The Funeral Dress

by Susan Gregg Gilmore

  Now Billy was gone, and Nolan sat next to her in the pickup.

  Her father wore a smirk on his face, and Emmalee figured he was already counting the money he planned on collecting from Mr. Fulton. Nolan pushed the gas pedal and released it and pushed it hard again. Emmalee wondered if he was nervous, excited, or if he had the shakes. Whatever it was left his foot unsteady, and Emmalee grew sick as they lurched toward town.

  Nolan pulled the truck alongside the curb, scraping the tires against the concrete edge. There was no wreath of fresh flowers hanging on the funeral home door yet, and Emmalee understood Mrs. Fulton was not ready for any company, particularly Nolan Bullard.

  But Nolan ignored the bare door and jumped out of the truck. He rushed up the front walk, not waiting for Emmalee to fall in step behind him. He knocked on the door, and Emmalee joined him there on the porch with the red dress hanging over her arm. Nolan knocked again, but he did not wait for an answer. He opened the door and walked into the wide hallway leading to the living room where the Fultons watched the television most every night unless bodies were placed there for viewing, a detail about their life Billy had shared with Emmalee.

  “Nolan Bullard, what are you doing in my house?” Mrs. Fulton asked as she stomped down the hall toward them with a towel wrapped around her head. She was wearing a yellow terry bathrobe and matching terry cloth slippers.

  “It’s the funeral home, ain’t it?”

  “Did you see a wreath on that door?” she asked with a sharp tone.

  Nolan stared at Mrs. Fulton. “No, ma’am.”

  “No, you did not. Let me be very clear about this, Nolan Bullard. When there’s a wreath on that door, you are welcome to come in this house. It’s a public space. But when there’s no wreath on that door, then this is my home. And you better wait for me or Mr. Fulton to open the door. You hear me?” But Mrs. Fulton did not wait for Nolan to answer. “What do you need?” she asked, her anger seeping between every word. She turned to Emmalee. “I see you got the dress made. Let’s take a look at it.”

  Emmalee handed her the dress.

  “Red,” Mrs. Fulton said, her eyes narrowed. “Well, at least it’s a deep shade of red. Where’d you get the fabric?” She held the dress closer and squinted a little tighter. “This looks expensive, and I know you can’t afford nothing like this.”

  “I found it up at Leona’s.”

  Mrs. Fulton cast her attention on the detailed work along the sleeve’s edge. “What’s this here?” she asked, pointing to the blue fabric and delicate trim.

  Emmalee cleared her throat. “The blue come from one of Curtis’s shirts. And the lace is from a pillow I found up at the trailer.”

  Mrs. Fulton nodded, obviously impressed with Emmalee’s sentimental touches.

  “I did this, too,” Emmalee said and pulled a shiny piece of jewelry from her coat pocket.

  “What’s this?”

  “A bracelet. I used a piece of ribbon and strung together these little spoons Miss Leona had all boxed up and hanging on the wall. Didn’t take me long, but I thought it turned out kind of nice.”

  Mrs. Fulton took the bracelet in her hand and dangled it in front of her. The spoons made a soft clanging noise, and Emmalee wondered if Leona could hear it from where she was. “A spoon bracelet. Hmm. Well, all in all, you did a good job.”

  Emmalee inched backward toward the door. She wanted to leave. She wanted Mrs. Fulton to think good of her, and she knew if Nolan opened his mouth, then all of that would change.

  “Lord, where’s the baby?” Mrs. Fulton asked, her voice tinged with a note of panic. “You haven’t left her out in the truck, have you? You shouldn’t be leaving a child by herself.” Holding in place the towel wadded on top of her head, Mrs. Fulton craned her neck toward the living room window.

  “No ma’am,” Nolan interrupted. “Emmalee done had her baby stole from her. That’s why we come here.”

  Emmalee stared at the ground, knowing there was no way to hush her father now. She thought about running out the door. She even took another step toward it. But Mrs. Fulton slid in front of her. “Emmalee, what is your father talking about?”

  Emmalee stood quiet, her eyes turned away.

  “Emmalee, look at me,” Mrs. Fulton demanded.

  Nolan grabbed hold of Emmalee’s coat and pulled her deeper into the hall. “Emmalee done gave the baby to Runt and Mettie while she went to the mountain to make that dress. Now they ain’t giving her back. Said Emmalee’s not fit to be her mama.”

