by Dianne Emley
“Oh, about when you girls were growing up.” She became wistful. “I miss those days.”
“You do?” Iris asked with surprise.
“They were the best years of my life.” She cheerlessly plucked at her skirt.
Lily turned to look at the back of the church, following the gaze of some of the young women there.
A tall dark-haired man dressed in a dark suit entered the church and slowly proceeded to the front, stopping periodically to shake hands and kiss babies. A photographer who had been loitering around the sides sprang into action. His subject obliged by lingering while the camera was being focused.
Iris turned as well. “No!” she whispered.
Rose, roused from her reverie, leaned over Lily and solemnly pronounced, “He’s not married, Iris.”
“His personality couldn’t have changed that much.” Iris looked him up and down. “Nice suit.”
Rose added, “He’s an attorney.”
Iris sarcastically circled her index finger in the air. “Big whoop-de-do.” She scrutinized him again. “Maybe he is worth a closer look. Some people do change.” She pressed her arms on the pew to raise herself and peered at his shoes. She quickly dropped back into place when he looked toward them.
“Mrs. Thorne,” Thomas exclaimed in a sonorous voice.
Rose bolted up and threw her arms around his shoulders while he bent double to reach her. “Thomas!”
“I’m so glad you came. My second mom.”
Rose held his hand. “You’re so tall, Thomas.” She pulled him into the pew. “You remember Lily.”
Thomas clasped Lily’s hand between both of his. “Lily, wonderful to see you.”
Rose pulled him forward. “And of course you remember Iris.”
He clasped Iris’s hand. “Who could forget her? Boy, you’ve grown up.”
“I was just thinking the same thing about you.”
“See this tooth?” He pulled his lips away from his white teeth and ran his tongue over an incisor. “Reminds me of you, especially when I have to get the cap replaced.” He still held her fingers.
She saw her mother glance at their hands and immediately slipped from his grasp. “I didn’t know it had rocks in it, Thomas. Honest.”
“Sure you didn’t.”
Iris explained. “I made him a mud brownie and he believed me when I told him it was real. I hope you’re not still that gullible.” She rubbed her fingertips where he had touched her.
“You set a precedent, Iris. It was the first in a long line of foolish things I’ve done for pretty girls.” He looked searchingly into her eyes.
She blushed.
Rose picked up and patted his hand. “Thomas, I’m so sorry about your mother. She had a hard life. I know she’s in a better place.”
Thomas grew somber. “She experienced much sorrow in her life but my father always told me that no one’s given a burden larger than that person can bear. People think of my mother and see weakness but they should see courage. I owe her everything.” His eyes grew red.
Iris, Rose, and Lily dabbed their eyes.
He looked toward the front pew, where Bill DeLacey had just turned around and cast a gimlet eye at them. “I’d better get down there. Dad’s giving me that stare.” He touched the corner of his eye and looked at the tear that came off on his finger.
“I know that stare,” Iris said. “I got it today myself. You’ve probably noticed that Paula’s not here.”
Thomas waved dismissively. “Don’t worry about it, Iris. I told my dad not to involve you. Not attending her mother’s funeral will be something she’ll have to live with.” He smiled. It was his mother’s broad, white smile. “I hope you won’t avoid me because of my dad.”
Iris smiled back. “What was it he used to say about the sins of the father?”
“The iniquities of the fathers are visited upon the children.”
“True?”
“Maybe we can discuss it sometime. Over dinner.”
“I’d like that.”
“I’ll call you.” He made his way to the front of the church, stopping to chat with guests before he took his place next to his family.
Lily mocked Iris, “Not little kiss-butt, snot-nosed Thomas. Not me. Not ever!”
“Shaddup,” Iris snarled. “I do wonder about the propriety of making a date at your mother’s funeral.”
Rose leaned over Lily. “You could do a lot worse, Iris.”
Iris angled a comment out of the side of her mouth to Lily. “I have.”
During the service, Rose distributed pink tissues pulled from the seemingly endless supply in her purse to Lily and Iris, who wept freely, as did most of the other guests. Bill DeLacey droned on for a solid hour, little of it spent talking about Dolly. Thomas gave a moving and short eulogy. Junior remained seated in the front row, his shoulders shaking as he sobbed.
