The dress fit more snugly than she remembered. Of course, it had been more than a year since she had last worn it. She wrapped the purple scarf over her shoulders and bit her lip. After hand-washing the crocheted accessory three times, the stench had finally dissipated. Even though Granny had told her to take it off, she wanted to wear it tonight.
“I’m not sure it’s appropriate for a funeral, Charlie. What do you think?”
“I think she would be disappointed if you didn’t wear it.”
With Gideon trudging behind, attempting to loosen his tie, the Prices stepped into the quiet stillness of the Coraloo Flea Market. Without the vendors, the boundless open space of the market appeared grander than usual, however lonely. Their footsteps echoed in cadence. The dimmed decorative lighting outside the shops cast diminutive shadows across the empty market. Tonight a silent chill hung in the air as if death itself was watching the newcomers walk uncertainly to the funeral of Granny Blackwell.
Charlie paused in the spot where the woman had fallen. “I’m not sure I should be here. I have no desire to upset Shug tonight.”
“Of course you should be here, Charlie. Stephen insisted that you come. And I forbid you to take any blame for this. She was not well; Clover told me all about it. She had fought the effects of her diabetes for years.”
“Where is everyone?” Gideon spoke louder than necessary, entertained by the echo of his voice bouncing off the walls. “Did we miss it?”
“I’m certain Clover said the funeral was at six.”
Charlie glanced at his watch. “And we’re sure it’s at the market?”
“That’s what she said. I’ll feel horrible if we missed it, just horrible.”
“Shouldn’t it be at a church or something?” Gideon asked, fidgeting with his eye patch.
“Let’s check out back.” Charlie cased the market for signs of movement. “I think I hear music.”
“Maybe, but I’m sure she said the market, Charlie.”
Velveteen followed Gideon and Charlie through the vacated market toward the back entrance. Then, she stopped. Hundreds of illuminated candles lined the shelving and counter of Granny’s. Pictures of Granny, drawn by all of the Blackwell children, peppered the floor, along with a scattering of pink chrysanthemums. On the cash register lay Granny’s copy of The Heiress of Dumont. Velveteen’s throat tightened and salty tears fell down her cheeks. She stepped into the empty shop, running her hand along the edge of the display case, absorbing the heady mix of sweetness and sorrow. There were moments when she had hated that woman, but Granny saw through her layers. She’d seen something in Velveteen that Velveteen hadn’t been able to see in herself: her battle to be accepted, to figure out who she was supposed to be and what she was supposed to do. Granny had said she would fix her, that she wasn’t wearing the right shoes. But how was Velveteen supposed to know which ones were the right shoes? Who would tell her now? She stifled a laugh. It was just like the old woman to leave her to figure it out for herself.
Velveteen slipped off her heels and allowed the cool concrete to soothe her slightly swollen feet. She wriggled and stretched her toes and then slipped the heels back on. Tight, uncomfortable. Maybe she shouldn’t wear shoes at all.
“Are you okay?” Charlie asked. He’d doubled back and had been watching her, allowing her to process in her own way.
She shook her head.
Granny had wanted her to tell Charlie. But now was not the time; he had too much on his mind, and so did she. Velveteen kissed the palm of her hand and laid it on top of the book. “I’ll tell him, Granny,” Velveteen whispered. “I’ll tell him. I promise.”
Charlie pushed open the door at the back of the market and peered outside. The music stopped as the Blackwells, sitting in their lawn chairs around open fire-pits, caught sight of the family of three.
“What are you so dressed up for?” Danger asked, bounding toward Gideon and breaking the silence.
The Blackwells were dressed comfortably in blue jeans and t-shirts – a drastic casual contrast to the Prices’ finery. Granted, the Blackwells were strange, but she at least expected the men to wear a button-up shirt or jacket and the women a dress of some sort. This was beyond everything Velveteen had ever read or studied in her etiquette books. In fact, the scene laid out in front of them looked much the same as it had the day they first visited the camper vans.
“I think we missed it,” Charlie whispered.
