The Funeral Dress

by Susan Gregg Gilmore

  Emmalee knew many of the women who filed by the caskets and lingered about the living room were gossiping about her. She saw them chatting among themselves and pointing her way. But she did not budge. Instead Emmalee straightened her back and turned her gaze toward Leona. She had sat by Leona for three years at Tennewa, and she was not leaving her now.

  Another hour passed. One hundred and thirty-three.

  Husbands held their wives’ hands. Seamstresses whispered in one another’s ears. Most were already busy sharing their versions of the accident and special memories they had shared with Curtis and Leona. Some women cried outright, and some men wiped their eyes. Some stepped close and studied their faces. Others kept their distance, but everyone commented on Mr. Fulton’s expert work. And all sang a similar refrain: “My, my, they look real handsome considering …” Then they stuttered and stammered, not sure how to best finish their poorly started compliment. “Well, considering everything.”

  Emmalee even overheard some talk of the beautiful dress Leona was wearing while others made fun of its color.

  “The Bullard girl made Leona’s dress,” one woman told her friend.

  “Red, can you imagine? For a funeral? I thought Leona took in sewing, not men,” the other woman said. They both stifled a laugh. Emmalee ignored them and looked only at Leona’s face, peaceful in death. No more wounds. No more dark, sad circles under her eyes.

  The preacher clutched his Bible as he passed by and thanked Emmalee for her steady sewing hand. The sheriff mumbled a few quiet words. Mr. Clayton straightened his tie and was quick to leave, his wife pushing him along from behind. Gwen Whitlow hugged Emmalee and began to sob, crying till she struggled to catch her breath. She asked Emmalee something about a cross, but the preacher led her to the sofa on the other side of the room before Emmalee could answer. They bowed their heads in prayer and spoke of Leona’s generous spirit. Emmalee had never heard Gwen compliment Leona like this.

  Mrs. Fulton walked through the room every half hour, tidying the pillows and offering visitors tissues and hot coffee. She stopped and glared at Emnmalee. “Do you really need to sit so close to the body, especially with that baby in your arms? Good Lord, Emmalee, you’re not even that woman’s family.”

  “I ain’t leaving.” Emmalee sat a little taller. “And if you got a problem with your grandbaby being here, then you take her.” Emmalee held the baby up.

  Mrs. Fulton stepped back, careful to keep a smile on her face while she glanced about the room. She nodded at Cora sitting in the blue velvet chair placed opposite the casket, her body wedged into the narrow seat.

  “Hey there,” Cora called to Emmalee. “That your baby there?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “How you been doing?” Cora popped a cheese wafer in her mouth.

  Emmalee shrugged her shoulders.

  “Being a mama ain’t easy, is it?” Cora asked and swallowed hard.

  “No, ma’am, it ain’t.”

  “People say the first one’s the hardest, but my third about put me in the grave.” Cora glanced at the casket. “Lord, that child was work, cried all the time, sick most of the winter. Boy turned thirty last week, and he’s still causing me to worry.”

  Emmalee shifted Kelly Faye to her other shoulder. “How’d you take care of them all and work a job, Miss Cora?”

  “Not much choice. Had to feed ’em. Mama helped me some, till her stroke. Then I had her to care for too.”

  “I had no idea,” Emmalee said.

  “Oh, I’m not so different than any other woman around here.” Cora lifted her pocketbook onto her lap. “Besides, the oldest one helped when she could. I never would let her miss a day of school though. Sometimes there was no choice but to leave a couple of them home alone.” Cora shook her head. “I never liked doing that. But they survived.”

  She opened her purse and pulled out a book of pictures. “They all grown up. Got families of their own. Not a one of them lives in Cullen no more. Got two in Jasper. Alma, she’s my baby, moved down to Mississippi and wants me to come for a while. She got a real pretty house there near Oxford.” She handed the photographs to Emmalee. “But that ain’t my home.” Cora opened her pocketbook wider and fished for a mint candy. “You going back to the factory, Emmalee?”

  “I want to. Don’t got it all figured out. Don’t got no one to help with the baby and sure can’t be leaving her with Nolan.”