“Poor Junior,” Rose clucked. “All those years he spent taking care of Dolly. Never got married. Devoted his life to his mother.” She said it as if she thought Junior qualified for sainthood.
“You going to view the body, Mom?” Lily asked.
“My God, no.”
“I’m going,” Iris said. “Come with me, Lily.”
Iris and Lily stepped over Rose and filed to the front of the church. Halfway there, Lily grabbed Iris’s hand. After a few more steps, they caught a glimpse of Dolly’s face. Iris gasped and squeezed her sister’s hand. “Look how heavy she is.”
Lily blotted her eyes with a damp tissue and frowned. “She used to be skin and bones. She never sat still. How did she gain so much weight?”
The queue moved quickly as people took a glance and moved on. Then it was Iris’s and Lily’s turn.
Dolly lay on tufted powder blue satin that looked garish and shiny. Her hair was still long and draped across the front of her body, its near-black hue now streaked with gray.
Lily gave a quick look, like everyone else, then began to walk, pulling Iris by the hand, but Iris didn’t move. She continued to stare down at the body, transfixed, her hand pressed against her lips, her head shaking back and forth. A man behind Iris loudly cleared his throat and Lily gently tried to pull her away.
Iris didn’t move but looked at the front pew, her lips pressed into a thin line. Thomas was there, graciously greeting well-wishes. There was a break in the procession and he pressed his fingers against his eyes.
Iris spotted Bill DeLacey on his way out, trailing after a guest he’d cornered in a conversation who appeared to be trying to escape. Junior lumbered after his father, then stopped in the doorway, turned, and looked at the casket as if torn between staying and leaving. Iris caught his eye. He took a step away from her. She continued to stare at him. He glanced out the door after his father, then, almost unwillingly, at the casket, then at Iris, whose eyes seemed to demand an explanation. He shrugged his shoulders and shuffled out.
Lily pulled harder on Iris’s hand and they left the church for the bright sunshine.
“That son of a bitch, Bill DeLacey,” Iris muttered. “He killed her. That son of a bitch killed her. And Junior knows it. Did you see the way he looked at me?”
“C’mon, Iris. A disturbed woman left you a weird phone message. That’s all.”
“Even if Dolly was suicidal, to choose hanging? Certainly she could have stockpiled enough drugs to do the trick. But, no. Instead, she made a noose, carried a ladder into the grove, climbed it, put her head in the noose, and jumped. Really.”
“I don’t know, Iris. Some things are better off buried.”
Iris clenched her fist. “He is not getting away with this. He got real lucky when Gabriel Gaytan was murdered. Those cops were lucky too. Twenty-five years ago, beatings like that were a lot easier to cover up. Videotape didn’t exist. I was just a kid and I was terrified to say anything. But if I let him get away with killing Dolly, I won’t be able to live with myself.”
“We’re being summoned.” Lily jerked her head toward their mother, w
ho was standing with Bill DeLacey and Junior. Rose was merrily waving for Lily and Iris to join them.
“Here we go.” Iris adjusted her purse strap on her shoulder and began walking with solid, assertive steps.
Bill DeLacey was talking. “Old Doc Vanderstaad said she never knew what hit her. You know, when the rope hitches up, your nerve endings get overstimulated and you don’t feel pain. She had this look on her face like…”
His scalp, pink from the sun, was visible through the few strands of hair he brushed over the top of his head, which didn’t hide his baldness but only accentuated his broad forehead and long face. He was wearing what were probably dress clothes—a snagged, ribbed, light blue polyester shirt and dark blue polyester pants that were slung low on his hips and belted beneath his large belly. A rigid thick tie circled the area under his fallen chin. He stood with his legs staggered as if he were in pain or bearing a great weight. His eyes were hidden by dark green clip-on shades.
“Well, look who’s here,” DeLacey said joylessly.
“Junior, my condolences.” Iris hugged his big shoulders, which were broad with both muscle and fat.
