The Funeral Dress

by Susan Gregg Gilmore

“All right. I hear you,” he said and led her down the hall to the closed door. Their gait was slow, each one leaning against the other. “Remember, Mrs. Lane is there on the right, same place as last time. Not quite done with Curtis, so I’d appreciate it if you’d keep your conversation to her.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “When you’re done, turn off the light and shut the door. We’ll be waiting for you out front.” Mr. Fulton rubbed his hand across the top of his head. Emmalee recognized this gesture now as something Mr. Fulton did when he wasn’t quite sure what to say next. And he lingered in the hall for a moment longer, looking as if he was hunting something he needed to find.

  “Emmalee,” he finally said, “you have to understand this news has come as a huge shock to Hester. I can’t say the thought of you and Billy hadn’t crossed my mind. I had a feeling a while back he was real sweet on you.” Mr. Fulton forced a smile as he opened the door into the embalming room. “But I want you to know my wife’s not normally this hateful. And I also know Billy’s not perfect, even if his mama thinks he is.”

  “Billy treated me good. Just so you know.”

  “I’m glad to hear that,” Mr. Fulton said and placed his hand on Emmalee’s shoulder. “We’re going to need to talk to him later. Hear what he has to say. But we’ll work things out.”

  “Yes, sir.” Emmalee smiled back.

  “Oh, and Emmalee, the dress, it really is perfect.” Mr. Fulton pointed to the crimson dress hanging on a hook attached to the far wall. “You know I’ve buried men with their carbide lights, young women in their wedding gowns. Even buried a little boy no more than a year ago with a pocket full of change to take to Jesus for the Sunday offering plate. But I thought the way you sewed those little details into Mrs. Lane’s dress was very, very special.”

  Emmalee smiled bigger. “Thank you.”

  Mr. Fulton nodded and disappeared down the hall.

  The smell of formaldehyde lingered heavy in the room. Emmalee held her hand to her nose as she had the last time, still not comfortable with the strange-smelling odor. Leona’s body was covered with a crisp white sheet. Her head was in plain view. She looked as though she was sleeping on the stainless table, the sheet folded neat around her shoulders.

  The cuts and bruises on her face were gone, hidden behind layers of wax and beige-colored makeup. Her cheeks were highlighted with a soft splash of pink; her lips, painted with a slightly deeper shade. Curls lay soft against her head, crowning her forehead with bits of silver gray. She looked happy, and even if she could have, Emmalee knew better than to try to wake her and pull her back into this world.

  “You really do look beautiful, Miss Leona. Nobody’d ever know you flew off a mountain,” Emmalee said, stepping next to the body. “Mr. Fulton did real good work. And I hope you really like your dress. I made it all by myself.” Emmalee pointed to the piece of crimson hanging on the wall. “Everybody in town wants to come and see you and Mr. Curtis. I guess some only want to see how you two turned out after taking a spill like that. But I know Wilma and Easter are coming ’cause they already miss you real bad. Two of them can’t stop crying over you.”

  Emmalee brushed Leona’s short bangs to the left. Leona was always pushing her bangs to the side. “Mrs. Fulton’s done found out Billy is the baby’s daddy. Guess it was bound to come out sooner or later. I’m sure Mr. Fulton wants me to think of handing Kelly over to Runt and Mettie. You know it’s not about not wanting her.” Emmalee placed her hand on top of Leona’s. “It’s hard to know what you do want when you got nothing to give.”

  Emmalee clasped her hands around Leona’s as if she were praying right along with her. “Up in your trailer, I seen what a good mama you would have been. I seen it all around in everything you done for me and Kelly Faye. The crib. The rocking chair. It was all so pretty.” Leona’s hand felt cold, and Emmalee tried to rub it warm. “But I bet you’re real happy to be up in heaven with your baby boy, you and Mr. Curtis both.”

  Emmalee looked over at the other table and shook off a gruesome image crowding her other thoughts. “But I got to be honest with you, Miss Leona. I wish you hadn’t gone and left me like you did. I’m tired of being the one left behind.”

  Emmalee leaned over Leona’s body and kissed her forehead. “Don’t worry about Mr. Curtis. Mr. Fulton ain’t done with him yet.”