  “Lord, no.” Cora laughed, her jowls and neck jiggling as she spoke. She set her pocketbook back on the floor. “Can I hold her?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Emmalee stepped off the stool and placed Kelly in Cora’s open arms. The old woman hummed as she lifted the child to her chest. Her large breasts hung low, and Kelly squirmed as she nestled in between them.

  “Oh sweet baby, sweet baby girl.” Cora repeated these words, adding a made-up tune as she went along. Even stuffed into the velvet chair, Cora managed to rock her body from side to side and lull Kelly into a sleepy trance. Emmalee liked seeing her baby in Cora’s arms. She stared a moment longer and then opened Cora’s picture book.

  Mr. Fulton appeared from behind the kitchen door. “Good evening, Mrs. Hixson. It’s good to see you here as always. I see you found yourself a baby to love on.” He hugged Cora’s shoulder as he moved through the living room. “She’s a pretty thing, isn’t she?”

  “She sure is.”

  “Speaking of pretty things, did you see the dress Leona’s wearing?” Mr. Fulton walked to Emmalee and stood beside her. Emmalee grinned, surprised Mr. Fulton had drawn attention to her work.

  “Prettiest dress I ever seen, and for sure the prettiest dress I ever seen on Leona. Didn’t know she’d spend a penny on anything as nice as that,” Cora said, her body swaying back and forth.

  “She didn’t. Emmalee made it for her,” Mr. Fulton said.

  Emmalee smiled even bigger. Mr. Fulton was always kind with his words. He reminded her of Billy in that way.

  “I think we might have to hire this girl more often. Custom wear for the heavenly bound perhaps.” Mr. Fulton laughed. “There’s good money in this type of ready wear, right, Emmalee?” He leaned in to hug Emmalee. “You done good. Real good. And I know it’s not been easy.”

  “Thank you.” Emmalee fixed her eyes on Leona. “Funny, you know, Leona’s got this sweet smile on her face. But when she was living, she never looked happy like this.” Emmalee smoothed Leona’s collar as if she was placing a warm iron to it one last time.

  “Maybe that’s it. Maybe she’s finally happy,” Mr. Fulton said.

  “I sure hope so. Hope she’s found Curtis, Jr.”

  “I’m sure she has, hon,” Mr. Fulton said. “And I bet Curtis is admiring her in that red dress right about now. Just wish I had done better by him.”

  Emmalee had no memory of what her mother was wearing the day she was buried, but she wished she had a nice memory like this one to carry with her. Emmalee understood she’d never shake loose the image of Cynthia Faye struggling for a last breath, her skin yellow and paper thin. That image would be seared on her thoughts forever, like a rancher’s brand on a cattle’s hindquarters. And she figured it was up to her to fill her baby’s head with pretty thoughts, not ones that would haunt her and startle her awake at night for the rest of her life.

  “You think everybody ends up happy?” Emmalee asked, her hand still resting on Leona’s collar.

  “I like to think so,” Mr. Fulton said. “But I think for some of us it takes a lifetime to get there. For others, I think it takes dying.”

  Emmalee’s eyes swelled with tears at such a kind reassurance. She pinched her nose tight.

  “Hon, I’ve heard from Runt.” Mr. Fulton leaned closer to Emmalee. “He and Mettie are coming to the visitation.” He paused. “They want to see the baby.”

  Emmalee’s body stiffened. “You said they were going to leave Kelly Faye be until after the funeral.”

  “They’re not taking her.” He patted Emmalee’s back as he might th
e baby’s. “They just want to come pay their respects. Curtis was a friend of Runt’s.”

  “That may be, but Kelly Faye ain’t part of the visitation.”

  “I understand that,” he said. “Let’s not worry about that now. They probably won’t get here till tomorrow anyway.”

  “You seen Nolan?” Emmalee asked, her voice turning anxious.

  “No. Not yet. I’m sure he’ll come around eventually. He usually stops by to see if I need a hand with anything.” Mr. Fulton laughed a little. “You know your father, no matter how mad he gets, it never seems to last long. His mood changes like the wind.”

  Emmalee nodded and pressed her fingers against her eyes, trying to push the sadness back inside.