Junior’s shirt collar was snug around his chubby neck. The rim was wet with perspiration. He gave Iris a limp hug back.
Iris held her hand out toward Bill DeLacey. “Mr. DeLacey, I’m so sorry about Dolly.”
He was holding a brown paper grocery bag by its rolled-down top in his rope-veined worker’s hands. He shoved the bag toward her open hand. “Here. This was for Paula but it looks like you couldn’t see to bring her, so you take it.”
“Thank you,” Iris said dryly as she accepted the bag.
Her response seemed to amuse DeLacey. He began laughing in that inhaling, exhaling way of his and shaking his head. “That’s all you have to say?”
“What would you like me to say, Mr. DeLacey?”
“Iris, tell him how you tried to find Paula.” Conflict made Rose uncomfortable.
“I called a private detective, decided it was too expensive, and ran out of time to do anything else.”
“A private detective?” DeLacey exclaimed.
“I told you I don’t know where Paula is, or don’t you believe me?”
Junior nervously took a package of cigarettes from his breast pocket, shook one out, and lit it with a match from a book. “Now what are we going to do, Dad?”
DeLacey scowled. “Junior, just shut your fat mouth.”
Junior seemed to sink as if enduring the force of a blow.
Iris said, “Mr. DeLacey, why don’t you be straight with me?”
He gave her an exasperated, open-mouthed look. “Be straight?” He settled back on his heels and raised his index finger, making an arc in the air. “Now all I asked is—”
Iris began to speak loudly, drowning him out. “Dolly left me a message a few days ago saying she was afraid you were going to kill her. Now she’s dead. Then you try to use me to get to Paula for reasons that apparently have nothing to do with the funeral. Would somebody like to tell me what the hell is going on?”
Junior nervously rolled the cigarette between his fingers.
DeLacey’s voice grew soft. “Now, you know Dolly was mentally ill—”
“Iris!” Rose interjected. “Don’t tell me you believed her?”
“Just because Dolly was crazy doesn’t mean she didn’t know what she was talking about. I’ll be waiting in the car.” Still holding the bag, Iris walked away, the sound of their concerned voices fading behind her.
She crossed the church’s front lawn, waving at Thomas, who was still making the rounds. She began to cross a basketball court where the old blacktop was buckled from earthquakes when she sensed someone approaching her from behind. The footsteps fell into sync with hers.
She cast a glance to the side and saw a man she didn’t recognize. She started walking faster. So did the man. After walking faster still, she abruptly stopped and faced him. “What’s your problem? Why don’t you just buzz off!”
Iris frowned at the intruder, then began to laugh, mostly at herself.
Paula smiled. She was well disguised in jeans, a loose Hawaiian shirt with the square hem out, a Panama hat with her hair pulled up under it, and dark sunglasses. “You’ve turned into a real bitch, girlfriend.”
“I had early training by one of the best.”
Paula bobbed her head appraisingly.
“Did you know everyone’s looking for you?”
“I didn’t know I was lost.” She flicked the ashes from her lit cigarette by snapping her middle finger against it with the mien of someone who’d spent a lifetime copping an attitude. She looked at where her family was standing. “They all look like shit, except for the golden boy of course and you. Guess they had to get the old lady an extra large coffin. Glad to know she hadn’t missed any meals.”
“How did you know about the funeral?”
“The old man told me. I’d better go. He’s got a sixth sense. Look, meet me tomorrow. I need to talk to you. There’s a bar down in Hollywood. The Last Call. Two o’clock?” She started walking, leaving the blacktop and crossing the lawn.
Iris followed her with difficulty, the heels of her pumps sinking into the grass. “Wait.”
Paula walked to an ancient four-door Oldsmobile that was parked at the curb. Its metallic midnight blue paint was faded in spots, acquiring different hues according to the amount of wear. Some patches had worn away completely, revealing rusted bare metal. The car’s roof had a badly peeling landau top. A man waited in the driver’s seat. He appeared to be tall, with long, kinky light brown hair held in a thick ponytail by a rubber band. Another man sat in the rear. He had shoulder-length straight black hair.