  Emmalee stepped out of the room. She turned off the light and closed the door behind her.

  LEONA

  OLD LICK

  1973

  Leona stood in front of the kitchen sink, peeling carrots for supper. She had browned the chuck roast in the iron skillet when she got home from the factory and left it simmering on top of the stove, covered with a piece of tinfoil. She added some sliced onions to the pan and baby potatoes. She would start a cake soon. She had made the chocolate frosting before leaving for work early that morning. Chocolate frosting was Curtis’s favorite.

  Curtis would be home soon, and Leona wanted to have his birthday dinner ready when he walked through the door. He had spent most of the day down at the church, painting a fresh coat of white on the ceiling in the fellowship hall. Leona was glad he was gone. She needed the extra time to get everything ready and wrap his present. She had knitted him a new blue sweater, same color as his eyes. The temperature outside was warm and humid, but in another month or two she knew Curtis would be glad to have it.

  Leona had never talked to Curtis again about those days when she stayed late at the factory. She had worked hard in the years since to make everything up to him, but she had come to wonder if that would ever be possible. Leona had caught a ride home right after her shift so she could start cooking, and she wanted to be sure she had time to take a bath and set her hair. She even bought a new pink lipstick, just deep enough to give her lips a bit of color. Curtis didn’t like his wife all painted up like a clown, he said.

  Leona put the roast in the oven and set about making the cake. The telephone rang, but she ignored it, imagining it was only someone wanting to check on slipcovers or another church member wanting to wish Curtis a happy birthday. She sifted the flour and added the salt and baking powder to the dry mixture. She pulled a couple of eggs from the refrigerator and the bottle of Wesson oil from the cabinet next to the stove. The cabinet door fell open at an awkward angle, its hinge pulling loose. Curtis had promised to fix that, but she would not mention it today.

  Leona stirred the batter until it was smooth and greased and floured two round pans. She poured half the batter in one, and the rest in the other. She opened the oven, pushed the skillet to the side, and placed the pans one in front of the other. She set the timer for thirty-five minutes and swept the counter clean before glancing at the clock on the wall. Curtis would surely be here soon.

  Bending low, Leona pulled out the good china from underneath the kitchen sink and placed a candle between two plates. She ironed cloth napkins and filled their glasses with sparkling cider, then rushed to the back of the trailer to wrap her gift and ready herself.

  When it was time, Curtis pulled out her chair and seated Leona at the table.

  “Everything sure is tasty, Ona,” he said, already wearing the sweater she had made for him. His face looked much younger and handsome in the candlelight. Leona hoped hers looked younger, too.

  “You got to be burning up in that thing,” Leona said, laughing, “it’s near seventy-five degrees out there with the sun down.”

  “Don’t matter. I love it.”

  Leona blushed. “And I love you, Curtis, I really do.”

  Curtis smiled and rubbed his hand across his full belly.

  “You want some cake?” she asked, rushing to change the subject. Leona pushed back her chair and stepped into the kitchen to fetch the chocolate cake.

  “Maybe in a minute.”

  Curtis stood up from the table and walked to the trailer door. He opened it wide and the evening’s moonlight poured into the room. “Katydids singing loud.”

  “They’re singing happy b
irthday to you,” Leona said. “I ordered them up special.”

  Curtis laughed. “Where are the bullfrogs? You know they’re my favorites.”

  “I tried, but they’re singing down in the valley tonight.” Leona carried the dinner plates to the kitchen.

  Curtis ducked his head underneath the doorframe and walked into the night. Leona cleared the rest of the dishes from the table and left them soaking in the sink. She blew out the candle’s flame and stepped toward Curtis standing among the tall grass in the middle of the clearing. He looked both peaceful and lonely there, his gaze lost among the stars. Leona eased up behind him and whispered in his ear.

  “You ever going to be able to say it again?” she asked. “You think you can ever tell me you love me? ’Cause I know you do. You show me every day.”

  Curtis was silent.

  “I’m so sorry about what I done, but it’s way in the past.” Leona moved in front of Curtis. “I don’t know what else to do to convince you that it meant nothing to me. I was hurt and angry and foolish. I wasn’t thinking straight. Haven’t you ever felt like that, Curtis? Everything so jumbled in your head.”

