by Vicki Lane
Lydy, my friend. Please, allow me…The Professor extended one hand and tried to look into Lydy’s eyes. But their blue depths were glazed over and the young man carried on with his account, not heeding his cell mate’s attempt at communication.
Now when Lester said as how North Carolina ought to fight for states’ rights, even if it meant breakin off from the Union, a lot of us allowed as how hit sounded like we’d be fightin to hold on to slaves didn’t none of us have and that hit didn’t make no sense fer a poor man to fight a rich man’s war. Folks was beginnin to take sides and git all riled up but right then Miz Lester come in and tole her husband to shut up speechifyin and come to bed.
That raised a laugh and several fellers made low jokes about Lester and his wife, but we all lay down to rest without no more quarrelin. Hit was a peaceable enough night, though those fer and those agin se-cession never did agree. And the next mornin, atter we’d et and got the hogs back on the road, them hateful little boys of Lester’s hid in the bushes alongside the road and rocked us as we passed by. One of them rocks caught me on the head and raised a great pump knot. I would have gone atter that young un and blistered his hide fer him but we had to keep them hogs a-movin.
The Professor, unable to control his curiosity, leaned across the narrow span of floor and grasped the young man’s arm. Lydy, for the love of God, what happened in the courtroom? he implored.
For a moment Lydy’s dulled blue eyes lightened as he shook off the importunate hand. Then, relapsing into the strange torpor that seemed to have him in its thrall, he answered the Professor’s question.
She was there, settin up at the front, still stitchin on that black and purple quilt and I could feel each of them stitches like hit was a silver needle in my heart. The folks fell quiet and the foreman gave the verdict but Belle, she never looked up oncet, just put in some more stitches.
So I set there, waitin for the judge to speak my sentence and watchin Belle, all the time feeling that thread drawin tighter. The judge called out my name loud and strong and told me to stand. I did, never takin my eyes from Belle, waitin to see would she say ought when the judge passed sentence. I had thought she might.
Then I seen Loyal Revis, the new-elected sheriff, walk over to her and bend down and whisper something in her ear and just then the words roll out from that ol’ judge’s mouth.
And then Belle looks up at the sheriff and smiles, the same way she had one time smiled at me.
Chapter 37
The Funeral Feast
Wednesday, December 27
I found her in the room where they keep the pay phone…. Well, how was I s’posed to know? Believe me, I like to drop when I seen her. Here I’d just stepped out for a smoke and her sound asleep when I left. I swear I wadn’t out of that room more’n five minutes—ten at the outside. You know she ain’t been off that bed ’cept when I get her in a wheelchair and roll her around or when I can get her onto the commode…. No, she had just set in the wheelchair and pulled herself along usin’ her feet…. No, I don’t believe she had made any calls.”
Parked in the sun on the barren little patio, Nola sat slumped in the wheelchair. She let her mouth hang slack as she listened to the one-sided conversation, but inwardly she thrilled to the sensation of being keenly aware again, of taking in every detail of her surroundings, of being able to find the words, the blessed words.
On her left a few ugly concrete planters lined haphazardly along the edge of the patio were crowded with plastic flowers: muddy-toned jonquils and peonies incongruously sharing space with gaudy poinsettias. Faded plastic chairs were pulled up to a round glass-and-iron table that sprouted a stained and drooping green-striped umbrella. A dreary spot, like the rest of this horrible place.
But the fresh air, bracingly cool even in this tiny suntrap, was a revelation: a blessing and a delight after the eternal choking fug of the overheated nursing facility. Nola took deep greedy gulps of it, savoring its keen edge. She looked up, past the sterile concrete and plastic, to feast her eyes on the clear sky that had miraculously appeared as the early morning snowfall ended. The unblemished blue square above her head was of piercing azure intensity. As she stared into its depths, tears of joy sprang into her eyes.
