Windchill Summer

by Norris Church Mailer

  Lucille came back out, the screen door slamming behind her. She stood looking out over the cool, shady yard for a minute, breathing in the good air as if she were grateful she could.

  “You want to see her, Cherry? She looks real pretty.”

  —

  Carlene’s mother didn’t have the money to buy a fancy casket—or probably to even pay the bill at all—so Mr. Wilmerding gave her the generic wooden kind he uses when he figures there might not be a payment forthcoming. But it was nice, lined in creamy white satin.

  Lucille had done a great job on her, I must say. She had styled the hair so you couldn’t see where they had sewed the top of Carlene’s head back on after the autopsy. She seemed a little swollen, but Jim Floyd said that was usual for a drowning. I don’t know what I was expecting, but not what I saw. She was really a pretty girl. I had never thought of her as all that pretty before. She had on pale coral lipstick and blush and a coppery eye shadow to match her hair. They had dressed her in a green velvet high-necked dress with a little cameo pin at the throat. Her breasts looked all right to me—smooth and symmetrical. Lucille had painted her long, perfect fingernails a coral color.

  “I had to put on Patty-nails,” Lucille whispered, as if Carlene could overhear. “She still bit her fingernails right down to the quick.”

  “Did you paint the toenails?” I whispered back.

  She nodded. “I had to. That magenta polish she had on was awful. Redheads shouldn’t try to wear pink. I couldn’t let her go out with that on.”

  We stood for a long moment more, looking down at Carlene, sleeping so peacefully. She never had much in life, but she was going out with solemnity and ceremony. And dignity.

  15.Cherry

  Brother Dane organized a funeral at Wilmerding’s for Carlene for the Friday after she was embalmed on Wednesday. He is such a good man. I’m sure he didn’t even know her, but it seemed like there was nobody else to do it. Brother Wilkins wouldn’t let them have it in the Holiness Church, because Carlene hadn’t been saved or baptized and had had an out-of-wedlock baby. He was probably afraid it might release a flock of demons into the good Christians sitting in the pews or something.

  Jim Floyd and Lucille were working the funeral, and I had to admit that Jim Floyd looked nice in his black suit, with his mustache all combed. Lucille couldn’t get into any of her regular clothes yet, so she was wearing one of her maternity dresses with one of those wide stretchy belts. A pink one.

  “Lucille, don’t you think you should have worn a black dress, or at least one that’s a little less festive? I mean, this is a funeral.” I had worn my all-purpose black sleeveless shift with black flats and a single strand of pearls. They said in Voguethat you could put on a black shift and some pearls—even ones from the dime store—and go anywhere, and it seemed like you could.

  “I don’t have a black dress. They’re too depressing and hot. And anyhow, it’s not what you wear but how you feel. I feel close to Carlene. Me and her went through a lot together. She knows what I’m wearing, and it’s all right with her.”

  I had gone over early to keep Lucille company and help her with putting out the flowers that had arrived from Miss Martha’s Flower Shop. There were more than I would have thought. Aunt Rubynell was watching Tiffany LaDawn, but I had talked Mama and Aunt Juanita into coming to the funeral. Uncle Jake let G. Dub take off from the Esso station for the afternoon, and he was coming. I didn’t think that many people would be there, and I wanted to at least have a few people in the seats. I don’t know why it seemed like my responsibility, but it did.

  What I hadn’t figured on was the fact that all of a sudden Carlene had become this celebrity. Already, there were cars lined up for blocks on the street, and what seemed like the whole population of Sweet Valley—plus a whole lot of people I’d never seen before in my life—was milling around in the yard waiting to get a look at the murdered girl. That is so sick. Half the people out there were the very ones who had talked about her like she was a dog or something when she got pregnant.

  Actually, I shouldn’t be too mad at them, because I hadn’t exactly rushed to be best buddies with her myself. But it did seem a lot like a carnival, with everyone just wanting to get a look at her. Ghoulish. For some reason it made me nervous, and my hands were cold and a little shaky.

  “Lucille, y’all better get on in here if you want some seats, because we’re fixing to open the house,” Jim Floyd called out from the viewing room.

