the poem went. Mitch’s gift had been a joke, reminding Lena she would become an old woman now that the cancer was gone.

  “Dresses make my legs look fat,” Becca said.

  So that was what this was about. “Your legs are beautiful. But if you’ll be more comfortable in pants, okay.”

  Becca retreated without another word, drips of water marking her trail in the carpet. Lena returned to the closet. Should she wear a scarf? Was it appropriate to accessorize in widowhood?

  The phone rang. There had been many calls, but dutiful Elliot had fielded every one. She heard him answer again, repeating a louder, second “Hello?,” then footsteps echoing on the stairs. He came into her room. “It’s Aunt Abby. She just got our messages.”

  Finally, her older sister. Lena took the phone. “Abigail? Where are you?”

  “Le-Le? Speak up. I can barely hear you.”

  “Where are you?” she yelled.

  “I’ve been working in a village five hours from anywhere. No phones. No cell reception. Nothing.”

  Lena didn’t ask why. Surely Abby was on some important mission, rescuing orphans or saving the rainforest, but she hadn’t been here when Lena needed her.

  “I just heard. My God, Le-Le. My God.” Static blurred Abby’s words. For fifteen years, Abby had lived in one staticky country or another.

  “The funeral is today,” Lena said. “I take it you won’t be here.”

  “I’m sorry.” Abby’s voice quavered. “When did it happen? When did we lose him?”

  Lena had to think. She’d been living in this strange contraction and expansion of time, hours like years, days like mere seconds. “The accident was Tuesday. He died on Friday.” And today was . . . Monday?

  “If only they could have saved him. A world without Mitch? I can’t imagine it.”

  Lena clutched the stone.

  “I’m coming, Le-Le. We’re trying to book the ticket now.”

  “It’s okay. We’re okay. I know you have important work—”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I’ll call when I have the itinerary worked out. Until then, I’m there. My heart is there with you.”

  Before Lena could argue, her sister hung up. Abby hadn’t come during Lena’s cancer. She’d been too tied up with some crisis in Peru to make it to their father’s funeral four years ago. Lena had managed all that without her older sister. She could manage this.

  “Everything okay?” Elliott stared at her from the doorway.

  “She’s coming as soon as she can.”

  “Good.” Elliott reached for the phone. “I don’t feel right about leaving you and Becca alone here after the funeral.”

  Don’t go then.

  “We’ll be fine.” She gave him a smile that felt fake, but he just nodded and went back downstairs. This would be a long, difficult day. The house, already overflowing with casseroles, would fill with more food. It was an odd southern custom, this ritual of funerals and food, and Lena would play her part.

  “A giant basket of fruit just got delivered!” Becca appeared at the doorway again, the gray pants sagging low on her narrow hips. A stiff wind could carry that child away. “What are we supposed to do with all this food?”

  “You hardly ate any breakfast. Why not have some?”

  Becca’s eyes narrowed like Lena had suggested she help herself to a plateful of worms.

  Not today, Lena thought, her teeth clenching. Not this battle today. “We’ll give some to the food bank. But a lot will get eaten this afternoon. I expect people will stop by after the funeral.”

  “I don’t want to ride in the limousine. Do I have to?”

  “I thought you’d want to.”

  “It’s just that, well, everyone will be watching.” Becca’s hand went to her mouth. At age six she had exchanged thumb-sucking for nail biting.

  Lena approached her daughter and frowned. Becca looked so gaunt. Pale. Lost. “You’ll be between your brothers. They’ll protect you from any onlookers.”

  “Couldn’t I ride with Kayla and her family?”

  Why couldn’t her child think of someone besides herself? Today of all days. “No. You’ll ride with us.” She didn’t mean to sound so harsh. Becca flinched.

  “It’s just that we have to be a family right now. We have to be together.” Lena moved closer to her, her fingers combing through a strand of Becca’s hair and slipping it behind her ear. “Okay?”

  Becca nodded as she pulled away. Her untouchable daughter.

