The Ladies Farm

by Viqui Litman

  Della watched Melissa step up to the lectern as Hugh Jr. returned to the row of seats in front of theirs. Barbara leaned forward and put a hand on Hugh Jr.’s shoulder. He jerked, then turned slowly and covered Barbara’s hand with his own and nodded at his mother’s old friend.

  Meanwhile, Melissa had launched a somewhat sarcastic remembrance of the ingredients—all natural, no artificial additives—in Pauline’s life. Barbara’s sniffling had subsided and Della settled back, trying to picture Hugh and Pauline at the Morrisons’ parties.

  Suddenly, she recalled Pauline in a bathing suit at what must have been a Fourth of July party. Pauline at her rounded, curvy best, pulling herself up the pool ladder, water running from her peachy flesh, as Richard welcomed her into the folds of a dry towel.

  Pauline froze in Della’s mind, wrapped in the towel in Richard’s arms. Oh, shit! Della thought.

  Kat glared at her. Had she spoken?

  Finally understanding that she was the only one still seated, Della rose and joined the singing.

  You’re wrong, she argued with the picture in her mind. Pauline wouldn’t do that. Pauline died with her husband’s name on her lips.

  But the picture stayed with her. They finished singing and resumed their seats. The minister spoke and still the image remained, accompanied once more by Barbara’s weeping.

  Kat caught her eye for a second and frowned with a nod toward Barbara, but Della didn’t care about Kat’s disapproval of Richard’s wife.

  She was so preoccupied with Richard and Pauline that she barely noticed when the minister wound down and they rose for the Twenty-Third Psalm.

  Hugh Jr. had offered them a car, of course, but they had declined. Driving themselves to the cemetery saved them from having to come back to the funeral home after the burial.

  “I like that Melissa,” Rita said. “That’s a girl with Pauline’s heart.”

  Nobody reminded her that Pauline’s heart had given out for no apparent reason at age fifty-seven.

  “She’s more like her father,” Barbara said hoarsely, and Della leaned forward slightly to see around Kat to where Barbara slumped against the window. “Pauline was very kind, but Hugh … there was a heart. The way Melissa held on to those kids during the service? That was pure Hugh.”

  The others considered this in silence. Della didn’t remember Hugh as especially affectionate, but you never know how someone is with his own family. It was high praise, though, from Barbara, who had Richard for comparison. Richard was a born hugger.

  At least Pauline and Hugh were not at the same cemetery as Jamie and Richard. Della didn’t know whose idea this place was; maybe their church had a section here, or Pauline had made a hasty decision when Hugh died.

  They stepped carefully onto the damp grass and walked to the edge of the awning. Hugh Jr. and Melissa and their families sat on folding chairs in front of the grave. Other mourners, many of whom Della knew, crowded beneath the awning.

  Rita held on to Dave’s arm, and Barbara seemed to be suspended between Kat and Della. Just once, thought Della, I’d like someone to hold me up at one of these things. “Here,” she whispered to Barbara, “why don’t you take this chair.” She pulled an empty one from the back row and set it back a little so Barbara could sit. With a rustle from the layers of dark chiffon in which she had swathed herself, Barbara lowered her body into the chair.

  She didn’t know what Barbara could see, seated behind two rows of people on the sloping ground, but something set her off again, and she was sobbing by the time the minister took his place and described Pauline as waiting for them on some distant shore.

  That didn’t comfort Barbara at all. Her sobbing grew louder. Then, she made tiny mewing sounds, like a kitten, and people starting turning around to look.

  Della didn’t care; let them look. They were lowering the casket into the grave, and Della was congratulating herself on her tolerance when Barbara began to moan. “Oh, Pauline,” she moaned. “Oh, Pauline.”

  Kat looked at Della and Della looked around for Dave and Rita, but they had disappeared. Shrugging in acquiescence to Kat’s demand, Della knelt next to Barbara. “Come on,” she whispered to the hands covering Barbara’s face. “Let’s go get some air.”

  Barbara moved her hands to look at Della, but she didn’t stop moaning. “Oh, Pauline!… Oh, Pauline! I killed her! I killed her!”

