She sat down on the bluff and pushed her legs out in front of her, letting them drop over her rocky perch. Curtis never liked her sitting this close to the edge, but Leona felt freer there than anywhere else. Her cheek throbbed worse, and she imagined there’d be a bruise tomorrow. It had not been her nature to fight like that, but she didn’t feel much like herself anymore. She hadn’t felt like herself in years, and it had nothing to do with her body slowly morphing from mother to crone. Maybe Cora understood those feelings.
Cora had raised four children on her own, her dead-beat husband only showing up long enough to get her pregnant and steal what little money she had. Rumor had it she finally ran him off with a loaded shotgun. Leona never knew how much of this was fact or how much fiction, but she had seen bruises on Cora’s face often enough for her to believe it, and she knew Cora was fierce when it came to protecting and providing for her young. Leona admired that about her.
Cora’s children were full grown and scattered throughout Sequatchie Valley. They came home for holidays and sometimes Sunday meals, never as often as Cora liked, but they came. Cora talked about her children all the time, the one who’d gone to drinking like his daddy and the one teaching school over in Jasper, the one married to a preacher and the one who loved to paint pictures but was recovering from a bout of tuberculosis. Leona wanted all of that—the frustrations and the joys. Instead, all she knew was an empty, quiet trailer. But she also knew it hadn’t been right to blame Curtis. And Cora knew that, too.
“Look a here,” Cora had told Leona earlier in the day. “I don’t care what you and Mr. Clayton are up to. Although Lord knows poor Curtis deserves better than that. But you ain’t going to steal bundles from the rest of us and get away with it because you done caught Clayton’s eye.”
“Shut up, Cora. I ain’t stealing nothing from you.”
“I ain’t shutting up when I’m speaking the truth,” Cora said. “Hell, Leona, you got a good husband, and you can’t see it. When that baby of yours died, it’s like he took your sight right along with him. Women lose babies, Leona, all the damn time. They cry, and they grieve, but they keep on living. But not you. Only way you done found some thrill in life is lifting your skirt up for Mr. Clayton. You’re acting like a no-good tramp, and you’re better than that.”
Leona had shoved Cora against the bathroom stall. Cora stumbled. She righted herself and threw a punch at Leona, her watch catching the skin above Leona’s cheekbone. All these hours later, Leona held her hand to her cheek. She closed her eyes, and the wind washed over her face.
Someone suddenly called her name, but it was a voice more shrill and high-pitched than her husband’s. She turned toward the trailer to find a sharp-dressed woman walking toward her, holding a bolt of fabric in her arms.
“You-hoo. Leona, it’s me. Mrs. Campbell.” The woman, dressed in flowing trousers and a matching blouse, called again to Leona and waved. “Sorry I’m so late but I took a wrong turn coming down Signal Mountain. I’ve got the fabric for the slipcover we talked about. You’re going to love it. It’s simply beautiful.”
Leona stood up and brushed the dirt from her skirt.
EMMALEE
RED CHERT
Emmalee sat in the truck long after Nolan walked into the house. With the windows rolled tight, she heard nothing but her own desperate cries as she numbered the ways she had failed her baby girl in the few weeks since she had been born. Mettie was right, she guessed. She had no reason calling herself a mama.
“Hey girl, come on, get out of that truck,” Nolan said from underneath the plywood cover. He scratched his chin and hollered again, but Emmalee ignored him. He slogged into the yard. “Come on. Get in the house.” With his fist balled tight, he pounded the truck’s hood. “Ain’t going to solve nothing sitting out here and looking off into space.” Nolan opened the truck’s door. “You’re acting funny like you did when your mama died. I didn’t like it back then, and I don’t care for it much now. And I sure ain’t got the energy tonight to find a switch and whip your butt.”
Nolan grabbed Emmalee’s arm and pulled her from the truck. She stumbled along behind him. But as Nolan stepped to the door, she jerked away and dug the heels of her boots into the dirt. “No,” she said, “I can’t.” She held her hands to her ears. “It’s too damn quiet in there.”
