JB had buried his head in his hands. Luke’s focus stuck to the ceiling. Wanda shook with tears while Shawna leaned across Luke to comfort her. Their poses created an interesting tableau, making me wish I had a sketchpad on hand.
Finished with their fussing, Butterbean and Cooper stepped to the side, revealing the paintings. With fleetness never before seen, Butterbean scuttled toward the side door, while Cooper hoofed toward the back. A gasp rose from the crowd and the entire congregation slid forward in their seats.
“Oh, Lord,” I mumbled and clenched my stomach.
“Oh, mercy.” Leah patted my arm without taking her eyes off the paintings.
On the coffin’s right sat a large painting of a tow-headed boy squeezing a flop-eared bunny. The child stared at the crowd with a terrifying grin and enormous eyes better suited on a Jack O’ Lantern. The pupils appeared engorged, most likely from the artist trying to render a whimsical look, but the effect seemed almost demonic.
“You think that bunny lived through the sitting?” I whispered to Leah.
“What’s wrong with that child?”
“I bet Dustin scowled in the original picture, and the artist tried to cute him up, but couldn’t quite pull it off. He mixed the iris color too dark. It blends into the pupil. He also forgot to add light reflection. That’s what you call dead eyes.”
Leah shivered. “He looks like he’s about to take a bite out of that rabbit. Or pop its head off.”
“I’m thinking Miss Wanda’s got a bunch of those creepy clown paintings at home, too.”
“To go with all the dead animals hanging on their walls?”
“At least mounted antelopes have shiny eyes,” I said. “I’d rather see that than a clown painting any day.”
The enormous second painting rose between the childhood rendering and my coffin portrait. Shawna had enlarged Dustin’s high school senior picture using what I suspected was an overhead projector. Dustin posed in dark camos with a shotgun in one hand and a wild turkey hanging by its feet in the other. The background had been muted with a vapor depicted as puffy clouds lined in gold. Angel wings had been painted behind Dustin’s orange vest with a halo above his hunting cap.
Laughter ripped through me. “I take it back. I’d rather see a clown painting than Dustin hunting in heaven.”
Leah’s forehead wrinkled. “Is there hunting in heaven? Doesn’t sound biblical.”
“Shawna’s color mixing is murky, she outlined the image in heavy pencil that shows through the thin tempura, and the turkey feathers have the same fluorescent orange as the hunting vest.”
I nudged Leah. “Look at mine next to that. You tell me, which one is going to get the commission?”
The forever-sleeping Dustin lay in his coffin bed. The focal point drew the viewer’s gaze away from the closed face and toward the centered hands clasped over his jacket. He appeared peaceful, but next to the demonic child and heavenly hunting portrait, my painting looked downright eerie. A shudder ran through the congregation. No one could look away from the odd display.
“My baby,” Virginia bellowed.
“Here we go,” I whispered to Leah. “Show’s starting.”
A middle-aged man in a gray suit scooted off a chair and walked behind the podium. He glanced at the paintings, then turned back to the congregation, paled. With his eyes on Virginia, he picked up his worn Bible and pressed it against his chest.
“Good morning, folks. I’m Pastor Earlie from New Order Church and Fellowship. We are gathered here today to mourn the death of Dustin Bartles Branson.”
The preacher shot another look toward Dustin’s childhood portrait. His eyes remained riveted for a long beat, mesmerized by its disturbing imagery. They flickered over the new portraits and a trembling shook him. If he had his wits about him, he could have claimed the spirit moving him. “I’d like to start the service with a passage from Second Corinthians, ah...”
Flustered, Pastor Earlie peeled his eyes from the paintings to stare at the ceiling. The congregation sucked in their breath. It was an exceptional day when a reverend could not recite verbatim an appropriate passage from scripture.
“Dustin Bartles? I thought Virginia was a Springhouser?” I said.
“Remember, we used to make fun of him because he was named after a wine cooler?” Leah murmured.
