by Leanna Ellis
“Right.”
“The barber in Stonewall only knows one style.” Oliver props his feet up on the seat in front of us.
“Short.”
Mother gives us the “eye” and walks ahead of us, straight to the front of the stage. She looks at the floor as if a chair will miraculously appear for her. The queen needs a throne.
“Oliver.” Mike prods our son’s leg with the toe of his boot.
My son jumps up and drags a bench up to the front and positions it behind his grandmother. Primly she sits down on it and pats the wood for Oliver to join her. She looks closer at the rag on Oliver’s head. I can’t hear what she says, but I imagine it’s not complimentary.
The side door to the dance hall, with a sign that reads “band only,” opens. Pastor Reese hurries toward Mother.
“We went by and saw Archie,” Mike says in a low voice as we watch the casket approach the dance hall.
“Oh, good. What did he say?”
“Nothing much.”
Oliver clears his throat and glances back at us. The tips of his ears are red.
“What is it? Did you get the test results back?”
There’s a flash of something across his face. It disappears as soon as it appears. “No too soon.”
I get the impression there’s something they don’t want to tell me, but I don’t press. “This is really horrible, Mike. Flipper is all upset. Of course, he thinks this is all real. It’s sick, and it’s not right.”
“Maybe if we figure out a way to keep your mother from losing face, then we could settle this.”
“How are you going to do that? The obituary came out in the paper this morning. Everyone knows.”
Mother sits proudly, stiff and straight, not looking back at us. Through the open doors Flipper leads the casket. It starts to bobble. Mike starts to rise, but Oliver is closer and to the door in a flash. He takes over the lead handle of the casket. Bennie brings up the rear. Flipper bounces around the edges of the casket. “Watch the step. Careful, careful.” He gets in the way, blocking the doorway but finally moves. “Okay, slowly, slowly.”
“Did the test go well?” I ask Mike.
“Wasn’t much to it.”
“So what’s the result?”
“We won’t know for a couple of days.”
Mike’s cell phone rings. He pulls it out of his pocket and checks the caller. “I’ll call them back later.”
“Who is it?”
“I better go help. They’re struggling.”
I sink onto the nearest bench and lean against the table, feeling the hard wood against my spine.
“Can we set it down a minute?” Oliver’s voice is more of a grunt.
“No!” Flipper’s face is mottled red and dripping sweat. “You can’t just set your grandpa down on the floor. That’s just not done.”
“But my fingers are numb.”
“Come on, come on. You’re almost there.”
Not quite. I mentally measure about ten more feet they have left to go. Then what? What exactly are they going to put the casket on? The drums? The footlights?
Mike must have realized the same thing. “Suzanne, where are we going to put this thing?”
“We need a table.” I rush forward. “Help me.”
Together we lift a heavy wooden picnic table from along the wall. One leg of the table drags along the floor. The heavy wood pinches into my fingers.
“We need a resurrection.” My words come out as tiny huffs. “Some sort of miracle.”
“Especially since he’s been embalmed.” Mike’s gaze meets mine, humor sparking in the blue depths, but also I see the strain at the corners.
He climbs onto the stage first, and Pastor Reese helps him lift his end up onto the raised area where the famous and not-so-famous have sung their hearts out. They manage to avoid the lights and cords. The men carting the casket ease their load onto the wooden table. It hangs several inches over the edge of the clearly smaller table. The men carrying the casket are exhausted, their faces gleaming with sweat. White and black makeup drips off Bennie’s.
“Pastor,” I say to the biker-turned-preacher, “do you think there’s a tablecloth or something we could put over the table, make it look nicer.”
“Could be. I’ll go look.”
“You think it’s strong enough to hold this much weight?”
“It’ll be fine.” Mike nudges the table with his thigh, straightening it.
Oliver flops onto the floor, his long legs stretched out before him, his do-rag slipping sideways, revealing more of the scalping he received. Mother walks off with Bennie, digging in her purse I assume for his payment. But my gaze lands on Flipper. He’s standing beside the casket, his face a crumpled wad of misery. My heart breaks for him. I can’t take it anymore, his thinking Daddy is dead. I step toward him. He’ll understand. He’ll keep our dirty family secret. Maybe he can talk to Daddy and help him reconcile with Mother.