“Shit, Emmalee. You’re wearing me out,” Nolan said and yanked again on his daughter’s arm.
“I ain’t doing it. I ain’t going in there without Kelly Faye.” Emmalee sagged against the broken-down refrigerator.
“Hell, girl, you’re acting like some kind of crazy fool done crept inside your body. Listen to me. This mess ain’t all on account a you.”
Emmalee looked at Nolan. “Runt and Mettie are right. I can’t take care of a baby.”
“They’re stealing. That’s what they’re doing,” Nolan said. “Putting doubts in your head ’cause you’ve got what they want.” His voice sounded more frustrated and tired than hateful. He pushed his hands inside his pockets and leaned against the door. “You was getting better at it. Being a mama don’t come overnight. Didn’t for your own mama. Took some time.”
“You said I was the one wore Mama out.” Emmalee pulled her bangs down in front of her eyes. “You said it was me.”
Nolan studied the narrow clearing there in front of the house. He said nothing for a while. A brief wind picked up some leaves and swirled them into the air. He turned to Emmalee. “Girl, I want the daddy’s name. It’s damn time you come clean. We need more than us to make this right.”
“It don’t make no difference no more.”
Nolan grunted and spit a wad of brown juice from his mouth. “You must not want that baby like you say you do,” he said and walked inside the house, leaving Emmalee out in the growing cold.
“No,” Emmalee whispered, “that ain’t so.”
She walked away from the house and down the dirt drive. The oaks and pines danced above her head. Emmalee stepped faster. She thought about running straight to Runt’s house and stealing her baby back. She thought about running clear to Old Lick and hiding inside the trailer. Instead, she stopped at the edge of their land and screamed into the holler.
She kicked the base of the large oak, its bark crowded with her twiggy crosses. A cross fell to the ground, and she broke it apart under the weight of her boot. She scratched at the tree, digging her nails into the wood, tearing one cross and then another free from the stump. She snapped them apart and flung the pieces into the air until all but one was lying in splinters about her feet.
These crosses hadn’t been made for the dead. She had done them for herself, trying to soothe her own grief, trying to rid her own thoughts of gruesome memories. She was sick of Nolan’s work. She was sick of the dead and dying. She hated every one of them for reminding her of her own loss, for miring her in a sadness she had wallowed in for too long. And of them all, Emmalee figured she hated her mama the most. Cynthia Faye was the one who had given up and left her daughter alone there in Red Chert.
If Cynthia Faye had lived, everything would have been better. Emmalee knew it to be so. They would have walked through the holler together and talked about boys and birthdays and the stars in the sky. Her mama would have stroked her hair and reminded her how beautiful she was. Emmalee would have gone to school every day washed and fed, her clothes mended and ironed. She would have felt warm kisses on her cheeks in the morning and heard lullabies sung sweetly before bed. She would have been raised a churchgoing girl even if she was poor and wore others’ hand-me-downs. She would have been Cynthia Faye Bullard’s girl.
There was a time when Emmalee had once felt her mama swirling through the trees like the wind, forcing the branches to bow toward the ground. She believed her mama had come to her that way, blowing right through her, but Emmalee hadn’t felt her spirit in some time. She guessed all the hating she had done had run her off for good.
But at Leona’s trailer, Emmalee had sensed a comfort or a presence s
he had not known in a long while. Maybe it was her mama. Maybe it was Leona. Maybe it was just Easter and Wilma being there and tending to her care. She did not know for sure, but back in Red Chert, nothing felt right. She screamed loud and kicked the tree again. She kicked it over and over. And she punched and scratched at the bark till her knuckles were bloody and raw. Emmalee begged her mama to come and save her and tossed her plea up to the heavens. Then she slid to the base of the old oak, not noticing Nolan standing there behind her.
“Girl,” he said, kneeling behind her, “come on. Your baby needs her mama, her real one, not some woman pretending at it.”
Emmalee rocked to and fro in the dirt, coughing and choking on her tears.
