by Debi Matlack
I snorted and poked her in the ribs. “You’re such a jerk.”
“That’s me. You hungry?” Karen nodded toward the kitchen.
I was starving. Almost two weeks of IVs and bland hospital food had given me cravings for everything. “I could eat a four-barrel carburetor right now.”
She smiled. “I’ll tell Mike to bring one home from the store. Do you want store brand or original equipment?”
“Oh, manufacturer only. I have standards, you know.”
Chapter 4
Poppy’s funeral was a couple of days later. A full autopsy had been done, all evidence had been collected, of which I suspected there was little to none. Detective Jenkins’ update calls slowed to a trickle, consisting mostly of, ‘We’re still looking, we’ll find who did this.’ I had my doubts. Whoever killed Poppy and tried to kill me had faded away just like all those damned spirits that plagued me now. Okay, so maybe that wasn’t the best metaphor, but for all intents and purposes, we might as well have been attacked by a ghost. As a result, the coroner released my grandfather’s body to us for burial.
Trapnell & Sons had been planting folks in Pinehaven for forty-plus years. The huge rambling Victorian house that served as business and residence for the Trapnell family dominated the view from the western end of the town park. Despite the nature of Poppy’s death, Mike decided on an open casket; only God and Mike know why. And while the folks who prepare bodies for burial are undoubtedly amazing at what they do, the man in the casket didn’t bear much resemblance to my Poppy. The navy blue pinstriped suit was something I had seen him wear exactly three times before: to my Granny’s funeral, Mike’s wedding and to my high school graduation. I suppose I should have been flattered that he dressed up for such an event. Mike told me later Poppy said it was a miracle I graduated so he gave the occasion the respect it was due. Obviously I wasn’t consulted about what he should be dressed in forever because I’d have put him in a pair of dungarees and a chambray work shirt, just like he wore almost every day of his life.
The buildup to the funeral was a series of events that I am reasonably sure only happens at this magnitude in the American South. Food arrived daily at Mike and Karen’s house, and had been ever since Poppy’s death; we wouldn’t have to cook for a solid month or better. And the closer we got to the funeral, the culinary flood increased.
The day his body was released to the funeral home, there was a family-only viewing late in the afternoon so we could make sure he was dressed appropriately and looked okay. My views on both of these conditions continued to go unheeded, despite my strident expression of my opposing opinion to Mike and Millard Filmore Trapnell, Jr. in the middle of the funeral home parlor showroom. Surrounded by gleaming caskets and funerary pillows, one of which was embroidered with a telephone and the soothing legend, “Jesus called…”, the only results of my tirade were looks of pity from Morrie Trapnell and exasperation from my brother.
The next day was the public viewing. Friday evenings aren’t known for a wealth of social activity in a microscopic town like Pinehaven but a good viewing was always a welcome pastime. Hordes of nosy townfolk packed the lobby and parlor of Trapnell’s, and every single one of them wanted a good look at me, never mind Poppy. I imagine that more than a few still favored the theory that I had masterminded the assault and maybe the reason I was attacked too was because my check to the assassin had bounced. Rest assured, if I had written a check for any purpose, let alone to hire a killer, there is no doubt it would have bounced like a dime store Super Ball.
Our neighbors and the townsfolk stopped to shake my hand, express their mostly insincere sincerest condolences, goggle at my close-shorn head and angry scar, then wander away to the punch and cookies and whisper none too quietly behind their hands. I felt like an animal in a too-small cage, being poked at with sticks and pelted by pebbles. Mike stood nearby and gave me a warning look from time to time. That didn’t help one bit.
Among the spectators was the reporter, Donald Marchen. He stood still, a breakwater rock against the surging swirl and ebb of Pinehaven’s most curious citizens. Lifting his head to search above the comb-overs and helmet hair, he made eye contact with me and took that as an invitation to tugboat his way through the crowded parlor.
“Son of a bitch.” I got up, looking in desperation for rescue or escape through the hordes of people. As he drew near, Miss Parmenter, the pharmacist at Mann’s for the past hundred years, intercepted him neatly, deflecting him to one side and toward the door, chattering about some new prescription program they were starting at the pharmacy. As I subsided back to my chair, she glanced over her shoulder and shot me a conspiratorial wink. I was safe, for the moment.