But then Flipper’s hand reaches for the lid, as if to open it. He slides a bolt to unlatch it.
Across the room Mother’s eyes grow wide. She apparently sees what Flipper is about to do. Then she screams.
The sound ricochets off the wooden rafters and reverberates through the barn structure. Flipper jerks back. The lid bangs down hard. The casket wobbles on its precarious perch. It tilts, momentarily defying gravity, then flips over onto the floor. Upside down.
17
We all stare at the upside-down casket. Mother is the first to recover or come unglued. She shrieks and falls back onto her bench. Immediately Pastor Reese and Oliver rush to her side. But Mike and Flipper stand next to me, frozen in place. I kneel down beside the casket, rest a hand on its cool surface. I look up at the deputy, then Mike. I don’t know what to do.
But Mike does. “Deputy, if you’d help Mrs. Davidson out of the dance hall. My son and I will take care of this.”
“It’s my fault.” Flipper buffs his face with the palms of his hands as if trying to erase the sight from his eyes. “I should fix it. I should be the one.”
He reaches out, but I put a hand on his arm. “It’s okay.” I stand and urge him toward Mother. “If you could help me with my mother, Mike can handle this.”
“But—”
“I know you want to help. And probably the best way you can,” I place an arm around the deputy’s shoulder and feel the heat that rolls off him, “is by looking after Daddy’s widow.”
That must strike a chord in him because he sucks in his gut and squares his shoulders. “I can do that.”
“Good.” Mike squeezes Flipper’s shoulder. “Good.” Then he calls Oliver over.
After everyone is ushered out of the dance hall, properly tending the widow’s tender nerves, I head back inside to Mike and Oliver. After we close all the windows so no one can see us, they flip the casket over. With a few grunts, they move it to the table on the stage. I lift the lid of the casket. It is thankfully empty. Mike digs down to the foot where the pillow has slid and straightens it. When the lid is closed again, I make sure the latch is bolted.
Once that’s completed, Oliver starts to laugh.
* * *
“I WANT THE best that can be ordered.”
We’re standing in the florist’s shop on 2nd Avenue in Fredericksburg.
“Of course, Mrs. Davidson.” Phyllis Mabry, the owner of Flowers by Phyllis, glances at me but keeps her focus on Mother. She has steel-gray eyes and hair to match.
“Mother,” I multiply the cost of the flowers in my head, “this is really expensive.”
“Flowers don’t come cheap.” Phyllis has red-painted lips so thin that the lipstick bleeds into the fine lines around her mouth. “A full closed-casket spray is gonna cost you. Simple as that.”
“Only the best for your father.” Mother ambles around the florist’s shop. “Red is too cliché.”
Mrs. Mabry nods as if taking mental notes. “I got carnations. That’s what we see ’round here most. We can get them ea
sy. They’re economical. Won’t cost as much as roses. We got red, yellow, white, and pink. A little baby’s breath and some greenery. Don’t you worry. It’ll look nice. We’ll do you right, Mrs. Davidson.”
Mother wrinkles her nose at the mention of carnations. “I want roses.”
“That’ll cost more. Special order and all. And the funeral is when?”
“Thursday,” I supply.
The woman scribbles it on her pad. “We might be able to get enough in by Wednesday.”
“I’m not concerned with the cost,” Mother says.
“Well, we aim to please. Let’s see,” the woman taps a finger to her pursed lips, “yellow is fairly traditional for a man.”
“I’ve seen the color I want. It’s silvery.”
“Silver flowers?” Phyllis scratches her head with the end of her ballpoint pen. “I heard tell there’s roses dipped in fourteen-carat gold, but I ain’t never seen a casket spray done up that way. And it’d be real expensive.”
“No, it’s not silver. Sterling, I believe, is what they call it.”