  He and Mr. Wilmerding had set up all the folding chairs they had, and when they saw what a crowd was gathering, they had taken Jim Floyd’s pickup over to the school and borrowed as many from the lunchroom as they could pack in.

  Lucille and I took a couple of seats in the second row and watched as Jim Floyd and Mr. Wilmerding propped up the lid of the casket and put a giant spray of orange gladioli on the top. The smell of the flowers was overpowering. There was a big wreath of yellow roses with a card from Jackie Lim, at the Water Witch, and it was signed by all the other waitresses. I didn’t have time to read all the cards, but there was one from the girls she was on the basketball team with, and a big one from the class of ’66—Baby had gone around and gotten donations from everybody she could locate. It looked real nice—blue and white carnations with a blue tornado in silver glitter on the ribbon. I wondered if there was one from Jerry Golden’s folks.

  People started filtering in, and Tripp Barlow slid into the empty seat next to me that I had been saving for Baby. I was a little surprised, but didn’t want to tell him he couldn’t sit there, so I put my purse on the one behind me to save for her, since the row was already filling up.

  “Hi. How have you been?” he said. I had forgotten how gorgeous his eyes were.

  “Okay. I didn’t see you at work the other night.”

  “Yeah, I had some stuff I needed to do. But I’ll be back tonight.”

  “Have you seen Carlene yet?”

  We stared at the open casket, not ten feet in front of us.

  “She was a beautiful girl. Just like Jerry said.”

  Baby came in with Bean and took the seat right behind us. She handed me my purse and pinched me on the arm, and we squeezed hands. Bean looked like he had been rode hard and put up wet. His eyes were all bloodshot, and his clothes looked like they had been slept in. I don’t know how Baby put up with him looking like that. She never had a hair out of place.

  “Hey, Cherry. Hey, Barlow,” he said.

  “Hey, Bean.” Tripp turned and they shook hands, thumbs up together. “Tough night?”

  “Naw. Just a little trouble sleeping. It ain’t nothing new. I’m usually wound up tight as a tick after a gig out at Woody’s, and sometimes it seems like I can’t hardly get unwound. I’m all right.”

  He stopped and looked at Carlene lying there. A little catch came into his voice. “Ain’t this just the worst thing that ever happened to anybody? She was a good girl, Barlow. You should have got to know her. She was a real good girl.”

  “She sure was,” Baby said.

  It felt uncomfortable chitchatting with Carlene lying right there. But it’s true what they say about the body just being a shell or a vessel or whatever. There was not one spark of life in that coffin. I watched the green dress-front like I expected it to rise and lower with her breath, but it was as still as it could be. She didn’t look like she was asleep. She looked dead.

  Tripp had managed to take my hand without anybody noticing. He thought. I was sure Baby saw it, sitting right behind me like she was. It was hard to concentrate on the funeral.

  G. Dub came in and waved at us, then sat beside Aunt Juanita in the seat she had been saving for him. She gave him a quick kiss before he could stop her. She is so crazy about that boy, and I guess seeing a girl near his age dead would make any mother kiss her kid. The rest of the seats filled up, except for some in the front row that had a black rope across them, and people kept coming in, cramming into the back and standing. There were more outside on the porch
, looking in at the windows and doors, and still more on out in the yard. I saw Alfred Lynn Tucker and his old daddy, Walter, sitting in the middle, a few rows behind us. I imagined I could smell the pickles, but surely to goodness he would have cleaned up for a funeral. It was probably just in my head. They had taken seats next to Millie and Herman, the couple who owned the Freezer Fresh. I had to look at them for a minute before I knew who they were. It’s funny when you see somebody out of their usual surroundings, like seeing your typing teacher at the Piggly-Wiggly pushing a grocery cart. At first you don’t really recognize them, then you feel stupid that you didn’t.