My breaking point came when Old Lady Maungans didn’t even bother to turn away before stage-whispering to her cohort Peggy Marshall, “It was bound to happen sooner or later. She’s always been a terrible child, poor Woodrow always trying to set her straight. I wonder who she hired to do it?” It was far worse than when she had been everybody’s sixth grade math teacher for four hundred years. I’d called her Mrs. Mongoose to her face when she chewed me out in front of the class for a bad test score a week after my Granny died. I never used her proper name again and neither did any of my classmates. That nickname took its rightful place in Pinehaven Middle School legend and the old bat had never forgiven me.
Her speculative sweep of the gathered crowd took in the variances in wardrobe. Every sartorial variation from three piece suits to Harley t-shirts and flip-flops were represented. Everyone for three counties around knew Woodrow McAllister and he did business with or attended church with all of them. Betty Mongoose and Mrs. Marshall stood shoulder to shoulder, weighing the merits of one potential assassin after another when I set my jaw and stood up. Their gaze swung right back to me and locked. Mike shook his head ‘no’ at me but it was far too late for preventative measures. Well and truly fed up, I stuck my fingers in my mouth and whistled long and loud. In the ensuing silence I met the eyes of every person jammed cheek by jowl into that funeral home.
“I know what some of you think, that I was somehow responsible for Poppy being killed.” A fine tremor made me shiver but I squashed it into submission and stared right into the baleful piggy eyes of Betty Mongoose. “I imagine everybody in town has heard that bald-faced lie. Anybody who’s stupid enough to actually believe that is wrong.” Her eyes flickered away in guilt. A glance over at the coffin made me shudder again. “I love that cranky old man, even if I don’t like him very much sometimes.” I took a long breath and felt a little hand slip into mine. It was Deanna, my niece, and she laid her head against my side and stared at the crowd with the best hostile expression a five-year-old could come up with. Her support was almost my undoing but I held it together.
“He did his best to make me behave and be a better person, but I’m just as hardheaded as he is.” A quiet chuckle rippled through the assembly. “Or was.” That sobered everyone in the room and made my throat ache with unshed tears. “But, no matter what I’d done or how awful I was to him, he always loved me and I always had a home with him.
“He’s my Poppy, and I miss him.” And I did, even though I knew he was still around in a way. It made it a little easier, to let go of his physical presence, knowing he was still there, in spirit. It didn’t make it any easier for the rest of my family, though. If Mike had any inkling of Poppy or me having the Sight, he’d never let on. Gossip and hearsay would abound and continue to hurt them and that made me angry again.
“So you can take your rumors and stuff them where the sun don’t shine. I would never do anything to hurt my family, but I will do whatever I have to do to protect them.” Deanna wormed into my side; I sat back down and drew her onto my lap, burying my burning face into her wealth of red hair. I was amazed to realize Mike had come to stand behind me as his hands fell on my shoulders, for once more soothing than awkward. Karen, holding Christopher by the hand, stood by my side and we presented our united front to the gathering.<
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“Damn straight.” Mike squeezed my shoulders as his voice rang out into the now-subdued atmosphere. I looked up to see a few looks of outrage, but they were well outnumbered by the looks of approval from neighbors, townspeople, fellow businessmen, and parishioners from Poppy’s church. Some of these good ladies now chose to bustle about the refreshments table, offering lemonade and cookies with respectful but penetrating voices. My brief rebellious spell was broken.
Unfortunately, this lovely experience didn’t conclude the Ordeal of the Southern Funeral. Oh no, we were required to endure yet another service at the funeral home the following day, then the actual funeral at my grandfather’s church. The preacher, a rawboned scarecrow of a man, spoke glowingly of Poppy’s love of his family in Christ. Apparently he’d never heard my grandfather complaining about the Christmas and Easter Baptists, or those churchgoers that attended every time the doors were unlocked, but away from church carried on like the world was one huge festival of debauchery and their faithful attendance of church was some kind of Get Out Of Hell Free card. There were no doubt members of the Pinehaven Baptist Church who were truly worthy of the honorific of Christian, but not nearly as many as thought they were. Granted, I’m not one to judge. I avoid church like the proverbial plague and I’m pretty sure that, for all the things I’ve done, I’m not only guaranteed to go to Hell, but I’ll be driving the bus.