Pastor Earlie continued to flounder with his memory. He flipped open his Bible, feeling the weight of disapproval from the townsfolk. The Methodist Flower Guild ladies pursed their lips and whipped out the complimentary Cooper’s Funeral Home fans. A heavy scent of lavender and rose beat through the air as they fanned away their discomposure.
While the attendees waited for Pastor Earlie to regain his poise, Virginia used the break in the service for a tactical move.
“What in the hell kind of picture is that?” Virginia said, pointing to my painting. The crowd shifted in their seats. Wanda, dabbing her eyes with a tissue, turned to look at Virginia in stunned disbelief.
“Just simmer down, Virginia,” JB said through clenched teeth. “We’re paying for this funeral. We decide what gets put up front.”
The congregation quieted to listen. The fans beat slowly, pulling heat from the brewing argument.
“He is my son.” Virginia planted a hand on her drooping chest. “You are making a mockery of him.”
“Oh no,” Wanda sniffled. “We are immortalizing him in art.”
“You’re what?” Darren snickered.
“I can’t stand to look at him like this,” Virginia howled. “Take those ugly pictures away.”
“Hey.” I straightened in my chair. “Just look at the lighting in my painting. That’s a Flemish Renaissance technique done with acrylics! Come on now. I didn’t paint Son of Sam there or Saint Turkey Stalker, but there’s no way you can claim my painting as ugly.”
Shawna turned in her chair. “An angel is inoffensive. You painted a dead body.”
“Because that’s what they wanted,” I said. “A true work of art. You want to get paid for something a six year old could have made with macaroni and glitter. You tried to sabotage my painting because you knew you weren’t good enough.”
“Now, now,” said Wanda apologetically. “Shawna did a nice job. She didn’t have all the art classes Cherry did.”
“Then why is she claiming she’s an artist?” I muttered.
“Okay folks.” Pastor Earlie waved his hands above the podium. “Feelings run high when we’re about to say goodbye to a loved one. That’s understandable. Let’s be civil toward one another.”
Butterbean edged toward the coffin. Art made Butterbean nervous. He told me that once over a beer.
“We’re leaving those paintings where they are.” JB turned to face his ex-wife.
Butterbean skipped backward in retreat.
“The hell you are,” Virginia shook a finger toward the paintings. “You are offending me. I’ve a mind to sue you.”
JB glanced at Butterbean. “Don’t you touch those paintings, Abe. My wife wants them there. They stay put. She tried to raise that good-for-nothing. Wanda’s got every right to have what comforts her here.”
“And what were you doing while she was raising our son?”
“Paying off his court costs. He obviously got that from you.”
“You insulting my mother and my dead brother?” Darren launched out of his chair.
“Who are you anyway?” Luke swiveled his gaze from the ceiling to Darren. “Dustin doesn’t have a brother.”
Wanda hid her face in her hands. “Y’all! This is a funeral! Have some respect!”
“You need to take this outside, Darren.” said Luke.
“I’ll mess you up and take you down.” Darren slapped his chest. “Dustin was more of a brother to me than he ever was to you.”
> “That’s not saying much.”
“Stop it,” Wanda wailed.
“Get that piece of shit art out of this room,” Virginia roared. “I’m suing this funeral home, John Branson, and the artists.”
The entire congregation held their breath in anticipation of what may become the greatest funeral story ever seen in Forks County. Any Halo citizen who missed Dustin Branson’s funeral might as well prune themselves off the small town grapevine for shame. That included Grandpa, Casey and Cody. For once I’d be the one with a firsthand report.
Wait a minute. Did she say she was going to sue me?
“You can’t sue me, you old cow,” I said.
“Shush.” Will spun in his seat and waved a hand at me.
“You going to do something about this scene, Sheriff?” I asked.
“Are you kidding? This is getting good. I’m interested to see what shakes out of this mess.” He checked himself with a quick glance to his neighbors. “Of course, nobody’s breaking any laws. If Cooper needs me, I’ll step in.”
Pastor Earlie pounded a hand on the podium. “Please. Have some respect for the dead and the grieving. Young man, sit down. Now the passage I had in mind...”