  Curtis said nothing.

  Leona grabbed his hands and held them to her chest. “Please tell me you love me?”

  Curtis pulled Leona into his arms. She rested her cheek against his chest still firm and strong.

  “I don’t know, Ona girl,” he said and led her in a dance across the clearing like he had done once long ago.

  EMMALEE

  CULLEN

  Dr. Greer escorted Emmalee into the waiting room at the front of his office. A mismatch of chairs lined the walls, and an assortment of tattered magazines cluttered the top of a square table pushed into a corner. The Fultons stood in the middle of the room, adding a small spot of color to the otherwise drab space.

  “It’s mastitis,” Dr. Greer said matter-of-factly as he reached to shake Basil’s hand. “Hello there, Hester.” Mrs. Fulton slipped her hands inside a pair of gloves and turned toward the outside window. The middle-aged doctor, dressed in a crisp white coat with a pair of black-rimmed glasses pushed onto the top of his head, looked at Mr. Fulton with a raised eyebrow.

  “I’ve given Emmalee a bottle of antibiotics and explained she needs to take every one of them, even when she starts feeling better,” Dr. Greer said. “As long as she does as I say, the infection should clear up quickly. But most important, Basil, she needs rest. She needs fluids. She needs to eat right. And if she’s going to keep the baby, she needs to keep nursing. It’s good for the both of them.”

  Emmalee sat on one of the chairs along the wall.

  Dr. Greer shifted his attention to Emmalee. “So until a firm decision’s been made, I do think it’s best if mother and child are together. I told Mettie the same thing. Of course after talking to Emmalee here, I see there’s a bit of a disagreement among the family about where the baby needs to be.”

  Mr. Fulton cocked his head to the side. “Well, there definitely seems to be two mamas staking claim to this one. From what I hear,” Mr. Fulton said, “Runt and Mettie think the baby should be with them. And if Runt’s got any of his brother in him, I can’t promise I’ll have much luck changing his mind. Stubborn seems to run in their blood.”

  Dr. Greer pulled the glasses down to his nose and examined a thin stack of papers tucked inside a manila folder. “Let’s see. I saw the baby earlier this week,” he said. “The day before yesterday in fact. There’s no doubt she needs better care than she’s been getting. Underweight. Severe diaper rash. Low-grade fever. But I do think with some guidance, Emmalee can be a good mother.” The doctor looked up and pushed the glasses back on the top of his head.

  “Emmalee?” Mr. Fulton turned to her.

  “Yes, sir, I heard him.” Emmalee looked away. The doctor tucked the folder under his arm, and Mr. Fulton shook his head.

  “I’ve talked to Emmalee about feeding the baby on a regular schedule.” The doctor continued with his instructions while making a few notes on a pad he pulled from his coat pocket. “And keeping her bottom clean, even letting Kelly soak in warm baths with a little baking soda. I understand none of that’s easy for her to do at her daddy’s place.”

  “No, it’s not,” Mr. Fulton said.

  “I suggested maybe she stay with her aunt and uncle for a while. Thought it was a good compromise, and from what I saw Mettie does seem very comfortable with a little one. But Emmalee made it very clear she wouldn’t do that.” Dr. Greer tore the paper from the pad and handed it to Emmalee. “So I was wondering, Basil, if you and Hester might take her in for a few days?”

  Mrs. Fulton spun around and walked out the office door.

  “Sorry about that,” Mr. Fulton said. “Hester’s pretty upset. We just found out that the baby is Billy’s. It’s a lot to absorb in one morning.”

  “I’m sure it is,” Dr. Greer said.

  “I guess I’ve seen so much dying that it’s hard to get upset about a beautiful little baby, no matter how it comes to be.” Mr. Fulton looked as though he was tugging on a memory from somewhere back in time. “Hester’ll get there.”

  “Does Billy know?” The doctor turned to Emmalee.

  Emmalee stared at the dull green floor, and the two men talked on as if she wasn’t there.

  “I’m not sure,” Mr. Fulton answered. “Thinking back on everything, I’ve got to think he’s got some idea.”

