The Funeral Dress

by Susan Gregg Gilmore

  Mr. Fulton opened the door into a small room, the only light coming from a long fluorescent tube mounted on the ceiling. Emmalee quickly covered her nose with her left hand while keeping the baby snug in her other arm. The smell was odd and discomforting, more disturbing than that of a dead animal left to rot underneath the house.

  “That’s formaldehyde you’re smelling,” Mr. Fulton said. “Always in the air. It’s a preservative.”

  Emmalee mashed the palm of her hand against her nose.

  Two stainless-steel tables stood in the middle of the room. Leona was on one. Curtis, the other. But each was covered with a crisp white sheet, and Emmalee could not tell them apart. Both tables were positioned at a slight angle, a small pitch forward, just enough to leave the feet of the deceased several inches closer to the ground. Whatever washed over or flowed from the bodies spilled into large stainless toilets mounted on the wall, one at the foot of each table.

  A stainless cart footed with wheels and loaded with an array of oddly shaped knives, scissors, spatulas, and a spool of thick cotton thread stood ready between the two tables. Emmalee studied the draped bodies and then the cart, not wanting to speculate on these instruments’ purpose or past use.

  Mr. Fulton stood beside the table closest to the door. He looked at Emmalee as if asking for permission to proceed. She nodded, and he lifted the white sheet only far enough to expose another covering. This one was made of a thick plastic, but Emmalee could already see bits of Leona’s gray curly hair, matted with a mixture of dirt and blood.

  Mr. Fulton peeled the plastic sheeting from the body, revealing Leona’s head and bare shoulders. Her skin was pale, almost white, drained of all life and color. Her lips were too full and colored a grayish blue. Her forehead was split from her right eye clear to her left temple, leaving an open wound, wet and raw. Her eyes were swollen shut, her right cheek twice its normal size. Emmalee had seen death before, but it had never looked so wounded. She did not shrink away. Instead she nuzzled her nose against her baby’s head and drew a deep breath, trying to fill her head with the infant’s sweet scent.

  “Can you fix her?” Emmalee asked as she further studied Leona’s face.

  “I’m going to do the best I can.” Mr. Fulton held Leona’s chin between his forefinger and thumb and turned her head slightly toward him. “Life never was fair to you,” he said in a melancholy tone.

  “What?”

  “Oh nothing. She may not look perfect is all,” Mr. Fulton said and straightened the sheet covering Leona’s body. “Most families want an open casket, although I’m not sure what they’ll do in this case. Mr. Lane’s worse off, and I don’t know how it would look to have one open and one closed. We’ll see how he turns out before making any final decisions.”

  “They got family here?”

  “Not really. Not anymore,” Mr. Fulton said. “Mrs. Lane doesn’t have any relatives in town. She had a brother out in Oklahoma, but he died a couple of years ago. I believe she’s got a younger sister somewhere in Virginia.”

  “Does she know?” Emmalee asked, not taking her eyes off Leona.

  “Not sure the preacher’s gotten word to her yet.”

  Mr. Fulton rested against the other table. “Mr. Lane’s mama is here, over in Jasper, but she’s nearly ninety-eight. I’m not sure she’s been told either, and if she’ll even really understand what’s happened. I hear her mind’s been slipping.” Mr. Fulton patted Curtis’s arm. “Preacher will stop by the convalescent home and talk to her later today.”

  Emmalee spotted a navy dress, folded neat and placed on the counter behind her. She stroked the fabric and lifted its collar. The collar looked no different from those she and Leona had made at the factory, except the cloth was a little heavier than the lightweight cottons they used most often at Tennewa; and this collar was soaked with blood, shaded brown under the room’s harsh light. Emmalee imagined this was Leona’s best dress, and she wondered if the frugal woman who ate bologna-and-tomato sandwiches most every day had anything else hanging in her closet appropriate for eternity.

  “What are you burying her in?” Emmalee asked, rubbing the collar between her fingers.

  “Don’t know. Hadn’t given it any thought. Family usually brings something,” Mr. Fulton said. “Of course, given the circumstances, I’ll probably go up to their trailer later today and look around.”

  Emmalee held on to the collar.

  “But we got some dresses here that’ll do fine if we can’t find something of her own that’s suitable. As I was saying earlier, Mrs. Fulton helps with the hair and makeup. So I usually leave these kind of decisions to her.”