Velveteen leaned into him. “She said six.”
Stephen jumped to their aid. “I guess we should have explained.”
“No need,” Velveteen replied. “I am so sorry we missed the funeral. We truly meant no disrespect. I must have misunderstood.”
“I’m sure you didn’t.”
“But the funeral –”
“We’ve already had the funeral!” Danger announced. “Come on Gideon; you’re missing all the good food.”
“So we did miss it,” Velveteen sighed. She was uncharacteristically out of sorts lately, but she was one hundred percent certain Clover had told her Granny’s vigil would be at six… behind the market. What was wrong with her? How had she forgotten where it would be?
“Come, get a bite of food. We’ll explain.” Stephen ushered the couple to a series of folding tables lined up with crock pots and aluminum foil baking dishes filled with enough starch and carbohydrates to make Velveteen’s former personal trainer pass out in his protein shake. But the macaroni and cheese with added bits of bacon smelled too good to resist.
“Oh, Velveteen!” Clover gasped, once again wearing her stylishly ripped jeans, but this time with a sweater Velveteen was sure she had seen while browsing online. “You look stunning!”
Velveteen blushed. “I believe we overdressed for the… vigil.”
Clover hooked her arm in Velveteen’s. “Granny would have loved every inch of you. Especially those shoes! They suit you, but feel free to take them off,” she said, glancing down at her own pedicured toes.
Velveteen looked at her shoes and considered for the second time that day walking barefoot. As far as she knew, by the standards of etiquette, she was appropriately dressed for a funeral: she had chosen a subtle color – traditional black; the dress was conservative – Audrey neckline; had opted out of a hat. She’d save the gauche, outlandish, and big-enough-to-obstruct-those-sitting-behind-her head piece for the frills of a Derby party, should she ever be invited to one again. The acquaintances would have been pleased. When her mother passed, she’d bought a smart black sheath for the visitation and a belted trench with matching umbrella for the outdoor service, because, as her book said, “One must always be prepared for inclement weather.”
And one should be prepared for a Blackwell vigil. She decided to take the shoes off. “Thank you. I guess I misunderstood. I’m so sorry we missed the funeral.” Velveteen pulled the scarf around her shoulders a bit tighter – the evening was darkening and the night air blew through her quaffed hair, but mainly she hoped to disguise her dress.
“You didn’t miss it,” Gavina Blackwell chimed in. “You weren’t invited.”
Velveteen stopped mid-bite, plastic fork suspended in the air above her Styrofoam plate. Charlie cast hurried glances around the camp. He certainly didn’t want his presence to cause a scene.
Stephen rested a hand on Charlie’s shoulder. “It’s all right; he’s not here.”
“I can’t tell you how sorry I am. I didn’t mean to…” Charlie sighed. “The market and Granny… How is Shug handling it?”
“He’s been staying in the city a lot lately.”
“In the city?”
“He’s already mourned once. I figure he’s dealing with the finality of it by locating new inventory. A couple of big auctions coming up. He wants what’s best for the market. Family is important to him.”
“What Gavina meant to say,” Clover said, bringing the conversation back to Velveteen’s clear mortification, “is that Granny had her funeral years ago.”
C
harlie swallowed the wrong way, coughed, and sent his mouthful soaring straight into the fire, causing it to flicker and fight against the breeze. “Excuse me? Did you say years ago?”
“Well,” Stephen said, throwing his hands up in the air, “there you have it.”
“But Clover called – she said there was to be a vigil.” Velveteen, like Charlie, was visibly confused.
“I’m so sorry, Velveteen. I should have explained. This – ,” she motioned with her arms, “this is the vigil.”
“So, it’s not a funeral?”
Part of Velveteen was morbidly curious about the whereabouts of the deceased Granny, but most of her was afraid to ask.
“We already had Granny’s funeral,” Stephen explained. A series of strung lights flicked on around the awning of a nearby camper van. “I would say it was at least sixteen years ago. Clover and I hadn’t been married very long.”