Unfortunately for the preacher, his words fell short on the instincts of family pride. The non-nuclear Bransons began to circle their wagons. Women slipped forward to surround Wanda and Shawna, who bawled with affected hysterics. A few young men shoved out of their chairs in reaction to Darren. Luke remained seated, arms crossed, with the fury of an aggrieved stepchild slapped across his face. JB and Virginia faced each other, hurtling snarling comments back and forth. Amos Fewe, oblivious to the building riot around him, pulled out a cigarette and took a long drag.
“Sir, you cannot smoke in here.” Cooper’s voice rose to a warbling shriek from the back of the room.
The congregation gasped. It might have been the first time they had heard Cooper emit such passion. Several elderly ladies rose from their seats to only drop back again, caught between propriety and desire for gossip. Mr. Max didn’t pretend any political correctness in enjoying the show. His booming laugh echoed across the room.
“Oh no.” Leah grabbed my arm.
A young well-muscled Branson kin stomped to the front row. I recognized him as Charlie Turnbuckle, star defensive tackle for Halo High’s Fighting Angels. He thrust out a trunk-like arm to grab Darren. Darren, most likely trained from youth in the art of dirt yard fighting, stepped away from the flying hand. He swung a knuckled fist toward Charlie’s head and smacked him in the side of the neck. Charlie grunted, lowered his head, and charged. Darren jumped to the side and grabbed Charlie’s shoulders. He wrapped an arm around Charlie’s neck, moving in for a headlock. It was like watching a badger wrestle an elephant.
“Get ’em boy,” Virginia yelled.
“The paintings,” Wanda cried. “They’re going to wreck my tribute.”
“Like hell.” I jumped up from the piano bench.
I scurried down the aisle, focused on nabbing my painting and moving it to safety. Pastor Earlie passed me on his way back to Cooper, ready to hand over the situation.
I flew to the front row, ignoring the shouting around me. Darren clung to Charlie’s bent neck, attempting to pull him to the ground. Charlie’s hands swung at Darren’s legs. I slipped behind the grappling pair, just as Darren kicked his foot out. I bumped against the coffin.
“Watch it, you idiots,” I yelled and tried to shove around them. “Take it outside already.”
“Cherry, you damn fool. Get out of there.” Luke’s reproach burned my ears.
“She’s always trying to steal the spotlight,” screeched Shawna and rushed to the front. “If her painting is so dang important, so is mine.”
Darren pressed his shoulder into Charlie’s neck and tightened his headlock. Charlie grunted again, jerked his body to standing, and whipped Darren’s wiry body to the side. I hopped back and felt the metal bar of the coffin dig into my backside. Shawna circled around them, intent on grabbing her painting first. Trapped between the casket and the wrestlers, I watched Shawna move her painting to safety.
“Shawna,” I said. “Move mine, too.”
Like a Bronco bucking his rider, Charlie shook Darren. Shawna shot a look at the wrestlers and darted to Dustin’s childhood portrait. Darren’s feet lifted off the ground and scrambled for a foothold in mid-air. Knobby knees threatened to jab me. Steel-toed boots kicked near my shins as Charlie reached overhead to pry Darren off. I cast a look sideways and saw Shawna wiping her hands as she took her time examining the childhood painting in its new position.
She ambled toward my painting and halted. “Mercy,” she said, fluttering a hand before her face. “It’s too risky to get near your painting. So sorry.”
My focus snapped back to the fight before me. I bent backward over the coffin to get away from the flying limbs just as Charlie pitched back, tumbling Darren toward me. We careened into the coffin, and it rumbled over with a massive thud. A tangle of arms, legs, and oak paneling dumped to the ground.
“Holy crap,” I shouted.
I felt body parts on top and under me. Dear God, I prayed, please don’t let any of these limbs be Dustin’s. People scrambled around us as another thought crossed my mind: I wore a skirt. I tried to feel for the position of my clothing without touching any other person’s body.