  Della stood quickly, taking Barbara’s elbow and yanking her to her feet. “Come on,” she said, not at all gently. “She’s in the ground, we’re all done here.”

  Pushing and pulling, Della and Kat moved Barbara back to the car. Kat opened the car door while Della aligned Barbara with the front passenger seat and pushed gently on her shoulders. Barbara sat.

  Kat, with a look that clearly stated You can’t possibly ask me to comfort my lover’s widow, fled toward Hugh Jr. and Melissa, to express her sympathy and to confirm they’d come out to Sydonia on Friday. Della hoped she rounded up Rita and Dave, too. She didn’t want to hang around.

  “Here,” she said to Barbara. She reached into the back seat and pulled out a handful of fresh tissues. “Your handkerchief must be soaked.”

  Barbara took the tissues and blotted her face, then burst out crying again. “Oh, God! Pauline! Oh, Pauline!”

  Della was still standing, facing Barbara, who sat on the car seat with her feet planted on the ground. “Barbara,” she said softly, but Barbara was sobbing hard into the wadded tissue. “Barbara.” Della squatted down to eye level.

  She reached over and put a hand on Barbara’s shoulder. The flesh felt warm through the silk and Della struggled to keep her hand there, imaging Richard’s hand in the same place.

  “Oh, Della!” Barbara sobbed harder, leaning forward until Della was all that prevented her from tumbling forward. “Oh, God, Della, I killed her!” Della, braced in her squat and pushing with all her might to keep this mound of quaking flesh from crashing onto her, barely comprehended at first. Shoving, finally, until Barbara sat back up, Della was panting when she replied.

  “Oh, Barbara, don’t be melodramatic. You ran out to get help. It wasn’t your fault.”

  “No, no, no!” Barbara moaned, shaking her head back and forth. “It was my fault,” she sobbed. “It was my fault.”

  Della felt ashamed at the jolt of pleasure, undiminished by recognition that her joy stemmed from her chance to be forgiving and magnanimous while Barbara writhed with guilt. She deserves to suffer, Della rejoiced, even as she patted Barbara’s shoulder.

  “She knew,” Barbara wailed. “She knew when she saw the ring, and it killed her!”

  “She knew?” Della could stand the pain no longer and forced herself to straighten up. Hot arrows shot the length of her spine.

  “All these years,” Barbara cried. “All these years, why couldn’t I leave it alone? Why did I have to go there, have to talk about Hugh? It was like I couldn’t stop myself, on and on about the amethyst!”

  “Hugh?” Della dropped her arms to her sides.

  “It was just one night. One night!” Barbara cried. “But it broke Richard’s heart, and now it’s killed Pauline!”

  Chapter 6

  We were just a bunch of middle-class Texans, Della thought. None of us was a prom queen or a CEO. We raised kids, went to church, lived in houses with two-car garages, and now it turns out we were all just humping like bunnies.

  She blinked at Barbara, who had doubled over until her head was almost on her knees. Her silk floral back shook with grief. My God! thought Della. She cheated on Richard!

  She looked around, trying to ground herself in the present. The crowd was dispersing to cars parked all along the service road that bordered the cemetery. Small groups dotted the flat ground in front of the wrought-iron gates.

  She didn’t see Kat, Rita, or Dave anywhere and guessed they were still with Hugh Jr. and Melissa. Della sighed. The door to the back seat hung open and she reached in again for more tissue. “Barbara?” she said.

  Barba
ra looked up and reached for the tissue. “You won’t tell the others, will you?” Barbara asked. “I know you don’t like me, but—”

  “Oh, for heaven sakes, Barbara, what makes you say that? Of course I won’t tell them. Here,” said Della, motioning at the tissue, “blow your nose. Do you have a compact?”

  Barbara obeyed, then looked up with wonder. “Didn’t you ever think about, when you were married, what another man would be like? Didn’t you—”

  “Who knows what I thought when I was married?” Della shifted from one foot to another. “Who cares now?” She nodded toward the clutch that Barbara had thrown onto the floorboard. “That yours?”