  Jackie Lim, wearing a flashy greenish suit, sat with another Chinese man, who was dressed a little more conservatively, in dark blue. Ricky Don had found a seat over by the windows. He was still in uniform, which seemed a little like he was showing off, but I guess he couldn’t get off work to change. Or maybe he just liked wearing the uniform around and making people feel uncomfortable. Why do we always feel guilty when we see a law officer? He saw me looking at him and acknowledged me with a little nod. I turned back in my seat and took my hand away from Tripp’s. It just felt too wrong to be holding hands in front of Carlene. I don’t think Ricky Don had anything to do with it.

  I heard a voice calling in a loud whisper, “Pssst! Baby!” and twisted around to see who it was. A woman was sitting a couple of rows behind us, across the aisle. She waved at Baby, who lifted her fingers in a little wave.

  “Who is that woman, Baby?” I whispered over my shoulder.

  “Her name is Rita Ballard. Carlene and I used to work with her.”

  I pretended to lean down and get something out of my purse, so she wouldn’t think I was staring, and looked at her. She was on the fat side, with the kind of thick orangeish makeup you use if you have a major case of acne scars. It ended at her jawline, making it look like she had on a mask. Her eyes were loaded with clumpy black mascara, and her hair was bleached blond, short, and ratted up high, with rhinestone barrettes nestled in it. She had a Marilyn Monroe mole on her cheek, but it didn’t look real. There was something not too clean about her, kind of a dirty-underwear feeling. I looked at Baby with questioning eyes, but she just shrugged.

  Brother Dane came in just then with Frannie Moore, dressed in one of her black flowered dresses, and had to push his way through the crowd to get up the aisle. She was thin and colorless, with big dark circles under her eyes. Her skin was so delicate you could see the veins popped out on the backs of her hands, like blue ropes. Holding on to her hand was a red-haired boy, who, except for his big blue eyes, was the very image of Carlene. He had a pinched little face with freckles sprinkled across his nose. He looked scared. Everyone stared at them, watching for Frannie to dissolve into tears or something, but she just hung on to Brother Dane’s arm and sat down slowly on the chair on the aisle in the first row, then picked up the boy, and put him on her lap. Brother Dane patted him on the head and went up to stand at the podium set up beside the coffin.

  Even though the crowd was quiet to begin with, Brother Dane stood looking out over us for a long minute, waiting for our total attention before he started to speak.

  “Brethren, this a sad day for Sweet Valley, a sad day for the loved ones of Carlene Moore, but a joyous day for God. For today, God has got Carlene with Him in heaven. Amen?”

  Several of the men in the back said amen. Frannie didn’t, and neither did we.

  “God works in mysterious ways, and although we cannot see at times why He does the things He does, or understand His reasons, we just have to put our trust in Him and believe that He is doing the best for us in accordance with His divine plan. We must never question God’s divine plan.”

  I couldn’t believe that God’s plan had anything to do with some maniac murdering Carlene. In fact, it was getting harder as I got older to figure out the whole business of what God does control. I am almost scared to say it out loud, but it seems to me like either God is all-powerful or He is all good, but He can’t be both. You know what I mean? How can He really be omniscient and omnipotent, like they teach us in church, and still let things happen like Carlene getting murdered or babies getting cancer or all those Jews getting killed by the Nazis? Is it the Devil that causes all of it? If God could stop it but allows it to happen, then maybe He is not all that caring about us.

  I mean, for instance, look at Job. There in black and white in the Bible, God and the Devil made a bet about which one of them Job would go with. After God agreed to let the Devil kill Job’s children in a tornado and take away his land and livestock and give him sores and all, it was great that he was still loyal to God, and it’s true that God did give him new kids and more wealth, but what about the old kids? Nobody ever said another word about them. They were killed for a bet? Didn’t they count for anything?

  I was confused a fair amount of the time at church, but I knew better than to bring it up, because one time I asked Daddy about the Job thing and he got so upset that he called Brother Wilkins over to the house, who practically blistered the skin off my ears for daring to question the Bible. He made us all get down in the living room floor while he prayed over me for my lack of faith. At least it wasn’t in church in front of the whole congregation. No, I learned early on that you just had faith—you didn’t ask any questions.