  Emmalee fingered the small band of lace stitched beneath the collar’s edge. She had never seen Leona wear anything so frilly or fine. She came to work most days in one of the cheap cotton housedresses they made there at the factory, the same ones that were shipped to Montgomery Ward and J.C. Penneys and sold to the public for no more than twelve dollars apiece. In the colder months, sometimes she’d wear a hand-knitted sweater with a thick cotton skirt, although the same pair of canvas loafers covered her feet summer or winter unless the ground was wet or buried deep in snow.

  “Let me do it,” Emmalee said fast, breaking the silence blanketing the small room. “Let me make her something. I want to do it. I want to make Leona something special for burying.”

  “That’s not necessary, Emmalee. Like I said, we’ve got dresses here if need be. Come on, I’ll show you.” Mr. Fulton led Emmalee out of the room and to a closet door at the other end of the hallway. “Let me see here,” he said and pulled a pale pink chiffon dress into the light. “See, this’ll work fine. It’s even open in the back, no buttons or zippers. It’s actually made for this kind of thing.”

  Emmalee held the sleeve of the dress in her hand. “This ain’t Leona. She’d never wear something like this, and I can sure enough tell you she’d never wear pink.”

  “It doesn’t have to be pink. We got them in yellow, blue, peach, and a real pretty shade of green. I think Hester calls it celadon.” Mr. Fulton pulled another dress into the light. “Hester picks them out. I think they’re shipped from New York City or Saint Louis. These are very nice dresses, Emmalee.”

  “I ain’t arguing that. But Leona’s earned better than this. She should have a dress with meaning. It should be special. Real special. It shouldn’t come from New York or somewhere else or made by somebody she ain’t ever seen.”

  Tears streamed down Emmalee’s cheeks, dripping onto the baby’s pink blanket. “Leona sat next to me every day, Mr. Fulton. She looked after me like nobody else ever done.” Emmalee caught her breath and wiped her face dry. “Let me make her burying dress. I really want to do this for her. I want her to have something special, and if it don’t work out, you can use one of these here. Please.”

  Mr. Fulton thumped the palm of his hand against his forehead. “These are real nice dresses, hon. Maybe nicer than anything Mrs. Lane ever bought or made for herself. And she gets to wear this one for the ages.” He waved the hanger and the celadon-colored dress fluttered in the air. “Besides all that, you’ve got a new baby to care for. You don’t have the time to be making a dress. Or the money. Where are you going to get the fabric?”

  Emmalee shifted the baby onto her shoulder and patted her bottom. “I got plenty of time for Miss Leona. Just tell me when you need it. And the fabric … I don’t know. I’ll figure something out. Maybe she’s got some scraps of something up at the trailer. She had extra sewing most every night. I can use anything I find up there, can’t I?”

  “I guess so.” Mr. Fulton rested his forehead in his hand. He stood silent like that till Emmalee wondered if he had dozed off. “Okay, listen to me,” he finally said as he focused on Emmalee. “I’m going to need this dress at the very latest by Sunday morning. We’d like to get the visitation under way later that afternoon with burial on Tuesday.” He hung the dress back in the closet. “That’ll only give you a little more than two full days. Can
you manage that? Two days?”

  “Yes, sir.” Emmalee’s smile grew wide.

  Mr. Fulton stood quiet for a moment longer. He looked at both bodies and then back at Emmalee. “We don’t need anything fancy here.”

  “Oh thank you, Mr. Fulton. Thank you.” Emmalee hugged his neck.

  “Don’t get too excited. I got to see it first. But you go ahead and get started,” he said and straightened his robe. “Like I said, we don’t even need a zipper down the back. It’s actually easier if there’s not one. Nobody’s going to see it no how. Remember, people are only looking from the waist up. Something simple is usually best, and Leona Lane was definitely a woman of simple means.” Mr. Fulton walked back to the kitchen. Emmalee followed him. “Lord, I hope Mrs. Fulton don’t skin me for this. So keep it real tasteful, hon, or you and me both are going to be in trouble. Big trouble.”

  “Yes, sir, tasteful.”

  Mr. Fulton reached for the coffeepot but stopped and lowered his head, and Emmalee wondered if he might be falling asleep standing there in front of the counter.

