The Last Road Home

by Danny Johnson

  I handed him the box. “Here are clothes for her to be buried in.” He thanked me and asked about the viewing. Mr. Wilson told him the church service was set for Saturday and reckoned we would have the wake Friday night. Mr. Ashley made a note in his book before he went over the cost. Since Grandma had already taken care of the biggest part, renting their viewing room, embalming, having somebody come in and do her hair and make-up, and getting Grandma to the church on Saturday would run three hundred and fifty dollars. When everything was decided and agreed to, he asked if we would like to visit Grandma.

  I struggled with the thought of having to share the moment with Mr. Wilson. “I’ve already said good-bye.”

  When we got to the truck, Mr. Wilson looked over. “You holding up all right?”

  “As well as can be, I reckon.” I couldn’t stop my hands from shaking.

  “You have enough money to take care of Miss Rosa Belle?”

  “Yes.”

  He looked surprised. “Well, if you need help, just ask.”

  I reached in my pocket. “That reminds me, here’s the five dollars you lent me at the hospital.”

  “Wasn’t lending, was giving.”

  “I’d feel a lot better if you’d take it, might be another time I’ll need to borrow.”

  He stuck the five-dollar bill in his pocket. “Today is Wednesday, and now that word is out, you’re going to get a lot of neighbors dropping by the house. Be nice to them because they just want you to know how much they thought of Miss Rosa Belle.”

  How did he think I would treat folks? We were almost out of the city when I remembered. “I need clothes to wear to the funeral. You mind stopping to let me buy something?”

  “Sure. The store is just down the street a ways. I’d lend you a suit, but don’t reckon it would fit.” He laughed at his stupid joke.

  It was just a short distance to Sharp’s Clothing. Suits and jackets hung on racks along the walls, and folded shirts, ties, and belts lay on tables down the center of the room. It was darker inside than Miss Adam’s Dress Shoppe, more reserved, like church. Mr. Wilson led me over to where a bunch of suits hung along the wall. “Should be able to find one here.” He started checking the size tags.

  A salesman came over. “Can I help you?”

  “The boy is looking for a suit for a funeral.”

  “Let’s see what size he needs.” He pulled out a cloth measuring tape and stretched it across my shoulders, then down my arms. When finished, he stood me in front of a section. “Anything in this rack should fit you. Were you thinking of a black suit?”

  Mr. Wilson edged between us and started flipping through, looking at price tags. “No use paying a whole lot since you won’t wear it much.”

  Red came up my cheeks. “Don’t mean any harm, Mr. Wilson, but let me look for myself.” He backed away and went to stand in the front of the store, pissed off. The salesman had a grin on his face.

  I did pick out a black one and tried it on. “Mr. Wilson, you think the pant cuffs are too short? I asked.

  He hardly looked. “Folks won’t be looking at the bottom of your pants.”

  At home, I hung up the suit and a white cotton shirt in the closet. I decided to make soup for supper the way Fancy had, pulling vegetables out of the pantry and wild onions from the yard. It tasted like shit so I threw it out.

  When dark fell, I went to sit on the porch. It was a pitch-black moonless night. I went out the screened door and down to the field behind the feed barn. The trees were heavy green with new leaves that looked black in the dark, full of water sucked from roots a hundred years deep. The moist smell of old ground was strong. At first the woods were silent, but as soon as I got still, night things started to rustle in the brush. I sat against a tree. “I’m missing you awful bad, Grandma. If you want to come visit, I’m not afraid.”

  I imagined myself becoming invisible, closing my eyes, and pretending to watch the world from a secret place. I liked it there. The night sounds soothed my mind. I fell asleep against the oak.

  * * *

  Mr. Wilson had been right. By eleven o’clock the next day, people started coming to the house, bringing food, and quickly filling the kitchen table. Mr. Jackson brought a big cooler full of ice and cups for the gallons of sweet tea. Mrs. Seagrove took over and served everybody a plate. I was overwhelmed by how they pitched in, not letting me do anything. The story of what happened to Grandma got retold and retold. Mrs. Wilson stayed close to me, making sure I spoke to each person, introducing me to those I didn’t know.