Perhaps the preacher was of the same mind, because he quoted Romans, first gazing in benign authority at Poppy’s casket. “‘He will render to each one according to his works: to those who by patience in well-doing seek for glory and honor and immortality, he will give eternal life;’” then he lifted his eyes, found me in the front row and pinioned me with a stern look, “‘but for those who are self-seeking and do not obey the truth, but obey unrighteousness, there will be wrath and fury.’ ” I met him, glare for glare and didn’t blink. He grew uncomfortable with my defiant scrutiny and soon sought another target for his fire-and-brimstone admonitions.
The funerary festivities at last concluded with a graveside service. I didn’t like that Granny’s grave was covered over with Astroturf and folding chairs, but I was grateful for the respite once I was settled. If I had to endure the whole horrendous procedure, I might as well sit down for it. The process wore me out; I was exhausted and my head throbbed. As the same preacher extolled the virtues of my Poppy for the third time that day, I felt a cold spot near my right hand. I felt a lot of cold spots in that cemetery, truth be told, but this one I was actually getting used to. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Poppy standing there, in his everyday clothes. Thank God whatever rules govern these things didn’t put him in that stiff-ass suit. His hand rested by mine on top of Granny’s marker. A chilly sensation crawled across the back of my head, gently traced the line of my scar, soothing the violated tissue. A soft voice that only I could hear whispered, I’m sorry, little girl. I’m so sorry you got in his way.
‘Who’s way?!’ I wanted to shout, but I was surrounded by a crowd that mostly thought I was crazy and a good half still thought I was somehow responsible for this whole mess. If Poppy could hear my unvoiced demand, he didn’t let on. That was another question I was going to have to ask.
As we raised our heads from the day’s third recitation of the 23rd Psalm, concluded with a scattered fusillade of amens, the cold spot faded and everyone got up to head to their cars or wander the cemetery. That one-trick-pony preacher had one more card up his sleeve.
“Friends, the family has graciously opened their home this evening to anyone who would like to come by and extend their condolences in person.”
More like come by and eat up all the funeral food. An overabundance of comestibles was the only good thing to come from a funeral, as far as I could tell. I shot a glance at Karen who in turn glared at my brother. He could only raise his brows and shrug. As the crowd thinned and I drew closer I heard Karen hiss, “Really?! We’re all exhausted and Maeve looks like she’s ready to lay down in that grave right alongside Mister Woodrow!”
Mike’s face tightened into a frown. “It wasn’t my idea. That damned preacher—” That damned preacher chose that exact moment to approach and shake my brother’s hand. He in all likelihood wanted a tip. I gusted out a sigh and got up to wander through the cemetery. Christopher and Deanna each took a hand and we headed deeper into the old section.
As we strolled among the monuments, I had reason to regret my decision. Figures stood near a number of the graves. It reminded me of the scene from Our Town, except I doubted these folks sat around in polite discussion about how the living don’t appreciate life. Some apparitions were almost insubstantial; some looked solid enough to touch. Before the attack I would have passed off such visions as flights of an overactive fancy, brought on by the stress of the occasion. If Poppy had died under less violent circumstances, of so-called natural causes, and if I hadn’t been in the line of fire, I probably wouldn’t have seen anything more than ragged clusters of grey headstones and moss-draped live oaks. But now, thanks to our attacker, a whole new population inhabited my scope and I didn’t want to see it. Some of them simply sat, watching with wistful jealousy, some beckoned with varying degrees of vehemence. One, a disheveled young woman, glared with ill intent until we turned away, then she screamed and lunged, brought up short at the edge of her gravesite. I flinched and shied away, goosebumps spreading over me in spite of the late spring sun. Florida only has two seasons, sort of cool-ish and blast furnace.
“You okay, Aunt May?” Deanna still had trouble with the subtlety of my name’s pronunciation. I didn’t mind at all.
“I’m just tired, baby.”
“Okay. I was afraid that bad lady scared you.”