Velveteen was totally confused, and suddenly extremely thirsty. “I don’t understand.”
“Most of the older Blackwells have already had their funerals.”
Charlie set down his plate. “Are you telling me you’ve already had your funeral?”
Stephen shook his head. “No, I guess I haven’t had the time.”
“You better get on it,” an uncle chimed in.
“So let me get this straight, you’re going to have your funeral before you die?” Charlie asked in disbelief.
This was the most insane notion Velveteen had ever heard of in her life, but then she was eating a potluck dinner behind a flea market in honor of a deceased family member of people she had known less than a year. Melba would be all about this moment. Velveteen’s former self would never have believed it possible.
“It’s a family tradition, so to speak. It started with Mu –”
“Mungo Blackwell?” Velveteen interrupted.
“Yes.”
“Why?” was all that she could ask. “Funerals are for… well, they’re for dead people.”
“Who’s to say we aren’t dead until we learn what we are living for?” Stephen placed his hands behind his head and leaned back casually in the folding camping chair. “We all need to know what’s missing in our lives. At a funeral people say everything a person has accomplished in their life, but what if they missed something? What if there was one thing you never realized you needed to do? What if you had a chance to go back and do it?”
Velveteen reminded herself to shut her mouth so the hunk of bread she had placed in it would not fall out. She stared down at her plate, forcing herself to chew. Just when she could see the normal in the family, the Blackwells reverted back to the crazy. She swallowed the chunk and, as she seemed to be doing with surprising frequency, said what was on her mind.
“I can’t imagine Granny had much missing from her life. She certainly seemed to have it all together.”
“High heels.” Clover gulped down a drink of soda. “She wanted to wear high heels.”
“What?” Charlie and Velveteen said in unison.
The circle of family erupted in laughter.
“It was hard enough to find someone to give her eulogy; both the preacher and the priest had already had run-ins with her. Stephen agreed, but before he could finish she jumped up in front of everyone and declared she’d never worn high heels before. No one else even had the chance to speak.” Clover covered her mouth to hold in her own giggles. “She made us girls take her to the city to pick out a pair that day. She said if she was going to wear them, they had to be high and patent leather. We must have hit every shoe store we could find. Cost was of no concern to her. We returned with a pair of size seven-and-a-half black patent leather pumps, and let me tell you, that woman wore those shoes every day for four straight months.” Clover stood up and pretended to pull up an imaginary skirt. “She would hike her dress up like this and show the tourists.” The family continued to laugh. “She’d say, ‘Don’t I look a piece of a woman, now!’”
“Oh, oh, oh, and she’d say,” a cousin mocked playfully, “never a man crossed my path that he didn’t look at my shoes!”
“No man ever paid attention to her shoes; they were too busy looking at her buns!” Stephen chuckled. There was a moment of silence, then the family laughed some more. “Her sticky buns, you crazy lot! Get your mind out of the gutter!”
“I liked her buns,” Gideon said, leaning over his dad’s shoulder. There was another awkward pause, before the laughter resumed and the family was at it again; this time Velveteen and Charlie joined in the merriment. Gideon stood, fists on hips. “What did I say? The first time I saw her I ordered a sticky bun!”
What few memories Velveteen had of the woman flooded her mind, bringing with it a desire to know family – aunts, uncles, and cousins she had never met.
“She would have enjoyed this,” Stephen added. “Wouldn’t she?”
“That’s why we do it the way we do,” Gavina added. “But Lord, I’ve never seen a woman hold herself so high – and I doubt, even with the extra inches, she hit five foot. About month six her arthritis set in, and she had to stop wearing them.”
“That must have been so sad for her.” Against her better judgment, Velveteen found herself embracing the opportunity this completely unexpected, and downright bizarre, vigil afforded – joining in with remembering and memorializing Granny in a manner contrary to everything she had ever read about funeral formalities. “The one thing in her life she wanted, and her health forced her to quit.”