  The ladies fawned over me right smart, and the men wanted to shake my hand. The house filled and people spilled out onto the porch. One elderly lady, Mrs. Beula Sands, said she taught my daddy when he was in grade school. “He was a good boy, but hardheaded as a goat.” It felt okay to laugh with her.

  At sundown the last folks had long gone home when somebody pushed open the porch door. It was Fancy, a wrapped bowl in her hands. “My momma fixed this sweet potato casserole for you.”

  I took the still-warm dish. “She didn’t have to, you can tell we got plenty. Get something.”

  Fancy lifted different aluminum-foiled plates. “I believe I will have a piece of this chicken. Want me to fix you something?”

  “I’ll sit with you and eat a piece or two myself.” I got cold buttermilk out of the refrigerator and poured us each a glass.

  We talked while we ate. “Why do you think your grandma was seeing the angels at the end, Junebug?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe those already gone come back to help a soul cross over.”

  She poked the air with a chicken leg. “What if all them you knew had been mean and would surely be living in hell?”

  I chewed on a thigh. “What if there ain’t any hell, Fancy, or no heaven either; what if our spirit simply floats around out of sight?” I watched her face.

  Fancy’s eyes narrowed. “Junebug Hurley, don’t you go to being blasphemous. God’s promises are true. Just because we don’t always understand His reasons don’t give us a right to question them.”

  We discussed the pros and cons while we finished off a bowl of potato salad. When it got toward eight, she got up to go. “Will you be okay by yourself?”

  “It’s sure different with nobody in the house.”

  “Don’t worry if your grandma comes, she won’t mean you harm. She might just want to make sure you’re not suffering.”

  I hadn’t thought about it like that before. “In a way, I hope she does come.”

  Fancy cut a sideways look. “You want me to stay with you?”

  “Well, sure. I been wanting an ass-kicking from your daddy for a while.” Although it might be worth it to sleep next to her, have the comfort of another soul.

  “Don’t be a smart-ass. Rest some if you can. The wake tomorrow night?”

  “Yeah. Something else I ain’t anxious to do.”

  “We’d come, but they don’t let coloreds in the funeral home. Daddy promised we could go to the services Saturday, though. You know I’ll be thinking about you.”

  I watched the bouncing light as far as the curve. In the dark of my bedroom, eyes wide open, I replayed everything from the night Grandma got sick, and tried to think of what I could have done different.

  CHAPTER 17

  Birds made love calls to one another and squirrels stretched in the spring sun. The day was warm and pleasant, a good day to be alive, exactly the kind of day Grandma would have said, “God sure has given us a blessing this morning.” The last place I wanted to go was to see her in a death box.

  I stopped inside the door of the viewing room. Grandma was laid out in her casket. She looked natural in the blue dress, like she ought to be able to get up and walk. I wanted this to be some bad dream, but it wasn’t. The reality that I’d never see her smile or feel her hugs or walk into the kitchen to find her busy at the stove again, hit me hard.

  Mrs. Wilson took me by the arm and we walked closer to the coffin. “She looks mighty good, Jun
ebug.”

  Up close her skin looked waxy, nothing natural about her, like one of the fake women in Miss Adam’s Dress Shoppe. “Wish they’d fixed her hair in a bun.”

  Folks began arriving at the funeral home around six, and I took my position beside the casket. Mrs. Wilson stood close in case I needed her. Everybody stopped to shake hands and say something nice. The room was soon full, and the noise of conversation made it feel more like a reunion than a wake. Grandma always enjoyed a good gathering of friends.

  After an hour, it became harder to hold the smiles. Mr. Jackson offered to take a break with me. We went around the building and I lit a smoke. He reached in his coat pocket, pulled out his flask, and offered me a drink. The whiskey bit hard going down my throat, but the alcohol settled me. Back inside, Mrs. Wilson suggested it would be proper to mingle with the visitors. I made a point to thank every one of them again.