My heart froze in my chest and I stopped, keeping an eye on the malcontented spirit who still glowered as if she could set us ablaze from a distance. A bench at a nearby gravesite was unoccupied except for a few leaves and pine needles. I sat gratefully and Deanna stopped, twirling back and forth, watching the hem of her dark blue skirt furl and twist with the motion. Afraid of the answer I would get, I asked anyway.
“What lady, Dee?”
Before she answered, she looked up and past me. Christopher stood by the headstone and she met his eyes. With far more discretion than I would have thought possible for a nine-year-old, he narrowed his eyes and subtly twitched his head to one side and back, ‘no’. If I hadn’t caught the same warning expression from my own brother time and again over the years, I probably wouldn’t have recognized it. Deanna never stopped twirling.
“That mean lady from the thingy yesterday. That one that said you were a bad person.” She stopped twirling and looked me right in the eyes. Thank God she got her mother’s red hair and clear brown eyes, not the Kavanaugh nondescript muddy coloring. Her eyes are the tawny-brown color of the tannin-infused water that runs through every nearby creek and were just as pure. “You’re not a bad person. She is.” And you, my dear sweet niece, are already an accomplished liar. At least I was pretty sure she had effortlessly deflected the identity of the bad person in question onto a different, living subject.
Her sincere declaration of loyalty however, was a remedy that did more for my battered soul than any amount of church could. I held out my arms and she climbed dutifully onto the bench beside me to lay her head against my shoulder. But I noticed her gaze strayed toward the malignant female spirit that still glared from a few plots over.
A side effect of the aftermath of my injury was severe headaches that often attacked without warning. I’d never had a sick day in my life, aside from the occasional case of sniffles everyone endures. Now, thanks to some anonymous would-be assassin, I became intimately acquainted with the migraine. The first time one hit me, two days after Poppy’s funeral, I was more than willing to eat a bullet to end my suffering. It’s a very good thing my brother keeps his guns locked in a safe. At my recheck with Dr. Balikrishnan, she expressed sympathy but not surprise.
“They should lessen in
severity and frequency, but I can’t promise that you’ll ever be free of them.” A stop at Mann’s Pharmacy, some well-meaning but unsolicited advice from Miss Parmenter, my savior from the nosy reporter, and a couple of prescriptions later, Mike and I drove home.
An identical pair of envelopes lay on the coffee table. They were thick, enclosed in creamy, expensive stationery.
“Poppy’s will,” Mike said and picked his up, passing the one with my name to me.
I held it, staring at it. “Do you know what’s in it? You’re his executor, aren’t you?”
Mike kicked out the footrest to the recliner. “No and yes, in that order.” He leaned back and zipped open the top of the envelope with his pocketknife like he was opening the electric bill. I felt the opening of William Woodrow MacAllister’s last will and testament deserved a little more respect. I sat on the couch and stared at it a moment longer before sliding my finger under the flap and teasing it loose, trying not to damage the envelope any more than necessary. I heard a sigh from the vicinity of the recliner. “It’s not the original copy of the Constitution, it’s just a will. Open it up for God’s sake.”
I didn’t even bother to give him a Look, I just held up my hand to silence him. “Shut your pie hole. I’ll open and read it any way I damn well please.”
“Whatever.”
I slid the papers free and flattened them on my thighs, bowing my head to read the small type. As expected, the standard declarations of physical and mental soundness began the document. Mike and I were his only immediate family. Aside from us and a smattering of distant cousins we weren’t particularly close to, Poppy had no living relatives. I read through the listing of property, the old Cracker house and eighty acres where he raised us he left to Mike and Karen, plus a trust to maintain it. A few other commercial lots were listed, all of which were to be disposed of as we saw fit and the money divided between us. There were funds set aside in investment accounts for Christopher and Deanna’s college and some besides. I began to get a little nervous. I really had been a horrible kid but I had grown up and assumed responsibility for my actions and their consequences a long time ago. Had the old man still resented my rebellious teen years and truly left me nothing? I’m not an acquisitive person, but unemployment and dwindling personal funds made me desperate. I couldn’t work now, not for awhile, until my injury was healed and now with these headaches I wasn’t sure I would ever be completely recovered. My mind whirled with possibilities and contingencies should I be left without any inheritance. My first move should be finding out if I qualified for disability benefits in case my headaches never improved. But I was getting ahead of myself. There was one more page. I read in silence to the very last period.