…and the living air,
And the blue sky, and in the mind of man:
A motion and a spirit that impels
All thinking things…
Thinking things. I am a thinking thing again. And those lines are Wordsworth’s and they are from “Lines Composed a Few Miles above Tintern Abbey.” It was all she could do to keep from letting out a wild hoot of laughter, from bringing the fat Michelle to heel with a well-aimed word.
I wanted to die but I was wrong. Wrong to seek death when I should have sought retribution. After all these years…But now…which one wants me drugged and out of the way? To whom is Michelle speaking? If I knew that…I must wait.
“Yes, I been giving her the medicine like you told me. Yes, the full dose, mornin’ and evening.” Michelle swung around, her piggy eyes coming to bear on Nola. “She’s quiet as can be now—looks like she’ll be ready to go back to bed and stay put…. Oh, I will… now that I know what this naughty girl might get up to. You just leave it to me.”
The final lugubrious strains of the organ died away as the funeral director stepped to the front of the chapel. He raised one manicured hand for attention.
“The family of Payne Morton wishes me to thank all of you for your many kindnesses during this trying time. Mrs. Lavinia Holcombe, godmother of the deceased, has asked me to say that there will be a reception for all our departed brother’s friends and family at her house on Holcombe Hill immediately following this service.”
Elizabeth gathered up her winter coat and purse and filed out of the pew to join the others heading toward the parking lot. Just ahead of her, two broad-beamed women kept up a whispered running commentary.
“It broke his mama’s heart that Payne’s own church wouldn’t have the service there, but the elders come down strong against it, it being suicide.”
“And then not even to have a casket nor a real funeral…But there wadn’t nothing left of his head but the face—like a watermelon had rolled off the truck and busted flat open was what I heard.”
“Now, Racine, you coulda gone all day without tellin’ that.”
“You’re going where?” Phillip had given her an incredulous look when she appeared in the living room in her going-somewhere-serious clothes. Black wool pants, black low-heeled boots, a lavender turtleneck, and a black blazer had been hastily unearthed, and she had twisted her hair into a knot at the nape of her neck.
“To the Good Shepherd Funeral Home. There’s a memorial service for Payne Morton at eleven.”
“I didn’t think you really knew—”
“We spoke on the phone. And then I did meet him once at the Layton Facility.” Elizabeth had held out the latest issue of the Marshall County Guardian, folded open to the obituaries page. “The family will receive visitors with a reception at Holcombe Hill afterwards. Evidently Big Lavinia was his godmother.”
“And…?”
“And I hope that in the general flow of reminiscence that goes on after funerals around here, I might pick up some information about Nola. She went to his church and I would imagine a lot of her fellow churchgoers will be there. And of course, there’s Big Lavinia—Nola’s oldest friend. It would be a chance for me to have a word with her—to see if she knows about Little Ricky.”
Cars and pickup trucks were parked all along the edge of the sweeping drive that curved past the white-pillared house on Holcombe Hill, and a steady stream of people climbed the stone steps and passed through the red-painted double front doors. Elizabeth pulled in behind a gleaming new Mercedes and joined the others making their way up the drive to the house.
“Welcome…thank you for coming…Susie darlin’, the family’s back there in the den and I know they’d want to see you…welcome…so good of you to come…oh, Mary
Ellen, I just have to hug your neck…welcome…”
In the broad entry hall stood Big Lavinia, dispensing hospitality to all comers. As she took Elizabeth’s proffered hand, her eyes narrowed and then, almost instantly, she made the connection. “Miz…Goodweather, wasn’t it? My poor Nola’s friend. But I hadn’t realized you were acquainted with the Mortons?”
Mercifully the press of people behind her prevented further conversation. Mumbling something about having met the pastor recently and wanting to pay her respects, Elizabeth was released to move on to a second line before the table in the center of the hall, where an immense arrangement of white lilies loomed over an open visitation book.