Phyllis shakes her head and her double chin waggles back and forth. “Never heard tell of that. Where’d you see it?”
“Probably Martha Stewart’s magazine.” My comment goes unnoticed.
“Well, might be hard to come by.”
“Where’s your ordering book?” Mother asks.
“Mother,” I whisper, but she ignores me. When Phyllis goes to the back of the shop, I insist. “How are you going to pay for all this?”
“Your father will pay.” She dips her chin low, lifting her eyebrows at the same time. “Believe me, he’ll pay.”
He already is. “But Mother—”
“He deserves the best,” Mother says this loud enough for the florist to hear in the back room.
Phyllis reenters the showcase area carrying a big blue notebook. She flips through the pages. Her fingers are nimble but calloused and rough.
“I know you wouldn’t argue with that, Suzanne.” Mother pats my arm, playing the part of a grieving widow, except for her dry eyes. “This is hard on you. Why don’t you just wait in the car?”
“I’m fine.” I’m not going anywhere.
The florist glances up from her book, assesses me. I imagine she’s thinking that I’m not upset enough by my father’s supposed death. I’m more upset by my mother’s careless spending of my father’s hard-earned savings.
“But Mother, you’ll soon be on a fixed income. You can’t frivolously throw away money.”
“Then you can pay for it.” Mother one-ups me. “You’ve got a husband who is well off. I’m just a poor widow trying to—”
“Mother, I’m not paying for this extravagance!”
“Now, Mrs. Davidson.” The florist takes Mother’s arm and leads her away from me. She throws a disapproving glance over her shoulder as if to scold me for my callous attitude.
I turn and walk the other way, giving us both space. I’ve given up trying to make Mother see reason. She’s determined to bleed my father dry, to make him pay for whatever transgression she believes he’s committed. Maybe this will be incentive for Daddy to come back. And when her spending spree is over, when Daddy starts to run out of cash, maybe Mother will be more willing to forgive and forget. It’s not a lot to base a marriage on, I’ll grant you, but it’s a start.
“Just look at these beautiful flowers that have already been ordered for your husband.” Phyllis’s words make my head jerk up. I stare at a row of daisies and carnations— flowers our neighbors and friends have ordered on behalf of my father. My heart begins to hammer.
“These are all for me?” Mother touches a vase, pleased as punch at the generosity and concern from her friends. “I mean, for Archie? Well, well, now isn’t that nice.” She brushes a finger against a tender leaf. “This needs a ribbon, maybe some more greenery.”
“They’re not ready to go.” Phyllis’s flaccid features pull into a frown. “I should get them finished and over to the dance hall this afternoon.” She glances at her watch as if wondering how much longer this is going to go on. But with Mother, one never knows.
Mother focuses on a particular arrangement. She reaches into the vase, plucks out a rose, then replaces it in a position more to her liking. I hate to admit it, but it does look better. Mother has a good eye. But not a sensitive heart. She rolls her wrist and points at one vase filled with carnations. “Could we do something else with this?”
“What did you have in mind?” Phyllis’s brows scrunch downward.
“Anything but carnations.”
“Mother!”
“The customer requested those flowers.” Phyllis deflects Mother’s accusation. “They paid for the arrangement already.”
“How much more would it cost to switch to dendrobium orchids?”
Phyllis gives her head a slight shake. “I don’t got any of those.”
“Oh, well, what else do you have? Certainly the customer,” Mother glances at the card and sniffs at the name scribbled on it, “didn’t realize what these would look like. Well, Verna might have. Her tastes do run common. Maybe freesia would work better.”
“I might have some of those.”
“Do you expect more arrangements will be ordered?” Mother seems a bit more excited by the prospect than a widow should be.
“Oh, I expect more orders will be coming in once news spreads,” Phyllis’s tone is respectfully funereal. “Your husband was well liked.”
Mother seems oblivious to the subtle insinuation that someone else might not be as well loved. It’s interesting how death brings sorrow to some, profit to others, and glory to my mother.
“Yes, he was,” I agree.