  “Basil,” Mrs. Fulton said, the sound of her voice causing Emmalee to shudder. “We got at least fifty people in here, and I see more walking down the street. You keep a close watch on things. You, too, Emmalee. Curtis’s got some good people on his side, but I don’t know who all will show from Leona’s.” Mrs. Fulton picked up a porcelain figurine and held it to her middle. “I’m not staying up past midnight keeping track of my things while these men sip their liquor and swap their filthy stories.”

  “Hester,” Mr. Fulton said.

  “You can Hester me all you want, but I don’t want to find anybody passed out on the sofa in the morning or empty whiskey bottles under the cushions like happened when Frank Dawson passed on,” she said, her voice growing louder.

  “Quit worrying, Hester. These are all good people,” Mr. Fulton said.

  The telephone rang, and Mrs. Fulton motioned for her husband to answer the door as she ran for the receiver on the other side of the living room. “Fulton-Pittman Funeral Home. May I help you?” Mrs. Fulton answered, looking stern at her husband and pointing her finger toward the front door.

  “Yes, the wreath went up. Yes, it was the Lane couple. Yes, ma’am, it was both of them, Curtis and Leona. On the way to church supper. Yes, ma’am, they’re dead,” Mrs. Fulton said and rolled her eyes while she placed the figurine inside a cedar box sitting on the floor. “Yes, it was a tragedy sure enough. Yes, that’s right. The service will be on Tuesday with burial to follow right there at the Church of Christ. That’s fine. Thanks for calling.”

  She replaced the receiver and walked back into the kitchen. “Lord, I don’t hang that wreath on that door just to be announcing bingo.”

  Emmalee hid her face behind her hands, camouflaging her laughter. She stepped across the room and knelt next to Cora, sneaking a quick peek at her baby. “Mrs. Hixson, would you mind hanging on to Kelly for a minute? I want to stretch my legs outside, and I don’t want her smelling all that smoke.”

  “Love to. But call me Cora, hon.”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  Emmalee steered through the crowd of people gathering in the hall, relieved to be in the cold air and out of the dimly lit room smelling of both death and fresh lilies. Several men from Tennewa who worked on the loading dock and in the cutting room stood on the porch, enjoying their cigars and conversation. She pushed her way to the far edge and leaned over the banister. The moon was nearly full, and she scanned the sky for the stars often hidden from her view back in the cover of the holler.

  An engine suddenly sputtered and coughed down the road. Emmalee stretched her neck forward to get a better look. It sounded familiar, like Nolan’s old truck. But when it passed in front of the funeral home, Emmalee could see it wasn’t their beat-up Ford but a better-looking Chevrolet. She turned back toward the house and spied Ruthie next door, standing in her kitchen window. She was washing the evening’s dishes while her husband stood behind her, holding their daughter in his arms. Ruthie chuckled about something, and her husband kissed her neck. She smiled and continued about her chore.

  Emmalee walked back inside the funeral home and took her place next to Leona.

  The next morning Emmalee woke early with Kelly Faye. The evening’s last mourners had not left the funeral home until after midnight just as Mrs. Fulton had feared. Fortunately, the baby had slept soundly in the cradle next to Emmalee even though loud outbursts of laughter peppered the talk downstairs.

  Emmalee placed the baby in the bed next to her and rested her finger in the palm of her infant’s tiny hand. Kelly Faye squirmed and tightened her grip. Emmalee had missed the feeling of Kelly’s soft skin next to hers during the time they had been apart. The baby kicked and cooed as if she understood her mama’s sadness and was trying to brighten her mood.

  Hours later, Emmalee diapered and nursed her and rocked her in the cradle till she drifted back to sleep. The house was still, but Emmalee was too awake and pulled the robe over her shoulders and headed downstairs to fix an egg and a cup of fresh coffee.

  The Fultons’ kitchen walls were covered in paper with flowers and vines painted all over it. There were two ovens, one set above the other, and the water poured fast from the sink’s shiny faucet. China plates and bowls were stacked neatly and stored in cabinets with glass fronts. Every pot and pan had its place. Every surface was wiped clean.

  The Fultons slept late this morning as they had warned Emmalee they were prone to do after a long visitation. So she moved quietly about the kitchen. She started the coffee and opened the refrigerator and searched for the carton of eggs. A jug of fresh orange juice caught her eye, and she placed it on the counter.