She took her place in this line, wondering if coming to the funeral and reception had been a good idea. Surely Miz Holcombe will leave the door eventually and I’ll get a chance to ask about Little Ricky. As it came her turn to sign her name, she glanced quickly down the signatures, recognizing name after name of county politicos, educators, professionals, businessmen—the spectrum of the well-to-do and well connected. I wonder, are they here because of the Mortons or because any event at Holcombe Hill is the place to be? Pastor Morton seemed much more…more of the people.
As she scrawled a semilegible signature, a name a few lines above hers caught her attention. HOLLIS NOONAN, the bold black pen strokes proclaimed. That’s the guy who spoke at the meeting, the developer who wants the Gudger House. And the doctor, the brother of the deceased—he’s a partner in the company—RIP—no, RPI. As are the Holcombe brothers, or at least the younger one, according to Ben.
She moved on, caught up in the flow of mourners who seemed drawn to a large doorway on the left. A matronly woman at her elbow beamed. “You’re Elizabeth Goodweather, aren’t you? I met you at that quilt exhibit you put together for the library last year. It’s real nice to see you again!”
The smile faded as the woman recalled the reason for this event. She lowered her voice slightly and continued. “Quite a turnout, don’t you think, for poor Payne? Did you know him well?”
When Elizabeth explained that she was only an acquaintance, the woman seemed relieved to be able to speak more freely. “Well, of course, some are saying he always did have a dark side to him. There was that trouble back when he was still in school, but though there was a lot of talk, nothing ever came of it. And he really seemed to find himself when he went to seminary. You know, his family’s quite well off but he always lived on his pastor’s salary. He and his wife and those two darling babies just barely scrape along. And what she’ll do, I can’t imagine. Though I expect the family’ll convince her to accept some help now.”
The tide of funeralgoers had swept them into a large formal dining room. There a long linen-draped table was covered with an assortment of buffet offerings. Elizabeth’s new friend smiled delightedly and picked up a plate. “I never can resist funeral food! There’s Nell Bledsoe’s Co’-Cola Ham…I reckon someone got Sadie to make all those little biscuits. And I know Big Lavinia will have had her Mexican girl make a flan…ooh…and that looks like Kaye’s chocolate Kahlúa cake down there—only the best thing you ever put in your mouth! You better get you a plate—I expect they want us to keep moving on through—we’ll find us a spot to perch back in the family room.”
Oh, boy, do I feel like a…what was it that friend of Sam’s used to call himself…a schnorrer? I hardly knew the deceased and I’m getting a free lunch. But Miss Lady here is just what I was hoping for—one of the talkative kind.
Following Miss Lady down the table, Elizabeth helped herself to some of the special dishes so loudly praised by her companion. She took a ham biscuit and several ladylike little sandwiches, a scoop of what was described as “Aileen’s Macaroni with Four Cheeses—you’ve already put on two pounds just by looking at it.”
Maybe something green, she decided, starting to serve herself from a huge bowl of baby spinach leaves decorated with jewel-like dried cranberries and toasted pecan halves.
“I’m surprised anyone’d bring that—it was just a few months ago people were dying from E. coli–infected spinach. One of our own congregation lost a precious little nephew. They pulled that stuff right out of the stores for quite a while.” Miss Lady took a serving of three-bean salad. “I heard even washing won’t get the germs off. Wasn’t it the saddest thing—all the good little children dying from eating their spinach.”
Elizabeth hesitated, then bypassed the vinaigrette-glossed leaves and followed Miss Lady into an adjoining room. A nephew, she thought.
“Are you talking about—” But she was speaking to the woman’s back and her words went unheard.
The big room was swarming with people, eating and talking. A buzz of conversation was steadily growing louder as newcomers added their voices. Comfortable overstuffed sofas and chairs brimmed with people; the long stone hearth of the fireplace provided seating for more. Others stood, a plate in one hand, a glass in the other, hopelessly looking for a surface to put something down on.
“The window seat. Those fellas are getting up now. Let’s us scoot over there and grab it.”
Again Elizabeth followed her chance acquaintance, admiring the decisive action with which the older woman cut out two teenage girls, cell phones to their ears, who were making for the same spot.