  How was Lena to fix her?

  SANDY STARED AT THE POPCORNED ceiling over her bed. Jesse had snuck away into the moonlight like a vampire. She’d been awake for two hours, even though today was her first day off. Something to enjoy. Celebrate. Except celebrating meant drugs and she didn’t do drugs anymore. This is what defined her now. She was a used-to-be-user, facing an entire day—twenty-four hours—with nothing to do.

  A year ago, she would have slept much of the day, rousing herself to get to happy hour with a friend, maybe Jesse. She’d come home later, ready for another kind of altered state. She’d lay out her pills on the table: Oxy, Valium, and Darvocet if she had it. She’d pour a glass of chardonnay as she studied her pharmaceutical options. Valium made her mellow as a tortoise. Oxy sedated, but not too much, and got her high as the North Star if she took enough. Darvocet made her wobbly as a bobble-head doll. After pondering each drug, she chose the Oxy because Oxy always won. She’d take two or three, sip her wine until the drug sizzled inside her. Heaven.

  But she wasn’t supposed to indulge in stinking thinking. Sandy was due for a meeting today. She’d find one in the afternoon, which would kill an hour. The house needed vacuuming, which would take a good twenty minutes, and balancing her checkbook would take care of another ten. Oh hell, twenty-two hours unaccounted for. Sleep would take five or six because she never slept an entire night un-medicated, which she was now. Woefully unmedicated.

  She slid her feet off the bed and found her slippers, ridiculous Wonder-woman fuzzies that Sean had brought to her when she was at Brook Pine, and stumbled out of the room in search of coffee.

  “Do not, I repeat, do not go near that litter box!” Sean, wearing plaid flannel pajama bottoms and mismatched socks, skidded across the wood floor to stop in front of Sandy. “I was going to clean it this morning. Promise.”

  Sandy clutched at her tee shirt to still her heart. “Scare a person why don’t you. And yes, you’d better get that stink out of here.”

  “I was out of cat litter but I got some last night.” He grabbed a plastic sack and the pink scooper. Sandy winced at the odor, though it wasn’t as bad as some of the hospital rooms at her job. Not her floor, mind you, because she wouldn’t allow it.

  “You working today?” She hoped she didn’t sound too desperate for company.

  “I go in at eleven.” Sean was a waiter at Prism, an upscale restaurant in the Vista. Daytime, he was a sixth-year senior at the University of South Carolina. Sean was plenty smart but reluctant to grow up. Her personal Peter Pan.

  “Adam’s coming over,” he said. “Maybe you two can go to lunch or something.”

  “Maybe.” Lunch might be safe, Sean’s best friend Adam wouldn’t order a beer or margarita, and food would distract her for an hour or two.

  Sean beat her to the coffee pot and poured two mugs as he hummed, “Oh What a Beautiful Morning.” When the doorbell rang, Adam l
et himself in, wearing his usual khakis and a sweater tied around his shoulders like he was Gatsby himself. He carried a newspaper and a small basket of nectarines, which he placed on the table in front of Sandy. “Fresh fruit is good for your recovery. You need two to four servings every day.” He lifted a nectarine. “Is this a serving? What do you think, Sean?”

  Sean snagged three and tossed them in the air—two, then one, and then he was juggling them, a circle of peachy-red planets orbiting his head. “I think she can figure out what to eat without our help.”

  Adam spread the newspaper across the table. “Okay, you gotta see this. I’ve been waiting all my life for it.”

  Sandy saw that it was yesterday’s edition. Adam was the assistant feature editor for the Columbia Gazette.

  “I am soooo sending this wedding announcement to Leno.” He pointed to a picture of a plump bride in a billowing gown like a tulle-draped Liberty Bell: “Felicity Angel Long to wed Dr. Caldwell Lane Dick.”

  “Oh my God!” Sean dropped the fruit on the floor, one rolling dangerously close to Miss Saigon, who puffed up like a porcupine.