  The telephone rang, and Emmalee jumped, not accustomed to the harsh, trilling sound. She hesitated but reached for the phone mounted on the kitchen wall, hoping the sound had not disturbed the Fultons sleeping upstairs. She lifted the receiver to one ear and tucked her hair behind the other. Emmalee pulled the robe farther over her shoulder as if she needed to cover herself before speaking to the caller on the opposite end of the line.

  “Fulton-Pittman Funeral Home. May I help you?” she asked, reciting the greeting she had heard Mrs. Fulton offer over and over the night before.

  “Who’s this?” a man’s voice asked.

  “Fulton’s Funeral Home.”

  “I mean who’s this on the phone?”

  Emmalee’s stomach fluttered. She had heard this voice before, and she reached for the back of the kitchen chair. “This is Emmalee. Emmalee Bullard.”

  A long pause filled the distance between her and the caller.

  “Emmalee? This is Billy. What are you doing there?”

  His voice sounded deeper than Emmalee had remembered. “Billy? Is that really you?” Emmalee asked.

  “Yeah, it’s me. But what are you doing there? Mother didn’t mention you staying at the house.”

  “Not surprised. Your mama ain’t too fond of me,” Emmalee said.

  “Don’t pay her no mind. You okay?”

  “Yeah, everybody’s fine. I been a little sick. Baby has too.” Emmalee poured a cup of coffee and put it on the table. She sat down and pushed the coffee away.

  “But you’re okay? You’re both okay?”

  “Yeah.” Emmalee rested her elbows on the table as she held the receiver tight against her ear, desperate to inch closer to the boy she had convinced herself she didn’t care about any more.

  “Mother told me you say the baby is mine.”

  “You know she is, Billy Fulton. Don’t act like you don’t.”

  Another long pause drifted between them.

  “I know, Emmalee. I know.”

  “You coming back to Cullen … to see her … the baby, that is?”

  “I don’t know. Mother wants me to stay here in Knoxville and finish the semester. Exams’ll be starting in a few more days.”

  Emmalee stood and shoved the chair underneath the kitchen table. “And what about you, Billy? What do you want? You got a thought in your head that don’t belong to your mama first?”

  “Emmalee, come on. This is a hell of a lot to deal with. I don’t know what to think. Hell, a baby. It’s kind of a big surprise.”

  “A surprise? Really? No kidding, Billy.” Emmalee’s tone was growing shrill. “You didn’t ha
ve a thought before yesterday that she might be your own? You saw her being born, for crying out loud, Billy. Or you figure I sleep with any boy come my way? Is that what your mama’s told you? Is that what you think?”

  “I don’t think that. I never thought that. Good Lord, Emmalee. You should know me better than that.”

  Emmalee nodded. She did know that about Billy.

  “Look, I’m real sorry about all of this. Real sorry. Hell, I never thought this would happen,” Billy said. “But you’re the one got up and walked off.”

  “Walked off.” Emmalee was shouting now. “Shit, Billy, you didn’t love me enough to tell your own mama about me, even when there was no Kelly Faye.” She paced the kitchen floor as far as the telephone cord would allow. Again, she heard Billy say he was sorry. She wished that was all she really needed from him, an acknowledgment he had, if only for an evening, if only for a moment, truly loved her. But Emmalee needed more than that now.

  “Well, Mother knows everything about us thanks to your daddy,” Billy said. “But that doesn’t change the fact that I’m not ready to be stuck with a baby. I’m sorry, Emmalee. I’m just not.”

  Emmalee held the receiver out in front of her. She wanted to bang it on the table but took it back to her ear. “Take your time, Billy. I wouldn’t want to rush you into anything. But so you know, this baby can’t take care of herself. They don’t come that way. And I got my own blood nipping at my heels trying to steal her from me. But if’d you come back to Cullen, they’d leave me be. I know they would.”

  Emmalee swore she could feel Billy’s fear and frustration blowing through the telephone line, a wisp of warm air sweeping right past her cheek. She could hear his breathing as if he was standing right by her. She swore she could smell him, maybe even reach out and touch him.

  “You should have done something, Emmalee, done something so this never happened in the first place.”