  The wide tile-floored hall outside the viewing room was empty by eight thirty, and I was alone with Grandma. When I bent down close, the inside of the casket had an odd, unpleasant perfume smell. I nervously touched her hair and straightened the collar of her blue dress. I whispered, “You’ll always be in my heart, Grandma, even if my mind gets to the place I can’t see you. I hope that was Granddaddy in the room and you’re with him now. When it’s my time, I hope you’ll come.” I turned to leave, then stopped and went back. I reached into the casket, took Grandma’s gold-rimmed glasses off and put them in my pocket.

  That night I felt like an old shirt somebody forgot, left behind flapping on a clothesline at a deserted house. I found myself at the edge of the field again. I disappeared into the darkness, looking for something, but didn’t know what.

  On Saturday, I stood in the yard and gazed at a bright blue sky dotted with cotton balls, and thought about a particular Sunday when I was a kid. The preacher had talked loud and long on how Jesus would soon return. All the way home I watched out the truck window, hoping to spot Him riding down on a cloud.

  When Mr. and Mrs. Wilson and I got to the church, the single bell in the steeple was ringing. At the door, Mrs. Wilson put her arm around my shoulder. “You ready?”

  I tugged on the suit coat. “No, but reckon I’m willing.”

  There wasn’t an empty pew inside; the casket was open in front of the pulpit and a few people stood over it and talked quietly to each other. I wondered what would happen if Grandma’s hand suddenly jerked up. Fancy said she’d heard of such things. The deacons closed the lid and placed the flower cover over it. Like every funeral I’d been to, the choir led off with “Amazing Grace” to get as many folks crying as possible. The preacher quoted a lot from the Good Book, said he’d talked to Grandma often about her favorite passages. I thought about the long Sunday afternoons she spent reading her Bible in front of the living room window.

  Under the tent-covered gravesite, I chewed on the inside of my lip until blood ran. I hated the idea of being left to rot underground like a bushel of potatoes. I refused to shed tears in public. I had no more family and nobody to share them with.

  When it was over, folks stopped to speak as they headed to their cars and trucks. I saw Roy, Clemmy, and Fancy standing at the back of the crowd and went to them. I hugged Clemmy and Fancy. “Grandma would surely appreciate y’all coming.”

  “Your grandma was a fine person,” Clemmy said, “and we thought a lot of her.”

  “Sure is going to be hard.” I looked at Roy. He reached out his hand, and when we shook I could feel the kindness and sympathy. “Anything you need, you ask.”

  A strong breeze blew across the graveyard, unleashing a flurry of whirligigs from maple trees that surrounded the cemetery. It looked like a brown snowstorm. “’Bye, Grandma,” I whispered.

  When Mr. Wilson pulled up in the front yard, I said, “I’m really grateful for all the help.”

  Mrs. Wilson smiled. “You’re very welcome, Junebug. We’re going to be right here if you need anything.”

  That night, I got out a piece of paper and started making a list. There was so much to remember, like being sure I knew how to pay the bill for the electric, and a dozen other things I’d never had to do. How would I ever get along by myself?

  CHAPTER 18

  Mr. Wilson stopped by the house after church the next day. We sat on the porch, discussing the farm. He wanted to make sure I knew what to do and when. “You want to ride to Pittsboro tomorrow and get yourself a couple of pigs?”

  At the auction, I bid on two Berkshires Mr. Wilson recommended, and got them for twelve dollars each. He bought four for himself, and we loaded the baby sows into the pen on the back of his truck. When we got home, I opened the gate to the wire box, grabbed one by the hind legs, and pulled her out. She hollered like I was killing her until she dropped over the fence. I hefted the other one, and they got busy investigating their new home.

  Mr. Wilson and me leaned on the gate. “You patch the hog lot so they won’t get out?”

  “Took care of it a month ago.” His bossing tone didn’t set well with me. “Hope I’ll be able to drive myself places one of these days soon.”