  “Well, don’t worry. I won’t be saying a word about this to anyone. Let’s get everybody feeling better first, and then we can take a fresh look at things.” Dr. Greer slapped Mr. Fulton on the back. “But please consider letting Emmalee and the baby stay with you at least until the infection clears. I can’t see her going back to her father’s right now.”

  Mr. Fulton rubbed his hand across his head. “We’ll work something out.” He shook the doctor’s hand and took Emmalee by the arm to guide her to the hearse. She slumped onto the jump seat. Mr. Fulton lowered his window as the wagon pulled onto the road. As the hearse picked up speed, the wind rushed harder across his seat, whipping Emmalee’s hair about her face. Emmalee leaned against the back window and closed her eyes. The drive to the funeral home wasn’t far, but Emmalee drifted into a light sleep.

  The hearse stopped sharp. Emmalee lurched forward, and Mr. Fulton threw his hands against the dashboard. “Lord, Hester.” Mr. Fulton stared at his wife, but Mrs. Fulton had already snatched the key from the ignition. She opened the car door. Then she stopped, pulled it closed, and faced her husband.

  “After thirty years of marriage, I know you, Basil Fulton,” she said. “And I know what you’re going to ask of me.” Her tone was coarse, and Emmalee curled away from the front seat. “And I won’t do it. I have taken care of the dead and dying and their families for you all these years and never once complained. But I will not claim any one of those Bullards as my own.”

  Mrs. Fulton stepped out of the car, slamming the door shut behind her.

  For a moment, Mr. Fulton and Emmalee sat without speaking, and Emmalee found herself wishing she was back in Red Chert. “Well, I guess we both know where my wife stands on this,” Mr. Fulton said at last, breaking the mounting quiet. He tried to smile, but his expression fell blank. “Let’s go on in and get you settled. I bet you are worn out.” Mr. Fulton opened the rear door and stuck his head inside. “Come on. Hester won’t bite, I promise.”

  “You sure about that?” Emmalee asked as she moved across the sidewalk, her back hunched and her walk slow. She followed Mr. Fulton up the concrete path. Ruthie Thornton stood on her front porch acting as though she was tending to a plant already shriveled and browned. She even held a watering can in her hand, but Emmalee caught her staring.

  “I’ll take her up,” Mrs. Fulton snapped as she waited inside the door. “But that’s it.” Mrs. Fulton gripped the rail and headed to the second-floor hall. Emmalee looked back at Mr. Fulton.

  “Go on,” he mouthed and waved her along.

  The upstairs ha
ll was wide, at least three times the narrow space in Leona’s trailer. Emmalee felt out of place here, and she wrapped her arms around her body, trying to comfort herself in the strange and open space. Mrs. Fulton stopped in front of a room painted a soft shade of blue. She opened a closet door and began pulling out blankets and towels. She did not seem to notice Emmalee paused behind her, staring into the room where the bed was spread with a plaid cover.

  Curtains out of the same material hung on the large window overlooking the street. A pine dresser was topped with five or six photographs of Billy dressed in a different athletic uniform. An assortment of large and small trophies, and red and blue ribbons, covered a long wood shelf mounted on the far wall. Felt pennants with names like BRAVES, INDIANS, and DODGERS decorated the space above the bed.

  Billy appeared near perfect, judging by all the remnants of his past successes, and Emmalee guessed Mrs. Fulton saw her son that way, too. She also guessed it would be near impossible for a son to disappoint a mama, especially one who thought so well of you. Seeing his room, Emmalee knew she had done right to push Billy away after that day by the Sequatchie River when he spread a blanket along its grassy bank. They had picked blades of grass and tossed rocks into the water before Billy asked her to be his girl. He covered their bodies with another blanket and ran his fingers through Emmalee’s long hair. He pulled her blouse back and kissed her bare shoulder and whispered in her ear.

  “I love you, Emmalee Bullard.”

  Billy kissed her neck and loved her in a way that was gentle and tender. Emmalee closed her eyes and snuggled in his arms while the sun dropped below the horizon.

  “What’s your mama going to think about me being your girl?” Emmalee asked, her head resting in the crook of his arm.

  “Mother? She doesn’t understand these kind of things.”

  “What kind of things are we?”

  “You know my mother’s crazy,” he said and leaned over and kissed Emmalee’s nose.