  “That’s pretty damn funny,” Sandy said.

  “I hate editing the wedding page but this makes it all worthwhile,” Adam said. “You should see the bulletin board in my cube. I’ve got the Green-Pease nuptials, the Hogg-Wilde, and my personal favorite, the Wannamaker-High.”

  “I sure hope she didn’t hyphenate.”

  “Doctor Dick. I’m thinking urologist.” Sean tugged the newspaper closer. “Any good obituaries?”

  “Not really, though once I got a fax about a man who ‘died of natural clauses.’”

  Sandy looked over Sean’s shoulder at the list of names, finding a familiar one: Mitchell Sims Hastings. “I worked on this guy,” she said. “It was a car crash. He’d had a heart attack and was trapped inside. Good Samaritans did CPR and got a pulse but he’d been anoxic too long.”

  She read the obit, Sean peering over her shoulder, and thought about Lena Hastings, the now-widow, and Becca, the thin, lost child.

  “Sims Hastings was in high school with us,” Adam said. “Sat in the third row in Mr. Richards’ science class. Tall guy. Ball player. The younger brother brought in the obit.”

  She remembered Elliott, how attentive he had been with his mother.

  “What got to me was how fragile he was,” Adam said. “He’d handwritten the obituary, listing all the details about Sims and a sister, but had forgotten to include his own name. Freudian slip, I think.”

  “Poor thing. Is he single?” Sean said, collecting the fruit.

  “I felt sorry for him,” Adam said. “I rarely have direct contact with the family—usually it’s just the funeral home. But this guy was so raw. I wanted the obit to be right. The funeral’s at noon.”

  Sandy closed the paper and carried her cup to the coffee maker for a refill. Outside, clouds like white meringue hovered in a pale blue sky. A pretty day, with so many dreaded hours to fill.

  “I’m going to the funeral,” Adam said.

  “Why? Because the brother is cute?” Sean’s voice was half-accusing.

  “Because I want to see Sims. And this guy that died—he’s very well-connected. The funeral’s gonna be big. Can’t help but be curious.” He looked at Sandy. “Maybe you want to go?”

  She surprised herself by not saying no right away. It would be weird to attend. She hadn’t known Mitch Hastings. She’d never heard the sound of his voice. She had no clue if he liked chocolate or rock music or Glenn Beck. But she did know Lena Hastings, that proud, terrified woman, and wondered how she was managing. Maybe she would go to the funeral, read this final chapter to Mitch Hasting’s life. And, she thought, looking up at the kitchen clock, kill a couple of hours in an endless sober day.

  CHAPTER 11

  An hour later, Sandy and Adam stood in line behind an elderly couple and a middle-aged man in a tweed Armani suit. They’d come a full forty minutes early because Adam insisted he wanted to watch the guests arrive. Sandy already regretted her decision. She was wearing pantyhose and a skirt for the first time in months, and wished she’d let out the waist button by an inch or two.

  They made their way up to the guest book where she wrote her name in an unreadable scrawl. Adam waited for her by the side entrance into the sanctuary. He’d changed into an impeccable gray suit and garnet tie, his goatee a black oval around his lips, and she thought for the hundredth time how unfair it was to single women that Adam was gay. As she glanced around for a program, one was shoved into her hand.

  “Here you go.” The man had salt and pepper hair, tanned skin, and wore a black suit with a white rosebud pinned to the lapel. Mr. Calloway, the jerk at the hospital who wouldn’t get off his phone. She doubted he’d recognize her out of her scrubs. She doubted anyone would, and counted on remaining anonymous.

  “You were his nurse,” Phillip Calloway said.

  “Yes.” She gave him a polite smile as she tried to slip by him. He took a step closer, peering down.

  “What’s your name?” he asked.

  “Sandy Albright.”

  “Sandy Albright,” he repeated, as if tasting how the letters came together.

  “I’m sorry for your loss.” She looked at Adam, whose eyebrows had climbed to the top of his forehead.

