“No. No.”
“Didn’t make Lazarus ready. Didn’t make Mary and Martha ready. Even if they had had all those things, they weren’t prepared.”
“No, Lord.”
“Not even Jesus, the son of God, was prepared. Because He wept.”
“Yes, He did.”
“He wept.” Hollis leaned back and took a deep breath. “But do you know what Jesus said to Mary? He said, ‘Oh, Mary, don’t you weep. And go tell Martha not to moan.’”
“Don’t moan.”
“Because Jesus knew that we may never be ready for death, but we can be ready for a resurrection.”
“Oh, yes.”
“If your heart is right. If your heart is with God, you can be ready. Was Lazarus ready?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Yes, he was ready. Because Jesus went to the grave of Lazarus. Went to that grave and He called out—called out three times.”
Hollis left the podium, robes flying, and grabbed the back of the coffin with both hands. It rocked on its stand as the audience gasped.
“He didn’t call out, ‘Is your bank account big?’ He didn’t call out, ‘Is your mortgage paid?’ He didn’t call out, ‘Have you imbut she is survived by him and a host of devoted nieces and nephews who …” There was a sigh of relief in the chapel as Luther’s even monotone soothed their ears. His voice droned on and on. “She was an outstanding member of her community, giving her time and energy to serve as coordinator of the Linden Hills Beautification Project, secretary of the Tupelo Realty’s Neighborhood Board, co-sponsor for …” Their relief had become gratitude. They straightened up in the pews and leaned toward his words. And when he was through, the silent applause for this performance was deafening as he nodded to Hollis. Luther Nedeed had just placed Lycentia Parker’s life into the hands of a saviour they could understand—they had saved themselves. This very building stood as a living testament to that and that was the gospel they wanted to hear under its gold-leafed ceiling.
Hollis stood back behind the pulpit. The warmth in his body was draining, leaving a chill that caused him to tremble. One by one, the ghosts faded in the back rows and the balconies, sending a breeze that drifted toward him and smelled of only his own sweat. He could see the real faces in front of him quite clearly now as they waited—some tense and others amused. He knew they weren’t waiting for the Right Reverend Michael T. Hollis, because all those eyes held an edge of contempt. Slowly, he straightened his robes and his back. This was his church. He could easily top Nedeed’s performance and regain their respect by doing exactly what was expected of him in that pulpit. So, quietly bowing his head, he did absolutely nothing in those final moments but intone the words: “Let us rise. And pray.”
The last of the guests had filed out of the chapel, and the attendants came to remove the wreaths to the hearse. Luther stood in the empty room with his hand poised over the coffin’s lid. He was pleased to see that that drunken fool’s antics hadn’t disarranged the body. He reached down and straightened a ruffle on the pink dress. Everything else was in place. The white cotton gloves with pearl buttons that were fixed on hands crossed at the waist. The carefully set waves in the silvery hair. Just enough pressed somebody today?’ No, He called his name. Three times, He called his name to see if his heart was ready. And his heart was ready—because Lazarus rose.”
“Yes, he rose.”
“Rose and started walking like a natural man.”
Hollis looked down into the coffin, sweat dripping from his chin, and said softly, “So I didn’t come with a sermon. I came to call.” Suddenly, he screamed down into the woman’s face, “Lycentia!”
Chester Parker jumped, the handkerchief balled into his fist as the coffin shook.
“Would you hear that call? Or should it be louder? Should it be louder to get through your showcase windows? Lycentia!”
Parker’s hands were squeezed between his knees.
“Or should it be louder to reach all the way to the bottom of Linden Hills?”
As Hollis leaned into the coffin again, Parker leaned forward with him. “Lycentia!”
Hollis finally looked up and smiled slowly. “But she didn’t hear.”
“Oh God, she didn’t hear.” Parker collapsed into his seat.
“She didn’t hear because I’m not Jesus. And Jesus isn’t ready to call her now.”
“No, He’s not ready.” Parker began to cry.