They had just settled when the sound of shouting was heard from the front hall. Instantly, heads swiveled to the doorway and all conversation stopped except for one very deaf old man who went on with his reminiscence unhindered.
The roomful of people listened in stunned silence to the ensuing antiphony.
“Respect for the dead?” In the hallway a woman’s high-pitched voice rose to a manic shriek. “You make me laugh! Let me tell you about that so-called—”
“…of course, Payne’s folks still have Pritchard—now that boy’s done ’em proud.” The aged man, sitting in a wingback chair and addressing the young woman who occupied the ottoman before him, thumped his cane for emphasis, not seeming to notice his audience’s lack of response.
“God damn you all!” The unseen woman’s shrill voice broke into gasping sobs. Murmuring and a movement of feet could be heard, and those nearest the door craned their heads to get a better view. The rest stayed fixed in their places, waiting for the woman’s crying to stop.
“I saw how he’d failed in the past little bit,” the old man asserted. “Couldn’t hardly get through his sermon and mumbled worse than usual.”
“No, you bitch, I won’t leave quietly! I have things that need to be said in a public place. And all the people who need to hear them are here, all except for that dead hypocrite—he made a solemn promise and then took the easy way out. Just because you’re a Holcombe, you think—”
There was the sound of a scuffle, a wail of anger and frustration, the opening and closing of a door, and Lavinia Holcombe’s voice was raised in clear, calm tones. “Please listen, all of you. I want to ask that we just go on as we were, in respect for the departed and for his family. This unfortunate young woman has obviously been drinking. My men are escorting her off the property. Please, let’s all forget this unfortunate incident; there’s lovely food in the dining room and the Morton family is receiving close friends in the den.”
The hubbub of voices resumed, louder than ever as the deaf old man in the armchair drew his monologue to a close. “Poor fella, I wish he could of seen how many turned out to pay their respects and that he could of heard all the fine tributes. Once we’re gone, memories is all that’s left.”
Chapter 38
Overheard at a Reception
Wednesday, December 27
Well, what in the name of goodness was that all about? And who in the world was that?”
“No one I know—woman must not of been in her right mind. She looked like a crazy thing—that ugly dyed hair every which away. Big Lavinia handled it good though, don’t you think?”
“Holston said those big fellers just took hold of that woman’s arms and scooted her out the doo
r and down the driveway. He said he went out on the porch to see what was happenin’ and there was a truck at the foot of the drive, looked like it was waitin’ for her. They took her right to it and put her in the passenger side. One of ’em went round and said something to everwho was drivin’ and then Holston said that truck took off like a bat out of you-know-where.”
All the interrupted conversations had been resumed—with a new subject and, if possible, at a higher volume. Elizabeth’s seatmate had deserted her, presumably in search of fresh information, to join a group of women who had just come in from the entrance hall.
Finishing the last bite of the macaroni and cheese—a far, far better macaroni and cheese than she had ever tasted—Elizabeth took her empty plate and went in search of someplace to dispose of it. As she moved carefully around the knots of people, scraps of conversation caught her attention.
“I don’t believe they could have heard her. The whole family’s back in the den and the door’s shut. See, over there where Hollis Noonan’s standing? Big Lavinia told him to make sure they don’t get overwhelmed by too many people coming to say a word. I heard Payne’s mama was all to pieces and his poor little wife is just barely managing to hold up for the children’s sake.”
“Well, it’s a blessing they were back there. To think of someone carrying on like that—”
“If Hollis isn’t the best-lookin’ thing I ever saw…I just love that gorgeous blond hair. You know, someone told me he’s set up a trust fund for Payne’s little girls. Of course, he won’t miss it, the money he’s got.”
“It’s wonderful the way those boys have all kept up their friendship. I can remember them spending vacations here and how all the girls were after Hollis and that other boy—what was his name? He’s the only one of the group that hasn’t stayed in touch. Big Lavinia said he’s moved out west somewhere.”