  And now here was Brother Dane, who I had thought was different, saying the same old rigmarole. I wanted to tell him to stop that old “God works in mysterious ways” business. He was starting to sound like Brother Wilkins, who, by the way—the old hypocrite—was standing in the back of the house, I noticed. Sister Wilkins stood next to him, her arms crossed as if she was hiding a sharp wooden stake in case Carlene rose up out of the coffin like Dracula or something.

  What was wrong with me? I had to stop thinking mean things about them. It was their right not to allow the funeral to be in the church. They were no worse than any of the other preachers in town who didn’t offer. But they—or at least he—was my preacher, and that made it worse. I felt like it somehow reflected on me. Was I beginning to lose my faith? Oh, Lord, I prayed. I believe. Help my unbelief.

  I tried to stop thinking about the whole mess and listen to Brother Dane.

  “. . . cut down in the flower of her youth. She was not only young and beautiful, at the beginning of her life, but had a baby son to think about. A son who will now never again know the feel of his mother’s arms holding him as he goes to sleep at night. Who will never again hear his mother’s voice saying, ‘I love you, son.’”

  Dang. I got a lump in my throat. Lucille was wiping away tears, and I heard someone behind me sobbing, but I hated to turn around and look. There was sniffing and nose-blowing all around the room, and I found myself getting teary-eyed. Lucille handed me a Kleenex and I blew my nose.

  Brother Dane did something then that I’d never seen a preacher do at a funeral. He stopped in the middle of speaking. He was working his mouth, but no words came out. Then he broke down, too. Tears ran down his cheeks in a stream, and his nose started to run. He fumbled in his pocket for his handkerchief and blew his nose with a loud honk, wiped his eyes with what I hoped was the clean end, and carefully put it back into his pocket—all without saying a word, like he was thinking hard about something.

  “Brethren, we can talk about God’s will all day and all night, but the truth is that there is no sense to any of this,” he finally managed to croak out. “There is no rhyme or reason in the world to a beautiful, lively young girl having something like this done to her, and no amount of praying or trusting in God will change what happened. A man did this to her—an evil, twisted man—and it had nothing to do with God.”

  The room got really quiet. He went on: “Sometimes we pray and we pray for God to step in and make a miracle happen—to save our children, to cure us of disease, to get us a job, to make our husbands or wives be faithful to us, and it doesn’t happen. So we shake our fists in God’s face and say, ‘God, why did You let this happen to me?’ We
ll, maybe God couldn’t do anything about it. Maybe He doesn’t control our lives in every least little detail like we think He does. Maybe He created us and then said, ‘People, you’re on your own. I gave you a beautiful world and a head on your shoulders, and you do the best with it that you can. We’ll sort it all out on the other side.’ Sometimes I don’t know anymore. I just don’t know.” And he stood there crying again.

  Everyone in the room was shocked. I sure was. It was almost like he had been reading my mind. I don’t think anybody had ever heard a preacher talk like that before, and no one knew what to make of it. The choirmaster from our church, Elvin Stokes, got up to cover the embarrassment, or maybe to keep Brother Dane from going any further, and started the choir singing “Farther Along.” Brother Dane stood there for a minute, like he didn’t know what was taking place, and then he got ahold of himself and started to sing along with them. Most of the crowd not already in tears broke down then. I couldn’t sing, myself, for the lump in my throat. I hate that song. Why do they have to sing such sad old songs at funerals? It made you feel so lonesome—“Farther along, we’ll know all about it . . . farther a-long, we’ll understand why. Cheer up, my brother, live in the sunshine. We’ll understand it all by and by.” Like we ever would. Tripp took my hand again and squeezed it, and somehow it made me feel a little better to know that he was feeling the same things I was.

  As the choir sang, Jim Floyd and Mr. Wilmerding got on each side of Frannie Moore and escorted her up to the casket to say good-bye. She stood looking at Carlene, with tears running down her face, then she reached out to touch her hair and fainted dead on the floor before Jim Floyd had time to catch her. Mama, who was sitting right behind her, jumped up, as did Aunt Juanita and a couple more women, and half carried, half dragged her out the side door to the porch, where they laid her down on a wicker couch and started chafing her wrists while somebody went and got her a glass of water.