“Cherry,” Leah cried. “Are you all right?”
“Get up, Charlie. I think you’ve squashed Cherry.” Luke’s voice carried from a few feet away.
A heavy weight eased off my legs. I took a cautious peek and almost choked. Mr. Max’s face loomed over mine. He cast me a toothy smile.
“The fight is too quick for helping you. You are not broken? You’ve no padding, I think.” His accent smothered the English words.
“Say what?”
“He’s asking if you’re hurt, hon.” I rolled my head to the side. Will stood next to Mr. Max.
“I don’t think so.”
Mr. Max’s large paw grasped my upper arm, and my body flew off the ground. He held me until my legs straightened and drew balance from my feet.
“Hey now, watch it.” I smoothed out my skirt and felt to find where my hair had landed. I looked behind me, Butterbean, Cooper, Luke, and Pastor Earlie busied themselves with righting the still closed casket back onto the table. My painting remained on its easel untouched.
A gaggle of women encircled Shawna, patting her with exclamations for her heroism. “You saved the paintings,” said Wanda, pulling Shawna into a tight hug. “Thank you for risking your neck. Those silly boys could have hurt you.”
“Huh,” I said.
“Cherry, are you sure you’re okay? You’re looking kind of puny.” Leah fluttered over me, her hands clasped over her throat.
“I’m fine.” I flexed my arms. “Just shook up. I missed the coffin and bounced on the carpet.”
“Do you need me? They want me to drive to the cemetery and set up a portable keyboard.” Leah glanced toward the side door. Cooper ushered the coffin out of the room. Now that the riot had passed, he resumed residing over the dead and grieving with sober authority.
“Go on. I’ll see you tonight at Red’s.”
Leah leaned over for a quick hug and peck on the cheek. “You’re going to love Todd’s songs,” she whispered. Men turned to watch her careful progress after the coffin. You couldn’t hide booty like that, even with hips swaddled in purple polyester.
I turned back to find Mr. Max’s glance slip from Leah back to me. “I know you.”
“You know me?” I threw a glance toward Will, but seeing me unhurt, he had moved on to haul Darren out of the chapel. “How do you know me?” News traveled fast in Halo, but I doubted someone like Mr. Max would be interested in local gossip. Unless he hinted at an
attempted late night mugging at the funeral home.
“You carried a painting in Branson car shop. This painting is very good. Very fine brushstrokes, good color, nice lighting. Where did you study?”
“Savannah College of Art and Design.” I narrowed my eyes. I wasn’t used to locals singing my accolades so specifically. “Why are you so interested?”
“My mother, she also painted. She was excellent artist. Very good. The state paid for her school. Top university. But she married my father. No more painting. Too many kids. And she was working.” He folded his large hands behind his back and nodded with solemnity. “We were poor.”
“Oh, that’s too bad,” I said.
“Yes, too bad.” A wry smile struck Max’s mouth. “Your country is rich. You are lucky.”
“Well,” I said, wondering where this conversation headed. “The country may be rich, but not all of the people in it are.”
“Surely you don’t refer to yourself. You are very talented. You must command a high demand for your work.”
“You would think.”
“It’s not true?”
“People appreciate the arts in Halo, and I believe they are proud to have a local artist. However, that pride doesn’t always extend to their wallets.”
“I see,” he said. “It’s a matter of economics.”
“Speaking of economics.” I began with a terrible segue, but I had nothing else and I needed information. “What are you doing here?”
“At the funeral? I know Mr. Branson for business, and his son, Dustin. I am here showing my respect, of course. Why else would I be here?” He folded his arms and glanced about the room. “Although now I’m not certain the funeral is to continue?”
“This doesn’t usually happen. They’ll still expect everyone at the cemetery, I guess. But I meant, what are you doing in Halo?”
“Ah, I see. I am here for business and pleasure. I became interested in your American Civil War when I lived in my own country. Later, I came to this area to examine the historic site. I like this town. It’s very cheap land. Very quiet.”
1 Portrait of a Dead Guy Page 15