  “Mr. Fulton, you okay?”

  “I’m fine.” He waved his hand but kept his back to Emmalee. “Can’t believe what all has happened. Some sure to say this is God’s plan, but I don’t know about that.” He poured a fresh cup of coffee and turned toward Emmalee, a bright smile returning to his face. “Here, you might need this,” he said and reached for a key with a rubber band looped through its head, hanging on a nail by the kitchen door. “This here is to the Lanes’s trailer. Don’t think they ever locked it, but take it with you just in case. See what you find. There may be a perfect dress already up there in her closet. If not, maybe I can sneak you a little money for fabric if you need it. But let’s keep that to ourselves.”

  Mr. Fulton handed Emmalee the key. “Have you been there before? To Leona’s?”

  She looked out the kitchen window toward Old Lick, knowing if Leona had not died during the night, she would be on her way to the trailer now. She would be sitting between Curtis and Leona. Leona would be holding the baby on her lap, cooing at Kelly Faye and gushing on about her bright eyes and fine hair. She’d only stop long enough to remind Curtis to slow his speed around those mountain curves so as not to make the baby sick. Then she’d talk more gibberish to Kelly Faye and tickle her cheek with the tip of her finger.

  “You are absolutely sure you can handle this, hon?” Mr. Fulton asked.

  Emmalee nodded.

  “Okay then. When you get to the top of the mountain, go three miles to the fork. Then veer to the left.” Mr. Fulton set his coffee on the counter and picked up a pencil and worn envelope. He flipped it over and started drawing a map on the back as he spoke. “Go about another hundred yards. It’s the first drive on the left after that.” He drew a big star at the end of a thin line and handed Emmalee the paper. “Hey, while you’re up there, why don’t you see if there’s a suit for Mr. Lane. If not, we got some of those here too. Got them in black and dark navy. You mind checking for me? Unless you got plans to sew him a suit while you’re at it.”

  “No, sir.” Emmalee hugged Mr. Fulton, squeezing the baby between them. “I’ll get on out of here and let you be.” Kelly squirmed and began to whimper.

  “Let me get a good look at this little girl. She’s been so quiet, almost forgot she was there.”

  Mr. Fulton lowered the blanket from Kelly’s head.

  “You’re a sweet thing. Yes, you are. Such a pretty girl.” Emmalee had never heard Nolan gush over the baby like this. “Look at that head of hair. Our babies were born bald as cucumbers. This one here’ll be asking for pigtails before long.” Mr. Fulton’s tone grew soft. “I really mean it, hon, you two doing all right?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Runt said he and Mettie offered to help with the baby. Said they came to the hospital to tell you that but Nolan ran them off.”

  Emmalee covered Kelly Faye’s head with the blanket. “Nolan said they wanted to take her home. Keep her as their own.”

  “I don’t know anything about that,” Mr. Fulton said. “Runt didn’t get real specific, but I know how your daddy feels about charity of any kind. That’s why I’m telling you this in private. If you need anything, let me know. Nolan doesn’t need to know about it either.”

  The baby’s fussing grew louder. Emmalee jostled Kelly Faye in her arms and rushed out the back door. The baby grew quiet in the cold morning air, and Emmalee pulled the blanket farther over Kelly Faye’s head.

  “You keep that little thing covered up, Emmalee,” Mr. Fulton called after them. “You hear me? I don’t want her catching sick.”

  Emmalee hurried down the paved drive. She settled the baby in the box in front of the pickup and pulled away from the funeral home. She headed straight for Old Lick, the strange smell of the mortuary lingering in her nose.

  LEONA

  OLD LICK

  1957

  Leona never knew Curtis to worry about much of anything. His good nature had attracted her in the beginning. She called him solid and sweet back then. So when he stepped into the trailer with coal dust smeared on his face and a vacant look in his eyes, Leona understood it was bad news.

  “The mine’s shut down,” Curtis told her straight out. Leona watched as her husband stood slumped against the kitchen counter, cradling a small savings book between his large, calloused hands. She closed her eyes but could feel Curtis staring at the dwindling numbers scribbled inside the tiny green book.

  “Don’t go worrying, Ona,” he said and rubbed her pregnant belly. “I’ll find another job soon,” he added, pulling his wife into his arms.