  Mrs. Fulton again adjusted the towel on her head. “Well, it is hard work caring for a baby,” she said in a softer, almost reassuring tone. “Maybe this is a good thing, for Emmalee and the baby.”

  “But I’m her mama,” Emmalee said in a real soft voice.

  “That’s what I told Runt,” Nolan said. “It’s Emmalee’s baby, not his. But he won’t give her back.”

  Mrs. Fulton rubbed her forehead as if she had a headache. “I’m sorry about that, but what are you wanting me to do about it, Nolan? This sounds like a family matter for the Bullards to work out.”

  “You’re right about that.” Nolan shifted a plug of chew from one jaw to the other. “It is family business and that’s why I figured you’d want to have some say in this, seeing how Kelly Faye is your blood too.”

  Emmalee shut her eyes. It was quiet for a moment, but then Mrs. Fulton took in a real deep breath. She held it in her lungs as if she might keep it there till she exploded in one thunderous clap. The front door opened and Emmalee looked up.

  “Get the hell out of here, Nolan Bullard.”

  Nolan stood firm. “Can’t do that. You’re Billy Fulton’s mama? Right?” Nolan did not wait for an answer. “Well, that baby of Emmalee’s is your blood.”

  “My Billy is not the father of Emmalee’s baby.” Mrs. Fulton was shouting now. Her voice was shrill and sharp and bounced against the walls.

  “He sure is,” Nolan said, wearing a smirk on his face. “Your boy’s the baby’s daddy. Emmalee done told me so.”

  A loud hush suddenly fell among them. The only sound in the room was that of the grandfather clock keeping time, one second spilling into the next. Emmalee focused on the clock’s steady ticking. Mrs. Fulton tried to say something but the words came out of her mouth garbled and nonsensical. She coughed and stammered, and Emmalee’s heart beat faster. Emmalee braced herself for the storm brewing deep inside Mrs. Fulton.

  “Is this true, Emmalee?” Mrs. Fulton’s voice still sounded shrill.

  Emmalee nodded.

  “I don’t believe you,” Mrs. Fulton said. “I don’t believe a word of this.”

  “Believe it or not, it’s so,” Nolan said.

  “You, Nolan Bullard, are a drunk and a liar. You always have been. And you are either drunk or lying now. Or both.” Mrs. Fulton pulled the door open wider. “I think it’s best that the two of you get out of here. I mean it. Get out before I get Mr. Fulton and tell him all these foolish lies you’re spewing around here. He’ll fire you straight out, Nolan Bullard.” The yellow towel fell from her head.

  Emmalee snuck toward the door. She felt bad for Mrs. Fulton, who was trying to finger her wet, stringy hair from her face.

  “Get back here, Emmalee,” Nolan hollered, spit spraying from his mouth as his tone grew harsh. Even Mrs. Fulton staggered backward toward the hall stairs. “Like it or not, that baby is your blood.” Nolan slammed the door shut. “Your boy done knocked up my girl, and you ain’t washing your hands of it that easy.” Nolan yanked Emmalee back to his side. His grip was strong, and Emmalee groaned as he squeezed tighter. “This here is the mother of your grandchild, Mrs. Fulton. You and your husband and that boy of yours need to do what’s right by her and her baby girl.”

  “Nolan, let go of her.” Mrs. Fulton was yelling now, too. “Get out of here. I mean it. I’ve always known you were nothing but trash. Go on. Both of you, get out of my house.”

  Nolan did not budge. “You ain’t going to do right by
your own grandchild?” he asked, his voice turned calm and low. “Fine. Then take this one. I ain’t messing with her no more. And I ain’t raising another one on my own.” Nolan shoved Emmalee toward Mrs. Fulton. Emmalee stumbled and pitched forward, but Mrs. Fulton caught her in her arms. Nolan stormed out the door, not bothering to look back.

  Emmalee ran after her father. She yelled for him and waved her arms in the air. But the pickup sped down the street, turned left, and disappeared behind a row of low brick buildings. The truck’s engine sputtered and echoed in the early-morning calm.

  “Don’t leave me, Nolan!” Emmalee cried and stared down the empty street. “Please, come back,” she said. “Please.”