“Look,” Nolan said, “I ain’t been much of a father. I know that. Everybody in town knows it. Odds are that ain’t going to change much. But you can be a good mama, Emmalee.” He loosened a dirty rag tied around his neck and wrapped it around Emmalee’s hand. “But you got to let go of the past. I ain’t any good at that.” Nolan shook his head and smirked. “You’re better than me. But you ain’t going to find your mama, or that God you pray to, in that stump or in all those little crosses you been making.”
Emmalee stared at her father’s outstretched hand.
“Come on,” he said again.
Emmalee placed her hand in Nolan’s, and he lifted her to her feet. She pulled her hair from her eyes and followed her father back to the house, the dead oak left bare. Again. she stopped at the refrigerator and grabbed its door handle for support.
“Oh, shit, Emmalee,” Nolan said, letting go of his daughter. “What’s it this time? I swear—”
“Billy Fulton.” Emmalee tossed the boy’s name into the air like a ball, waiting to see if her father would catch it or let it drop to the ground.
Nolan stopped and turned toward Emmalee.
“Say that slow, girl. Real slow,” he said.
“Billy Fulton,” Emmalee said again, letting the name simmer in the air. “That’s it. That’s the name you been looking for.”
Nolan pressed his hand against the refrigerator, leaning closer to Emmalee. “You ain’t told nobody else?” he asked.
“Ain’t even told Billy. Figure he knows it. He saw Kelly being born.”
A big smile spread across Nolan’s face. He patted Emmalee on the shoulder. “You done good, Em. You done real good.” Nolan scratched at his stubby whiskers. “Yep. The dead make for steady business.”
“I ain’t telling the Fultons,” Emmalee said, her voice turning scared. “And neither are you. His mama and daddy are real proud of Billy. It’d break their hearts, Nolan. No point in it. He don’t want me or Kelly Faye.”
“Shit, girl. You know damn well I’m telling them. You wouldn’t have spilled his name out like that unless you was ready for me to say something.” Nolan pulled his keys from his pocket and dangled them in front of Emmalee. “Come on. You’re going with me.”
Emmalee said nothing as her father drove the couple miles to the Fulton-Pittman Funeral Home. She held Leona’s dress in her lap, careful not to wrinkle it any more than it already was. Maybe Nolan was right. Maybe she did want the Fultons and everybody else in Cullen to know she had birthed Billy’s baby. Maybe she wanted them to believe that for a little while Billy had truly loved her.
She knew she had dreamed too big in the past, imagining the Fultons welcoming her into the family as if she were a daughter of their own. Mrs. Fulton would help care for Kelly Faye and insist Emmalee and the baby live there on the second floor. Mr. Fulton would stand a little stronger, excited by the thought of his granddaughter growing up in their house. He would want Billy and Emmalee to take over the family business someday so he could slow down and go fishing with his brother down in Florida. He and Mrs. Fulton would be downright tickled that their son had found a girl with such a kind heart. But more important, they would be thrilled he had found one not afraid of the dead.
No matter what people believed, she was more than Nolan Bullard’s girl now. She was tied to the Fultons by something much stronger than death. They were bound by blood.
It had been only a little more than a year ago when Billy had first stopped Emmalee on her way to the factory. He worked for his daddy in the summertime and was returning from a run to the back side of Pine Mountain. A man had fallen from a ladder while replacing rotten shingles on the roof of his barn. He fell onto a pile of rock and split his head near in two. Never regained consciousness.
Billy had taken the hearse to wash it down and fill the tank with gas in case they got another call. His father insisted the wagon always be spotless, inside and out, and ready with a full tank. Billy had passed Emmalee about two blocks from the PURE station and pulled up to the curb.
“Need a ride?” he asked.
“Nope,” Emmalee said, not even bothering to slow her step.
“You sure? It’s mighty hot out there,” Billy said as he wiped his brow with an exaggerated motion. “People have been known to die from heatstroke just walking about like you are now.”
“I told you a long time ago, Billy Fulton, you can’t spook me with that kind of talk.”
“Oh yeah. I forgot I like that about you,” he said and laughed.
Emmalee walked on down the sidewalk. Billy guided the hearse beside her, keeping it even with her pace. “Come on, let me be a gentleman and give you a ride.”