Mother gives me a sharp look.
I finger a note pinned to a ribbon. It reads, “The Davidson Family.” I imagine words of sympathy scribbled or typed on the card inside. People spent money on these flowers and arrangements. They took the time to write a note. Maybe they even shed tears. All for Mother’s charade. I feel as if my feet are mired in the muck of lies Mother has created. We just keep getting deeper and deeper, sinking lower and lower. Perhaps quicksand will soon pull us under altogether. I’m afraid by then it will be well deserved.
“I’ll go call about those flowers.” Phyllis gives a tired sigh. “Maybe a place in Austin can help me out. I’ll see if I can get them here in time.”
“Check on those orchids.” Mother calls after her. “I’ll pay the difference. No one ever has to know.”
“Mother! What on earth are you doing? Your friends and neighbors have paid good money for these flowers. They don’t have money to just throw away on some farce that you’ve concocted. This has gone too far!”
“Nonsense.” She leans forward and sniffs at a beautiful red rose. “I just want the dance hall to look nice for your father and the service. It’s such a drab place, but it meant a lot to your father. It will take a lot to make it look just right.”
“This is crazy! You don’t care that it meant a lot to Dad. You want it nice for you.” I look around at all the flowers friends and neighbors have bought for Daddy’s funeral. “Don’t you feel the least bit guilty?”
She stares at me with a face full of innocence. “For what?”
“Mother, people think Daddy is dead. They’re sending flowers out of sympathy and grief, not to satisfy your whim.”
“If we were divorcing, it’d be like a death. Only this way I get the sympathy I deserve. And flowers. Aren’t they beautiful?” She acts like this is the role she was born to play—the Widow Davidson. Then her gaze lands on the carnations. “Well, not those.” She turns her back on them like they’re the black sheep of the family.
“This is wrong, Mother. Wrong.”
“If your father and I were getting divorced, these so-called friends would gossip about it and do nothing. This is much better, don’t you think? What sympathy would I get then? Nothing but ‘Ain’t it a shame her husband walked out on her,’ or ‘She deserved everyt
hing she’s gettin’.’”
“Mother, you don’t know that. Your friends would encourage you. They wouldn’t just talk behind your back.”
Mother lifts her nose in the air, then leans forward to sniff a white and pink lily. “I deserve this. And more.”
I take a step back, imagine lightning streaking through the window to strike my mother dead. My gaze lingers on the sky outside, but not a single cloud floats into view. The drought continues to take its toll. The sky’s pale blue hue is bleached almost white from heat.
“What if your friends and family find out this is all make-believe?”
Mother gives a very unladylike snort. “They won’t.” “But Daddy has lots of friends here, Mother. It isn’t reasonable to expect he’ll never talk to them again.” “He was willing to give them up for—” She clamps her mouth closed. “Well, it was his choice.” “For what?” She squares her shoulders, her face looking red as a tulip.
“For his own selfish reasons.” “Excuse me?” Phyllis says, coming back into the front room. “Am I interrupting something?” “Yes,” I say at the same time Mother says, “No.” “Those flowers can be here by Wednesday. Don’t worry about nothin’. I’ll take good care of you. Now, I’m short on help and I have a stack of orders waiting.” Mother wins. “Well, that’s fine. That’s plenty of time.” “Did you know, Mrs. Davidson, that those flowers you want are really a pale lilac color?” “I believe I recall that, now that you mention it.” “You’re getting lilac roses for my father’s casket?” “Sterling,” Phyllis corrects. “Mother! Daddy will—” “—would—” She arcs an eyebrow. “Puke.” “Well, he’s not here to make this decision. I like Sterling.
They’ll go beautifully with the freesia and orchids.”
* * *
MIKE SAUNTERS IN Mother’s house, tosses his cowboy hat in the chair and flops on the couch beside me. I do a double take because I barely recognize him without his hair.
“Where’ve you been?” I ask.
“Had an errand.”
His vagueness makes me slant my gaze toward him.
“Calling on barbers to see if they do extensions?”