  EMMALEE

  FULTON-PITTMAN FUNERAL HOME

  “Get in here, Emmalee,” Mrs. Fulton called from the edge of the porch. Her voice rang out as she motioned for Emmalee to hurry along. “Come on,” she said, her bathrobe swinging open and exposing her bare leg.

  Emmalee stood limp on the sidewalk.

  Mrs. Fulton glanced both left and right, checking to see who might be passing by or staring from a nearby window. “We don’t need you out here cussing and carrying on and screaming for Nolan Bullard,” she said, her tone stern.

  But next door a pretty young woman with a full face and a chubby toddler perched on her hip had already taken notice. She leaned over her porch railing as she studied Emmalee standing on the dewy grass. “You got a visitation today, Mrs. Fulton?” she asked with a broad smile, revealing dimpled cheeks. She shifted her child to her other hip. “I’ve been at my mama’s down in Mobile most of the week. Got home late last night. Robert doesn’t get home till later today. You know I don’t like being here alone with the baby when he’s on the road. Just a scaredy-cat, I guess.”

  “Glad you’re home, Ruthie.” Mrs. Fulton hurriedly tried to cover her wet hair with the towel hanging across her shoulder.

  “So you got a visitation today?” The young mother repeated her question.

  “We’re hoping to be ready by early evening. No later than tomorrow afternoon,” Mrs. Fulton said, not daring to take her eyes off Emmalee. “We’ll hang the wreath when we’re ready.”

  “Who you got this time?”

  “Leona and Curtis Lane.”

  “Oh my, did they die?”

  “I’m afraid so,” Mrs. Fulton said.

  “The both of them?”

  “Yes, Ruthie, they did. The both of them. Thought most everybody in town had heard that by now.” Mrs. Fulton glared at Emmalee while keeping her voice light and friendly. “Guess you being with your mama you didn’t get the word. Tragic car accident Wednesday night on the way to church supper. Listen, hon, I really got to run. Haven’t even dressed yet, and my hair’s dripping wet.” Mrs. Fulton hurried down the porch steps and linked her arm around Emmalee’s, dragging her back to the house.

  “Who you got with you there?” Ruthie hollered.

  “Delivery girl dropping something off for the visitation. Come by later if you want. Bring the baby too. We’d love to see her.”

  Mrs. Fulton tossed a wave over her shoulder and pulled Emmalee into the house. “We do not carry on like that,” she said and locked the front door. She drew the drapes across the living room windows and pointed to a chair covered in a lush blue velvet. “Sit right there, and do not move one inch. You hear me?”

  Emmalee sank into the chair and hugged her breasts. They were not as heavy as they once were, but her left side burned and the pain was sharp. She rocked back and forth, longing to be in Leona’s trailer in the care of the older seamstresses, not trapped in a velvet chair inside the Fultons’ living room.

  Mrs. Fulton’s footsteps fell heavy on the polished wood floor. Another door opened and slammed shut. Emmalee overheard Mrs. Fulton talking to her husband although she could not decipher the specifics of their conversation. The pain in her chest mounted as Mrs. Fulton’s voice grew clear inside the living room.

  “She is nothing but trash, Basil. I do not believe for one minute her child is any relation to us, and I most definitely will not claim it as my grandchild. You better get out there and make this whole thing disappear. You hear me, Basil?”

  Mr. Fulton said something, but his voice was soft and mumbled.

  “Our son is not going be the father to that Bullard baby. He’s starting college. He’s got his whole life ahead of him. He will not be tied to that trash and her no-good father!”

  Emmalee thought about running back to the holler. She wasn’t strapped to this chair. She had delivered the dress, and Nolan had spoken the truth about her baby girl. There was nothing more to do. Emmalee moaned as the pain stretched across her back. It was fierce and steady. There had been so many times when she had wanted Nolan to walk out of her life, but this was not one of them.

  The door at the end of the hall slammed again, and Emmalee jerked straight up. Mr. Fulton appeared in the living room first, his wife close behind. He dried his hands on a faded blue cloth and tossed it across his shoulder. Mrs. Fulton stood with her arms folded in front of her. Her eyes were both wet and angry, and she tapped her right index finger against her left arm with a fierce beat. Her nails were painted a bright shiny red, an odd detail, Emmalee thought, for someone who handled the dead.

  Mr. Fulton pulled a chair opposite Emmalee. His face was always kind, but today his expression had turned serious. Emmalee hunched forward.