  Leona dropped her head against his chest. She heard his heart beating, strong and steady. She had always hoped Curtis would find a better job someday, a safer job, one not thousands of feet below the earth’s surface. When they first married, she even dreamed of him joining the Teamsters Union and driving a big truck across the country. She watched him talking to the drivers who stopped to fill their tanks at the gas station near Kimball. She spied him admiring their shiny rigs, lolling around the pumps as the truckers chatted about destinations she could only imagine. Maybe, she thought then, she’d ride with him across the country, even dip her toes in the cool waters of the Pacific Ocean. But a baby was coming, and there was no time or money for dreams like that.

  Curtis found work the following week in a poultry processing plant thirty miles south in Chattanooga. It was only temporary, he promised her, till he could find something better and closer to home even though businesses in town were shutting their doors, not looking to hire more men. But Curtis told Leona something was sure to come his way. The Lord would take care of them. At least for now, he came home every Friday evening with a paycheck in his pocket and a roasting hen wrapped in brown paper tucked underneath his arm.

  Leona knew very little about her husband’s day. She really didn’t want to know more than his hourly rate. She saw him leave for work wearing clean pants and a clean shirt, and return home some twelve hours later wearing clothes stinking with the urine and feces dropped from nervous birds. He eased out of the pickup most days to find Leona waiting for him with a rag and a bottle of bleach.

  “Wipe that seat down, Curtis, before you step another foot near this house,” she said, waving the rag in her hand. Curtis did as he was told, dousing the rag with the liquid that sometimes burned his hands. He’d walk toward Leona with his arms open wide, begging for a kiss. “Uh-huh, Curtis Lane, I mean it. Don’t you take one more step till you get out of those nasty clothes,” Leona warned him.

  Curtis stripped down to his underwear right there in the yard. He teased Leona about her wanting to see his body bare and strummed his hand in front of his chest as if he was playing a guitar. Some nights he danced in the moonlight in nothing but his white underpants, singing a love song to his pregnant bride. He’d take her by the hand and spin her across their grassy ballroom floor. “There’s no need to worry,” he whispered in her ear, “this i
s only temporary.”

  Then one cool June morning, Curtis left for work as he always did, a few minutes before six. He carried a cup of sugared coffee in one hand and an egg biscuit Leona had wrapped in a paper napkin in the other. He stopped to kiss Leona’s cheek before rushing down the porch steps. The early-summer sun already lightened the sky as he steered the pickup toward the main road cut across the top of the mountain, waving another good-bye out the truck’s open window.

  It was nearly nine o’clock before Leona scrambled a couple eggs for herself and poured a full glass of milk. She wasn’t going to the factory these days. The doctor told her it was time to stop for a while. Rest up for the birth of the baby. This morning she sat on the sofa with a breakfast plate balanced on the top of her tummy while she listened to the newscaster on Channel Nine yabber on about construction and roadblocks in downtown Chattanooga. She wasn’t feeling hungry but forced herself to eat another bite of egg. Curtis promised to bring her a bottle of ginger ale tonight, but she wished she had it now.

  Leona slipped the breakfast dishes into the sink filled with soapy water and left them to soak. She noticed the kitchen floor needing mopping but walked back to the sofa instead. She woke tired today, and her back had been aching since yesterday evening. It was hurting worse this morning, but she hadn’t mentioned that to Curtis. There was nothing to be done about it anyway, and there was no money for another doctor’s visit. Besides, a cotton gown for the baby needed hemming, rows of strawberries needed picking, and jars of jam needed to be made. Once the baby arrived, there’d be no time for such chores.

  Leona studied the empty crib shoved tight under the living room window and pictured herself patting the baby’s back as she sang a lullaby to soothe him. She leaned over the railing to smooth a flannel blanket already in place when a fierce, stabbing pain seized her back and radiated fast around her tummy. She gasped, struggling for her next breath.

  “Oh God,” she cried out and gripped the crib’s railing. A stronger, fiercer pain moved swift around her tummy, and Leona fell to the floor. She took short breaths and pulled herself onto her hands and knees. She crawled to the trailer door and banged her head against it. “Help me. Curtis, come back.” She raised her body far enough to open the door and then fell back on the floor. “Curtis,” she cried. “The baby.”