Emmalee stopped and Billy braked sharp. The morning was burning hot, and she pulled on her blouse sticking to her chest. “Fine,” she said and stepped into the front of the hearse. “It ain’t but four more blocks.” She tugged on her ponytail and straightened her skirt.
Billy took a long look at Emmalee. “You know my prom date backed out at the last minute when she heard I might be picking her up in this. Said it was too creepy going out with me even if I was the best-looking boy in school.” Billy flashed an exaggerated smile.
“Best-looking boy, huh? She said that?”
“Okay, maybe I added that part.”
“Maybe you did,” Emmalee laughed, already feeling more at ease sitting next to Billy. “Why you being so nice to me today?”
“When have I not been nice to you?” he asked.
Emmalee crossed her legs and wiped the small beads of sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand. She glanced at her feet, a full shade darker than her legs and tinged a pale red from walking through the chert covering the paths around her house. She tucked her feet under the front seat as best she could.
“This is fine. Right here,” Emmalee said as Billy steered the hearse down Second Street.
“But this is a full block from the factory. You promised to ride with me four blocks, not three.”
“Stop the car, Billy,” she said, her tone growing insistent.
“All right. All right.” Billy pulled the hearse to the side of the road. Emmalee reached for the door handle, and Billy reached for her hand. “Thank you for letting me give the prettiest girl in town a ride.”
The next time Billy offered Emmalee a ride, the leaves on the oaks and maples had begun falling and were blowing about the street like confetti. Billy had parked the hearse near Tennewa and was sitting on its hood, waiting for the factory’s afternoon bell to ring.
“Hey there, I’ve been waiting for you,” he called out to Emmalee and waved.
Emmalee stopped and looked around. She tried to slip away among the more than two hundred women walking from the factory, but Billy hustled toward her. “This ain’t a good place, Billy. You need to go on.”
“I’m not going without you. I’ve been sitting out here for the past hour just waiting for that bell to ring.”
“Why you doing that?”
“Come on, let me drive you home,” he said and reached for Emmalee’s hand.
Emmalee jerked her hand away. “If your mama hears about you giving me a ride”—Emmalee looked around—“I can’t be the one costing Nolan his job.”
Billy nodded. “But the thing is, I like w
atching you walk to work, especially when you’re wearing those clunky old work boots.”
Emmalee blushed. “You been watching me?”
Billy grinned. “Hell, yeah. But to be honest with you, I like it even better when you’re riding with me, and I can look at you right next to me.”
Emmalee grinned, too, but was quick to shake the smile from her face. “Go on, Billy. Get out of here.”
“Don’t want to. Not without you.”
“Damn it, Billy Fulton. Go on ’fore these women start talking.”
“Fine,” he said. “But there’s an alley right over there behind the hospital.” Billy pointed across the street. “Nobody’ll think a thing about my being there, and nobody’ll see you get in the car.”
“What you got in mind?” Emmalee asked.
“I was thinking we could ride over to Pikeville. Get a burger and some fries. You know the French fries are better in Pikeville.”
“No, they ain’t.”
“They sure are,” Billy said. “Besides, I got to deliver this casket to the funeral home over there. McGregor’s buys them from Daddy when they’re running short. They had a three-car pileup out on the highway. Killed four.”
“That’s awful.”
“Yep, it is. But it’s business.”
Emmalee hesitated.
“Come on,” Billy said as he turned to cross the street. “I’ll even buy you a milkshake.”
In the weeks to come, Billy drove Emmalee to Pikeville, Jasper, Whitwell, and anywhere else she wanted to go. He drove her to parts of Sequatchie County she had heard of but never seen. He bought her hamburgers and milkshakes and anything else she wanted when she was hungry, and even when she wasn’t. He kissed her on the lips and told her he loved her, even if she was the kind of girl his mother would not approve of him seeing. He hadn’t meant any harm by that, he promised. And Emmalee had told him she understood, even if she did turn away and wipe a tear from her eye. But she knew to duck her head low in the seat whenever another car passed them by.
The Funeral Dress Page 18