Iris finally caught up with her. “What do you mean, the old man told you about the funeral? Someone around here’s going to start answering some questions.”
“Don’t get your panties in a wad.” Paula opened the passenger door, smiling smugly. “Meet me tomorrow and I’ll explain the facts of life to you.”
“Three o’clock.” Iris made a mental note of the Olds’s license plate number as it pulled away. Suddenly she remembered she was still holding the bag that DeLacey had given her. She futilely raised it in the direction of the Olds that was rounding the corner at the end of the block. Iris didn’t see Junior standing on the curb a few yards from her, also watching Paula drive away.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Iris drove the Triumph up the hill that led to the Las Mariposas ranch house. The road didn’t spiral around the hill like it did in reality, but cut and switched back across the face, zigzagging at a treacherous angle. The hill was a tall jagged mountain and the house a tiny dot at the top. It was raining hard, sheeting down, pounding on the TR’s rag top and dripping through its faulty seals onto her. The normally dry, golden brown chaparral looked sadly out of character, like a wet cat. The unpaved road was thick with mud.
Iris drove and drove, the TR’s six cylinders roaring in a low gear, but the more she drove, the taller the hill seemed to get. She kept going. Finally, the house loomed into view. Paula stood at the top of the road. Her proportions were too large for the surroundings, like a big doll in a small doll house. She was perfectly dry. Her long brown hair whipped about her face as if a Santa Ana were blowing. She smiled broadly in that way of hers, as if she had the goods on you but she’d never tell. Iris was elated to see her and was waving through the windshield and Paula was waving too when the Triumph began to slip backward. Paula continued to wave as if nothing had happened, her figure quickly growing smaller as Iris went faster and faster straight down the hill. She saw Gabriel’s wall looming closer in the rearview mirror. Bodies in various states of decay were layered in the wall like a catacomb. Some were skeletal, some had flesh that was sunken and dried like jerky, some were new, with bloated and oozing skin. The Triumph accordioned when Iris hit the wall. The impact sent the bodies flying into the air. One of them spun to face her. Humberto opened his eyes in his decaying face an
d stared at her accusingly.
Iris bolted upright in bed, gasping. She clutched at her heart and looked at the clock on the nightstand. Its green numerals glowed: 3:45 a.m.—half an hour before the alarm was set to go off. It was dark, but the room had been dark since she’d had the shattered windows boarded up. That was about to be remedied. She’d found a glass man to whom she was more than willing to pay a premium.
She walked into the adjoining bathroom and slipped on her terry cloth bathrobe. Plaster had dropped from the bathroom ceiling, revealing a dark hole full of pipes and conduit. Many of the ceramic floor and shower tiles were cracked. She’d thrown away the worst ones, leaving square patches of gray sealant behind. She put on slippers. She didn’t dare walk through her home barefoot anymore.
She walked past the second bedroom, which she’d set up as an office, and past the smaller guest bathroom and into the living room. Water from a broken ceiling pipe had buckled sections of the hardwood floor and ruined her imported wallpaper. The Oriental rug had had to be thrown out along with the raw silk couch and the coffee table, after the insurance adjuster had taken pictures of the mess. Her brother-in-law and nephew had dropped the furniture from the terrace that ran the length of the living room to the ground below. The custom-made French doors had popped from their frames, making the job easier. By the time they had gone downstairs to straighten things out, some of the furniture had already been carted off, one person’s tragedy becoming another’s good fortune.
She used to love her condo and all the special touches with which she’d decorated it. Her home had been a source of pleasure and comfort to her. Now everywhere she looked, something grated on her nerves.
In the kitchen, the automatic coffeemaker had just switched on, its red light glowing dumbly and faithfully in the dark. She was always glad to see it. She pulled out the carafe and poured the few drops of coffee that had brewed into a plastic mug and drank them steaming hot and black. She stepped around two garbage bins. One held her broken china and everyday dishes and the other her crystal. She’d replaced everything with plastic. The insurance company would have paid for a like replacement, but when Iris went to the store and held the fragile pieces in her hands, she just couldn’t bear the thought of owning them. But she couldn’t part with the bins either, not just yet.