  “I’m going to come right to the point here,” Mr. Fulton said and raised his right palm in the air, indicating his wife was not to interrupt. “I understand your daddy thinks our Billy is the father of your baby girl. I’ve known Nolan for a long time. He may not be perfect, far from it, but I’ve never known that man to lie, at least not to me.”

  Mrs. Fulton grunted and rolled her eyes.

  “Hester.” Mr. Fulton looked at his wife, and she stepped toward the front window. She pulled the drapes apart and peeked outside. “I don’t know you as well as I do your daddy, so I need you to look me in the eyes and speak the truth, Emmalee. Is our son, Billy, the father of your baby?”

  Emmalee placed her right arm across her chest as if she were reciting a pledge. She leaned further into the pain now consuming her whole body.

  “I need you to look at me,” Mr. Fulton repeated.

  Emmalee raised her head. “Yes, sir,” she said. “Yes, he is.”

  Mrs. Fulton stomped her foot and cried out loud. “It’s your fault. You seduced him. He’s a good boy. He’s nothing like you. He’s a good boy.”

  “Hester, that’s enough,” Mr. Fulton snapped.

  “Billy’s better than that, Basil. You know it as well as I do. You know she lured him into this. You’re just too nice to say what you really think.”

  “I said that’s enough, Hester.” Mr. Fulton’s bony jaw twitched as he spoke. He rubbed his hand across his short-cropped hair and looked at Emmalee, the smile gone from his face. “Where’s the baby now?” he asked. “And don’t tell me you left her with Nolan. Please don’t tell me that.”

  “No, sir. She’s with Runt and Mettie.” Emmalee leaned to the side. She wanted to curl her body into a tight ball but knew better than to put her feet on Mrs. Fulton’s chair.

  “You okay?” Mr. Fulton asked.

  “Yes, sir. Just need my baby.”

  “Are you sure you’re okay? Hester, check and see if she’s got a fever. She doesn’t look well to me. Her eyes are glassy and her lids are droopy.”

  Mrs. Fulton stood by the curtained window.

  “Ain’t nursed right in days is all,” Emmalee said.

  Mr. Fulton put the palm of his hand against Emmalee’s forehead. “She’s hot, Hester. Burning up. Go get dressed and pull the car around. We need to get her over to Dr. Greer.”

  “She’ll be fine,” Mrs. Fulton said, not bothering to look at Emmalee.

  “Hester, what has gotten into you? We are taking this girl to the doctor. And we’re doing it now.”

  “We can’t go off and leave, Ba
sil.” Mrs. Fulton let the curtain drop and turned to Mr. Fulton with an icy gaze. “We got the visitation to tend to. Most of Cullen’s going to be here in a matter of hours.”

  “We tend to the living first,” Mr. Fulton said in a firm voice and a little louder than before. “Now get dressed and pull the car around front. Go on. Do as I say.”

  It wasn’t the first time Emmalee had heard Mr. Fulton raise his voice. He spoke firm with Nolan whenever he cussed too much or smelled of liquor, but she was surprised anyone was brave enough to speak to Mrs. Fulton that way. Mrs. Fulton stomped out of the living room, leaving words like trash and whore bubbling in the air.

  Mr. Fulton faced Emmalee. “Mrs. Fulton said something to me about Runt and Mettie wanting to take care of the baby. Is that so?”

  Emmalee nodded.

  “What do you think about that?”

  “They’ve staked a claim to her.”

  “It could be a lot easier on you,” Mr. Fulton said. “And they are your family.”

  Emmalee picked at a loose thread on her flannel shirt. She looked up at Mr. Fulton. “She’s my girl.”

  Mr. Fulton tossed the blue hand towel over his shoulder. “Let’s get you checked out first. We’ll talk more later.”

  Emmalee hugged her chest a little harder. “You done with Leona?”

  “Yes, except for dressing her. Mrs. Fulton showed me the dress you made. It’s lovely. Truly is.”

  Emmalee nodded. “Can I see her?”

  “Now?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Can’t it wait till later? She’s not going anywhere.”

  “No, sir.” Emmalee’s voice grew shaky.

  “I don’t really understand your needing to do this right now,” Mr. Fulton said, helping Emmalee up from the chair.

  “I don’t expect you to understand anything about me, Mr. Fulton. What I want or what I don’t want. What I need or what I don’t need.”