“Oh no!” A woman neither of the Prices recognized, but was clearly a Blackwell by virtue of the bushy red hair pulled into a ponytail on top of her head, jumped into the conversation. “She hated those things! She only wore them to spite us all. We told her they would hurt, but she would never give us the satisfaction of admitting it, so she pranced around in agony for months.” Another spattering of laughter carried across the campsite.
“We buried her in them,” Stephen said softly. “It was Shug’s idea.”
“And she is cursing him all the way into the afterlife!” Clover giggled. The Blackwell family exploded once again.
The melodic hum of a bagpipe interrupted the cheer as an uncle played in front of the rooster van. In unison, pulling from the Scottish inflections of their ancestors, the Blackwells began to sing:
On to the hills,
Thy soul longs to see
The evermore where death takes me.
Of paths yet trod,
Thy heart will cry.
But alas my dear,
I’ll see you on the other side.
Charlie had heard “Hills of Evermore” once before – at his grandfather’s funeral, so many years ago. Listening to the song now, against the melancholy drone of the bagpipes, he was transported back to his childhood. He closed his eyes and allowed the music to enter his soul, stirring something deep within him and temporarily displacing the insecurity and doubt that he’d been carrying with him since The Rooning. As the last note echoed across the hill, Charlie clung to the memory of his past hopes and dreams.
He didn’t want to leave. He could learn a lesson or two from Granny and from the Blackwells, who did not mourn the loss of their loved one – their matriarch – but celebrated her with story and song, remembering who she was in life and not what could have been had death not taken her. Charlie glanced over at his wife, barefoot and smiling – comfortable and secure. In the distance he could see Gideon – confident and happy – acting out the latest scene in the Blackwell family history. What more could he ask for in this life than this?
CHAPTER 22
Charlie fidgeted with the figures on his spreadsheet, the neatness of its rows and columns belying the clutter that each number represented – an item bought or sold, a worry lost or gained. And at the bottom, the total value of his efforts tallied up in black and white. Not as much as he had hoped; it would never be as much as he hoped.
Velveteen flipped to the next page of her book. Earlier that morning she had offered to print shipp
ing labels, tape boxes, and walk with Charlie to the post office where the postmaster, Norvel Poteet – a Toft by marriage – greeted them both by first name. Velveteen placed a sticky note in the page’s center and wrote the words Melba and afraid; she then glanced down at the notes she had jotted down on the pad of paper.
Charlie opened a new tab on his laptop and logged in to the online auction site as he had done multiple times a day for the past two weeks. The new owner of the French horn had not yet left him a review – the only sure-fire way to know a package had been received. For a few days following the transfer of funds, Charlie considered holding on to the money until he had confirmation the buyer was pleased. But it was one of his biggest sells and he had already allocated the money. With a few recent smaller sells, Charlie had calculated it would also cover Christmas.
However, when Charlie had checked his e-mail the night before, he saw that the Australian buyer had contacted him to let him know the horn had yet to arrive. Online shipping updates said the man should have received it by now. After spending half of the evening on the phone, the missing parcel was discovered in a warehouse on the other side of the country. It would take at least another week for the horn to make its way across the ocean. They had already spent half of the money and could not afford for the horn to be returned.
“Charlie, I have a fantastic idea!” Velveteen slammed her book shut. “We need to have our Christmas party. We’ll do it here, in Coraloo! Of course, I’ll have to go into the city –”
“The city? Didn’t you just make another trip?” A sense of dread descended on Charlie. He’d temporarily buried his concerns about her mysterious trips to the city, but now his worries resurfaced.
“I’ve been catching up… with a friend.”
“You had friends in the city?” He never recalled her having any real friends. Before the move she’d told the acquaintances he had taken a position as an antiques dealer in Coraloo. They had heard of Coraloo – though not a single one had stepped a foot in the building; they hired people to do that for them. It did not bother Charlie, but antiques dealer sounded too stuffy, too much like life before The Rooning. He would hardly call picking through junk shops and rummage sales antiques dealing. He preferred picker, modern day treasure hunter or, even better, finder of wonders. Gideon liked that one.
The Death of Mungo Blackwell Page 18