“But I want to say to her friends who are grieving—and to her family who is grieving”—his hands swept toward Parker who was almost hysterical now—“that He will one day. And I can assure you that Sister Parker will be ready then.” Hollis walked back to the pulpit slowly. “Because here was a woman with her heart in the right place. And we’re going to hear her eulogy now. Will the person assigned for the eulogy please come up.”
He was surprised to see Luther Nedeed begin to mount the steps. Hollis held on to the pulpit with both hands, but Luther stood there calmly, waiting for him to move aside. When he finally did, Luther smiled. Turning toward the congregation, he began to read. “Lycentia Sarah Parker was born in 1915. Her union with Chester Philip Parker was blessed with no children, powder and blush to give the skin back its natural tones. His women were always like this. The lips set barely parted with a clear gloss that highlighted their original color. She was so still lying there on her back. She had come to him that way, and he had treated her as he’d been taught. Standing by his father’s side, being told to forget all the nonsense he had learned in school about cosmetic techniques and procedures: female bodies were different. With the proper touch, you could work miracles. Their skin wouldn’t remain rigid and plastic if the fluid was regulated precisely. Just the right pressure and resistant muscles in the face, neck, arms, and legs gave themselves up completely to your handling. Moved when you made them move, stayed where you placed them. Attention to the smallest details—edges of mouths, curves of wrists—could bring unbelievable life into the body before you. But it was a power not to be abused; it took gentleness and care to turn what was under your hands into a woman.
His father leaving him alone that night with his first body, everything explained but the contents of the plastic bag placed on the table. “Son, there are a few remaining matters, but those are best left unsaid. When the time is right, it all falls into place.” And that night, it had. Even now, in the chapel, looking at the results of his labor sent a pleasant sensation through the base of his stomach. She was perfect. And what was the point in living if a man didn’t love his work? Luther’s hand ran along the smooth cool surface of the coffin and, gently, he closed the top. There was always a dull throb of remorse when he had to come to this moment. Turning, he found himself being watched by a pair of very young and very bewildered eyes.
Willie fought the urge to duck his head back around the doorway when Luther turned in his direction. He forced himself to make an exaggerated survey of the empty chapel and after what seemed an eternity, he shrugged his shoulders and left. His face burning, he walked back over to Lester, who was standing next to the bulletin board in the lobby.
“Reverend Hollis isn’t in there, Les. Are you sure he didn’t go by in the crowd?”
“No way, I had my eyes out for him. After all that work, he wasn’t gonna slip past me. Someone said his office is on the other side of the chapel. Let’s go look.”
“No.” Willie grabbed his arm so tightly Lester stared at him. “I mean, the funeral’s not over. Nedeed is still in there with the body.”
Two attendants went past them, rolling a cart for the casket.
“See what I mean?” Willie’s mouth was dry. “I don’t think it would be right to barge in there now.”
“Willie, it’s a huge room. We could go down the aisle by the wall. They’d probably never see us.”
“Please, Les.” Willie’s voice surprised them both and he let go of Lester’s arm. “Let’s just wait for Reverend Hollis outside by the truck.”
“But that guy said he told us to wait in the lobby.” He frowned at Willie. “What’s wrong with you? Don’t tell me funerals spook you. There are no such things as ghosts, Willie. And, man, you look like you just seen a dozen.”
Willie didn’t know how to tell Lester what he had seen, because it had really been nothing. Nothing but Nedeed closing the lid of a coffin. And Nedeed certainly had a right to do that; somebody had to. But he still felt ashamed, knowing he had been caught watching. It was crazy, but he just didn’t want to be in that lobby when Nedeed came out.
“I guess I’m still a little sick to my stomach from that food last night. Tell you what, you stay here and catch up with Reverend Hollis and I’ll meet you by the truck.”