  Barbara twisted around and then reached, feeling with her hand until she retrieved the purse. There’s no one around to appreciate this, Della thought, now that Pauline’s dead. Me comforting Barbara over her unfaithfulness to Richard.

  She felt her own eyes filling up and she turned away from Barbara. All she needed was another tear fest.

  Nonetheless, her eyes stayed full and blurred the figure walking toward her. Until he said her name, she didn’t recognize Tony at all.

  “You okay?” he asked, then looked into the car. “Barbara?”

  Barbara finished applying her lipstick and smooshed her lips together for a long second before she flashed a smile at Tony. “Well, hi there, stranger. How have you been?”

  In a move that surprised Della with both its speed and grace, Barbara popped out of the seat and stepped forward to hug Tony.

  Tony hated fat women, and Della noticed how gingerly he hugged back before Barbara pulled away. Weight had been an issue between them, and Della still bore great resentment to his criticism. At least I was never that obese, she thought now.

  “Tony,” Della said. “How are you?”

  He shrugged. He was a little too narrow for someone so tall, and Della noticed that most of his own weight gain had settled in his gut. She had heard that he’d opened another two copy shops, and she wondered why he didn’t buy himself a new suit.

  “Heard from Robbie yesterday. One of Hugh Junior’s friends called him.”

  Della nodded. “He called me, too. He said he’d be here in August.”

  Tony smiled a little. “He put Katie on the phone. That kid’s some talker.”

  Della smiled back. This was what they talked about when they saw each other: their remaining son and their grandchild.

  They stood for a second, Barbara beaming inanely and Della and Tony just looking at each other. “Sorry about Pauline,” he said finally. “This must be real hard for y’all.”

  Della nodded.

  “Guess what?” Barbara took up the slack. “I’ve moved out there, too!”

  “Have you?” Tony asked, looking down at where he had dug up a plug of grass with his boot toe.

  “Barbara’s sort of resident-for-life,” Della explained, crossing her fingers behind her back.

  Tony raised his eyebrows enough to show he appreciated the humor, then shook his head, “How are you doing out there?”

  “Oh, I’m fine out there,” Della said. “Out there’s a great place.”

  Tony nodded again. “Be hard without Pauline.”

  “Yeah.” She still thought he was a handsome man, but she wondered if his face would be so creased and his suit jacket so tight if they’d stayed together. She liked to think not. “How’s the copy shop business?”

  “Oh, great,” he replied without enthusiasm. “Opened a second one in Weatherford, and one up in Denton. They’ve all got computers-by-the-hour in them.”

  “Sounds lucrative.” Della couldn’t figure out what Barbara was beaming about, unless it was just joy over the presence of an actual man. There were so few in any of their lives, it was always an excitement.

  Tony had remarried after their divorce, a woman with three kids who left him after a year for a car salesman in New Mexico. Della thought the whole thing was just forgotten; she never thought it had much to do with her, but she supposed there was something about the wife, Suzanne, that made up for something she herself had lacked. Suzanne hadn’t been especially thin or beautiful, but maybe she was easier to get along with. That wouldn’t have been hard, after Jamie died.

  “Barbara?” Tony asked. “How’s Dickie?” Maybe Della imagined the catch in his voice.

  “Doing great!” Barbara said.

  “Still in Dallas?”

  Della shifted from one foot to the other, feeling the sun through her long sleeves.

  “He may be moving to Houston,” Barbara said. “He’s got an offer from a big surgeon there, to work with him.”

  “Glad he’s doing well. Richard’d be proud.”

  Barbara dimpled and launched into a description of Dickie’s accomplishments. Della knew why Tony put his arm around her then, and she was glad for it, to have this support while they listened to Barbara extol the son who had been Jamie’s friend. Dickie was a great kid, Della reminded herself as she always did, but it was never comfort enough against the cruelty that Dickie had grown up and Jamie was dead.

  Thankfully, the rest of the gang showed up, and while Tony shook hands with Dave and Kat filled Della in on when Hugh Jr. and Melissa were coming, they somehow all loaded up into the car.

  Della found herself waving to Tony from the back window. Nice guy in a bad suit, she thought.