  “Sorry I was such a pain in the hospital,” Phillip said. “I had just found out about Mitch. The news kind of had me in a tailspin.”

  “I imagine so.”

  “A week ago, I was stretched out on the pristine sands of Bermuda, beer in hand. Now I’m at my best friend’s damn funeral.”

  She hoped the elderly woman with the white spun hair who was entering the sanctuary hadn’t heard Phillip.

  “I haven’t even been in a church in over a year,” he continued. “The last time it was a funeral, too.”

  “Mine was a wedding. A cousin I don’t even like.” It had been at a Baptist church, and her father had given the homily. Sandy knew his focus on “till death do us part” was aimed at her because of the divorce.

  “I don’t like any of my cousins,” Phillip said. “Except maybe Marsha. She’s my second cousin or first once removed or whatever. In sixth grade she showed me her bra.”

  Sandy couldn’t get a handle on this guy. She barely knew him and wasn’t sure why he was confiding in her. “That was kind of her,” she said, because she could think of nothing else.

  “Hey, no sisters so I didn’t have a clue.” He nudged her with an elbow.

  She looked at the programs in his hand and wondered when he planned to get back to ushering.

  “Sorry. I’m rambling.” He hesitated, his lips twisting. “I want to thank you for taking care of Mitch. I mean, I know there wasn’t much y’all could do but keep him comfortable. But you helped Lena. If you can’t help the dying, you help the living, huh?”

  She thought that a strange—yet truthful—thing to say. “How is Lena?”

  He looked away. “I haven’t been by the house. I should have. I have a long list of should-haves when it comes to Mitch, but I couldn’t stand the idea of walking in that door without him there. I’m a selfish bastard, if you want to know the truth.”

  She took a step towards Adam. “I’d better go claim a seat.”

  “Sure. And I’d better get back to my duties. Thanks for coming, Sandy Albright. I’ll make sure Lena knows you were here.”

  She and Adam sat in a back pew beside a bent old woman who rested a cane against her knees. She wore a black hat, the brim curved up like the crest of a wave, with dangling dark feathers. When the woman smiled at them, wrinkles crinkled out from her gray eyes.

  The organ started, a few familiar chords that Sandy thought were from “A Mighty Fortress,” but then strange, wheezing sounds erupted. Another off-key groan came from the instrument and Adam squirmed.

  “It’s the organ,” the old lady whispered. “We just desperately need a new one.”

  Sandy liked the way her voice lilted in
that old-south way, hanging on to the first syllable of “desperately” and dropping three pitches as she finished the word.

  “Organs are expensive,” Adam said.

  “Oh, don’t I know it!” Her gloved hand clutched a mother-of-pearl button on her chest. “I mentioned it to Reverend Tanner, but he says we don’t have the money. I love Anglican music but that—” she pointed in the air as the organ made another wheeze—“sounds like a brood mare in heat.”

  “I was thinking hyena,” Adam whispered conspiratorially.

  “A hyena in labor!” The woman chuckled. “My name is Florence Rollison.” She extended a hand.

  “I’m Adam Montgomery. And this is Sandy Albright.” Sandy gave the glove a squeeze, feeling fingers as delicate as her grandmother’s crystal.

  “I haven’t seen you at St. Mary’s before. How did you know Mitch?”

  “I’m an old friend of Sims’s,” Adam answered, a bit of a stretch.

  “How thoughtful of you to come.” She patted his hand, and Adam flashed his most charming smile. “Funerals are hard on the young. Not for me. I’ve been to hundreds by now. Buried so many of my friends. So many.” She shook her head, the tiny black feathers bobbing over her face.

  “That must be hard.” Sandy said. She couldn’t imagine herself as old as Florence. She couldn’t see making it to forty, though that was only a few years away.

  “Now every time I come, I think about my own funeral. It makes me terribly self-absorbed, but I can’t help myself.” Again, she clutched the button.