As Willie walked toward the side door, he realized that his stomach didn’t really feel right. There was a tight knot down at its base. He knew it would go away if he could forget what he’d seen. But he hadn’t seen anything. Nothing but a man closing the lid of a coffin. And there was no harm in that. The cold hit his face and he breathed the clean air in deeply. A man leaning over and with his hand closing the lid of a coffin. Willie shuddered and walked quickly toward the truck. It was that right hand. It moved too slowly over the top of the lid before it clicked shut: Why, it moved as if Nedeed was … He shook the thought from his head as his own right hand gripped the cold metal of the truck’s handle. He sat down inside, feeling safe with the door finally locked and the daylight around him. That church was so dimly lit it was possible for your eyes to play all kinds of crazy tricks on you. God, he was glad he hadn’t been stupid enough to tell Lester what he had imagined. Man, he would have laughed at him from now until doomsday. Because he had seen nothing. Nothing but a man closing the lid of a coffin. And there wasn’t a bit of harm in that.
She felt a growing sense of shame with each page that she read in the final section of Evelyn Cretan’s recipe book. She kept telling herself that nothing was wrong with what she was doing, even though this could never have been meant to be seen. It exposed such raw and personal needs that the woman herself had probably wanted to forget them. But her reading it would harm no one, least of all Evelyn Creton. Still, she glanced toward the shadows each time she turned a page as if expecting someone to jump out and demand to see what was in her hands. The rational side of her mind knew it was impossible, but there was an impulse to guard herself against being caught and she kept the book close to her body so it could be hidden quickly. If Evelyn Creton stepped out of the shadows at that moment, she would have no excuse to give for not having the decency to close the book once she realized what it finally contained. And Evelyn Creton would demand an explanation for such conduct, because this had been such a proper woman. The careful and meticulous handwriting formed the vision of quiet dignity and immaculate grooming. This woman never had a curl out of place, a ribbon knotted loosely, a stick of furniture not glowing with lemon oil. She gave the right parties at the right time for the right people. There were two sets of china and silverplate, a suit for each occasion, a set of boots for each season—and a porcelain exterior that accented whatever room it was placed in. There were probably a dozen words that the friends and enemies of the Nedeeds used to describe her, but one of them just had to be “perfect.”
They thought they knew her, didn’t they? She looked at the book in her lap. They wouldn’t recognize her now. After eighty years the woman was a pile of bones; the flesh on her thighs, hips, and breasts fallen away, so that the stiff corsets, high-necked collars, and heavy skirts she was buried in were no longer enough to mask the empty cavities that had been living all along between the covers of this book. The real Evelyn Creton. She could see her now, turning the corner from the grocer’s where she ordered her bushels of fruit and sacks of flour. She nervously pulls her veil tightly around her face, adjusts her wide-brimmed hat and long gloves. She is careful to conceal every inch of exposed flesh as she heads for one of those dingy back rooms filled with incense and evil-smelling oils. Or maybe she’s heading to the other side of town to a railroad station where she retrieves the small packages that can be hidden so easily. How did she feel with her precious grams of dried bull’s testicles tucked deeply in her velvet gloves? The slivers of orchid root and ginseng wrapped in her linen handkerchiefs? What names did she use when she called for her mail at those depot stations? Did she pretend to be on someone else’s errand when she sat with those grizzled old women over eyedroppers that measured out the menstrual blood of virgins? She was dressed too well to be somebody’s maid. Perhaps, somebody’s daughter?
She had to be ashamed, a proud and beautiful woman like that, to feel driven to such measures. She had to cringe at each meal, wondering if he could taste traces of those things in his food. If each new moon he might catch a strand of her genital hair in his teeth. She probably lay awake in that empty canopied bed, preparing a thousand explanations in case he discovered their presence; but she would have been hard-pressed for the language to explain their need. She had watched the twentieth century bring a multitude of new words to Linden Hills without one to validate these types of desires in a Mrs. Evelyn Creton Nedeed.
That must have been a bewildered woman. Driven by the need to spend so much time in that kitchen. To be sure that she never ran out of ingredients for the excuse to keep large round bowls between her thighs and long wooden spoons in her hand all day. To scrape and handle carrots, wash string beans until her skin wrinkled from the water. To sink her fingers into soft dough so she could knead and knead and knead until trembling from exhaustion. And she could eat.