  Silver Quest was due at the printer’s, and Della had barely started writing it. The ads, laid out by a part-timer who came in after school, were mostly in place, and the lead article, a state-by-state roundup of legislative activity, would not be tough. It was her column—the piece she usually wrote about women traveling alone; or how to dress to meet your daughter-in-law-to-be; or discussing safe sex, vaginal dryness, and impotence with a potential partner—that was causing problems. All she wanted to write about was Pauline.

  “Well, write about her,” Kat advised. “Our readers know who she is. Was.”

  “I can’t,” Della said.

  “Can’t?”

  “Nothing’s working.” Della felt stupid.

  “Nothing’s working? You have writer’s block over a newsletter?”

  “Oh, of course not. The newsletter’s not writing anyway, it’s just reporting.” Della paused. “I just can’t get anything out.”

  “Well, write something,” Kat repeated, turning back to the ledger she had opened on Pauline’s desk. It was a shock every time Della walked in and saw Kat rummaging through Pauline’s things.

  “She was in love with her own handwriting,” Kat murmured now, more in wonder than criticism. “That’s why she wouldn’t use the computer. Look at this!”

  Della peered over Kat’s shoulder, looking at the entries covering the page. Tortillas, carton, $11.95. Bed sheets, white, $124.50. 100% rag writing paper, $23.95. Her capital letters twice the size of the lower case, her descenders flowing down in gentle slants to the next line. And the ink like rows of flowers, first peacock blue, then green, then lilac.

  “It’s a work of art,” Della said.

  Kat sighed. “Yeah.”

  Della knew Kat was worried about getting all the financials into the computer in time for Hugh Jr. and Melissa, but Della knew she’d do it. Pauline’s desk was in order, and so were her ledgers. If Kat wanted, Della thought, she could even hire someone to key in the data. But it was an act of faith with Kat. She had to key it in herself, the way she had every month that Pauline had lived and handed over those artful ledgers.

  “I’ll write it if you want,” Barbara said.

  “Jesus!” Kat jerked back. “I forgot you were here.”

  Barbara sat on—actually overflowed—the steno chair in front of the computer. With her back to the screen and one leg tucked up under her, she resembled a cherubic schoolgirl in her mother’s earrings.

  “They’re already written,” Della snapped. She hadn’t noticed Barbara at all. “They need to be keyed in.”

  “I meant your article. About Pauline.”

  “Oh, Bar
bara,” Della said. “That’s so sweet of you.”

  “I can write,” Barbara said. “And I want something to do.”

  “Maybe you could key the ledgers for Kat.” Della hated amateurs who thought they could write. Even newsletters. Every day brought manuscripts from hopefuls who had seen Silver Quest and just knew she would publish inspirational poetry, or spiritual testimony, or short stories, once she read theirs.

  “I’m keying these myself,” Kat said, rising from Pauline’s chair with the ledger clutched to her breast. “Why don’t you let her try,” she challenged Della. “You just said you’re stuck.”

  “Try,” Della said. She wheeled around and started back for her own office, then changed her mind and headed for the back door. “I’ll be on the river,” she said.

  The Nolan didn’t offer solace. Della paddled around a little, but it was hot and she’d forgotten both hat and sunblock and spent most of her time envisioning brown tumors blossoming over her nose and cheekbones. What’d you expect, she grumbled to herself as she dragged the canoe back up onto the lawn. She shoved her toes back into her shoes and stomped over to a lawn chair beneath the live oak.

  Flops, who’d spent most of Della’s boating time patrolling the shore, followed her over and sat next to the chair. Della rested a hand on the back of her neck. “You holding up okay?” she asked, scratching as the dog pushed up against the pressure of her fingers.

  “Hmmmm?”

  Let her write the thing, Della told herself. If she actually does, you’ll be done with it. And if not, it will at least give you a starting point. It’s a few hundred words. You can crank it out in no time once you get moving.

  She leaned back in the chair and closed her eyes. The kitchen door opened and closed behind her, but she didn’t move.

  “You taking a siesta?” Rita asked.

  Della heard ice clinking in a glass, but she didn’t hear even a rustle from the ground as Rita moved over the grass. “You taking a vacation?” Della mumbled.