  “I’ll take you to get a license in June.”

  “I’d appreciate that.”

  * * *

  A little after dark, Fancy stepped inside the porch, wearing a brown homemade dress and a man’s hat curled up in the front.

  “What ’cha doing?” She poked her head around mine, nudging her chin up and down on my collarbone.

  “Figured I’d eat what’s left of this chicken and such. Don’t suppose you could make some biscuits.”

  Fancy turned her back and sashayed around the kitchen. “Could if I wanted to.”

  I pleaded a little. “Help me out here.”

  She put one hand on her hip. “What are you going to do for me?”

  I grabbed her waist, picking her up off the floor. “I’m going to beat your butt if you don’t.”

  She squealed and pulled at my arms. I let her down and slapped her on the backside. She punched me on the arm. I went for her again. She tripped into the cupboard, and we ended up nose to nose. She quit laughing. Her arms went around my neck; mine went around her back, and our mouths slammed together, tongues searching and bodies pressing. I knew she could feel me against her.

  We broke and backed away. “What was that, Junebug?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Her black eyes rolled up and down. “I reckon it was your jisim talking. I told you it was going to back up. Does your balls hurt?” She looked down at the front of my overalls.

  My face turned red. “No, and I’d appreciate it if you quit worrying about them.”

  We went at it again. Sweat popped out on my forehead. I pulled my head away. “What do we do now?”

  She moved me backward with one finger, grinning. “Don’t know about you, but I’m fixing to make some biscuits.”

  After cleaning up the dishes, we went to sit on the living room couch. I didn’t know what to say, so I lay my head back and silently counted pine knots in the wood ceiling. Fancy picked at a loose string on one of the sofa cushions. We sat and listened to the clock tick.

  She broke the silence. “Okay, Junebug, what about these feelings we’re having for each other?” Her face was natural except for a bit of faint red lipstick.

  It was embarrassing to look her in the eye. “I know it ain’t right, but I can’t seem to help myself around you.”

  She pulled my chin up. “We’re both getting old enough to have urges, Junebug. I ain’t against them. I’ve started to develop feelings for you that are more than just friends, like I can’t wait to see you from one time to the next. Do you think the same way about me?”

  I swallowed hard. “Yes. So what do we do?”

  She sat back against the couch cushion. “We can consider it some more. One of these days, when we’re ready, the Lord will send us the answer.”

  I laid my head against the top. “Hope He don’t wait long.”

  We kissed s
ome more. “Mrs. Wilson said you were going to show me how to churn butter.”

  Fancy pushed the tip of her nose against mine, our eyelashes almost touching. “Bet she didn’t have in mind churning like this.”

  I let my hands drift lower on her back. She talked softly into my mouth. “Soon as you’ve saved up enough cream, it won’t take long to make.” Her teeth bit down on my lip. “I’ll come over Monday after school if you want me to teach you.”

  “You could stay for supper.”

  She whispered in my ear. “What are we having?”

  My insides were about to bust. “What you best be doing is getting home, wouldn’t want any bogeymen chasing you.”

  “How about you drive me?” Fancy folded her arms around my neck.

  “You know I ain’t got a license.”

  “Then you need the practice.” We rode, Fancy snuggled against me, my arm around her.

  I shut off the lights before reaching the Wilsons’ driveway and stopped. The kissing and moving against each other got intense again. Finally, she pushed open the door. “You think about me tonight, Junebug.” Fancy slammed the truck door and took off running.

  CHAPTER 19

  I paced the house and yard all day, trying to find something to keep myself busy, abandoning each thing because my mind wasn’t on it. I’d cleaned the wooden churn twice, and debated about where to place it, then decided on the kitchen floor between two chairs.

  Fancy showed up after school Monday afternoon. She was wearing a clingy blue cotton dress that showed the outline of her underwear. Her hair was pulled straight back and tied with a rubber band. “Hey”—she smiled—“ready to do some churning?” She wiped the palms of her hands down her dress three or four times.