Twenty-nine pounds. She’d put on twenty-nine pounds since her marriage. At first, she couldn’t understand it. She had always prided herself on her discipline. Three times a week at the gym. She wanted lean thighs and a taut waist. She wanted to feel the smooth line running from her rib cage to pelvis. But then slowly, the fullness on her thighs became comforting the way they would touch each other—soft, warm—as she lay in bed. The growing preference for anything sticky and sweet that took a long time to chew, filling her mouth and leaving a slick aftertaste. Cinnamon buns, caramels, pecan brownies. It had taken six years for those twenty-nine pounds. The way Evelyn Creton cooked it must have taken no time at all. The woman had to be immense.
The next group of pages contained nothing but rows of purchase dates for household medications. There was no reason for them to be in here. She could have stood in a crowd while ordering them in a loud, clear voice at the druggist’s and have them delivered to her front door. The epsom salts, mustard powder, castor oil, and calomel then placed in full view on those cherrywood shelves. As she kept turning, she became conscious of her deepening breaths. But that delivery boy must have wondered why he had to come every two weeks.
May 15—Purchased:2 quarts castor oil
6 pounds epsom salts
3 pounds calomel
May 29th—Purchased:1 quart castor oil
1 gallon ipecacuanha wine
3 pounds epsom salts
June 12th—Purchased:3 pounds magnesia
2 pounds calomel
1 quart mineral oil
Month after month, the small block letters were crammed onto the pages. Month after month, the delivery boy must have wheeled his bicycle over that lake and up that drawbridge, wondering what Mrs. Nedeed was doing with all these laxatives. She probably tipped well. She may have even given him one of the dozen cakes or casseroles she was baking that day. And even if it was the same boy all this time, he wouldn’t have noticed because of the padded corset and full skirts that she was getting thinner. The year turned and turned again. But surely by now—even in that brief moment at the back door—he must have seen that her face was becoming sunken, her arm skeletal. When she reached for the packages, didn’t he notice the new jeweler’s brace that kept her wedding ring on? In all this time there just had to be something to cause a whisper of doubt that would have built into a cry of alarm that got this woman some help.
Her sigh was so deep it flut
tered the yellowing pages. Why was she wasting her time with those kinds of thoughts? How could that boy guess that anything was terribly wrong in that house when Mrs. Nedeed always answered the door from the kitchen?
As the dates ran on and on, the amounts and nature of the purgatives mixed and changed until it was staggering. She should have been numb to the cold by now, but a heavy chill settled in her middle as she watched the relentless accuracy with which this woman measured her anguish. A personal computer.
It sat in the corner of the study upstairs, its memory discs filled with her checking balances and household accounts. Her eyes left the pages and focused on the piles of cookbooks by the wall. If it were down here now, she could match the dates in those recipe books against the dates for these laxatives. It would only take minutes to calculate the average capacity of the human stomach, then the maximum potential of calories in what she could have consumed, and subtract from that the minimum effectiveness of each of these purgatives. There was even a key on it that would let her take into account the fact that they always stripped away more vitamins and nutriments than the food could supply. So the body had to feed on the protein in the muscle tissues, eventually getting to those in the heart and lungs. It had to use up all fat, not sparing the cushion around the liver, or the lining that kept the bone joints from breaking through the skin. And leaving room for a small margin of error, the computer could still pinpoint the exact year, if not month—yes, it could probably do that. Tell her how long it took this woman to eat herself to death.
December 24th. The delivery date was given in the same clear print as the rest. It came at the bottom of the right-hand side. She sat staring at that date, her mind as blank as the pages she knew would follow it. She refused to turn them over, subjecting herself to the images they would bring of Evelyn Creton on Christmas Day. So she kept the book open to exactly where it was and imagined that delivery boy as he maneuvered his bicycle down that frozen hill and knocked at the back door. When he received his tip, he wouldn’t have thought anything about the fact that it was extraordinarily generous; it was the holiday season. And he had probably spent a bit more time there than usual, listening to his customer’s gratitude for the prussic acid that would save her the embarrassment of having roaches suddenly appearing while guests were in the house. Or maybe the tip was so large that he did think about it. And as he rode away, he smiled at how nice she was to appreciate the fact that he had been smart enough to hurry and make Tupelo Drive the first call on his route—since he was also bringing her a quart of vanilla ice cream.
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