Cemetery Silk

by E. Joan Sims

  “Paisley! What on earth are you doing? Come back here this instant!”

  She was still shaking her head when I slid back through the fence to join her.

  “You’ve changed so much, Paisley. I hardly know you.”

  “You’ve changed too, Mother.”

  I bent down to brush the beggar lice off my pants and compose myself. She had been through enough today. The fate of the dog next door would have to be my sad little secret at least for now. I straightened up and smiled at her.

  “You need a little goosing up, Mother. What have you been doing for fun lately?”

  “Certainly not peeking into other people’s houses.”

  “All us Yankees are no-good peekers,” I teased.

  She suddenly looked pained.

  “I’m sorry, Mother. I really am trying to be considerate.”

  I pulled her over to a small wooden bench. The paint on it was peeling, and it had definitely seen better days. I hoped it would hold us both. Mother was right as usual, I thought woefully. I had stuffed myself. I felt ten pounds heavier and more than a little nauseated. The sight of the rotting carcass had done nothing for my digestion.

  She pulled a dainty lace handkerchief out of her sleeve and dabbed at her eyes.

  “It’s just that you said something that Abigail used to say. You must have heard her many times when you were little. Every night she would pull the blinds down so the ‘peekers’ couldn’t see in. I used to tease her about it.”

  She smiled and patted my knee.

  “You come by your teasing naturally. And you’re right. I could use a little goosing up. Things have been rather dismal around here since Abigail died. I wish you and Cassie could stay and visit a little longer.”

  “You know I have to get back to work, but what about Velvet? When was my world-trotting sister’s last visit home?”

  “The flowers Velvet sent were lovely, don’t you think?” she asked ignoring my question.

  “Ten dozen exotic orchids!” I snorted. “For a funeral? Besides, I bet Joe Tom’s already got them in the truck of his Cadillac.”

  She stood up and smoothed down the nonexistent wrinkles in her skirt.

  “Oh, dear,” she sighed ignoring me again. “Duty calls. I must go back inside. Will you join me?”

  “I think I’ll sit here awhile. I’m tired of people I hardly know asking me how I managed to lose a husband in the jungle.”

  She bent down and kissed my cheek and then patted me on the head. I had been forgiven my trespasses once more.

  I thought about going next door again but I knew Mother might be watching me from the window, so I sighed and decided to let it go. The day had been a long one and I was tired.

  Cassie and I had been traveling since the predawn hours. Immediately upon our arrival at Mother’s farm in Rowan Springs, we had left for the little town of Lanierville fifty miles away where William had lived.

  I was not kidding when I told Mother I had been surprised to see a Catholic priest take the podium at the funeral home service and introduce himself. When I had married Rafe in a Catholic ceremony twenty years ago, it caused quite a stir. Most of my family, including William and Abigail, were Protestants. This morning I sat in stunned silence and watched the little white collar of Father Barnard’s vestments bob up and down with his Adam’s apple as he spoke. I was too busy wondering what in the hell he was doing there to listen to what he had to say.

  When the cleric was finished, Ernest Dibber rushed up to shake his hand and thank him. I remembered then that William had mentioned his neighbors were Catholic.

  I turned to ask Mother what she thought, but we were suddenly hemmed in by a corral of aluminum walkers. William’s old buddies were lining up to offer their condolences. Mother smiled and spoke sweetly to everyone as usual, but the depressing smell of Ben-Gay and soggy Depends was too much for me. I had had enough of the Geritol crowd. I grabbed Cassie by the hand, and we went to get the car.

  The funeral home did not have enough handicap parking spots for all the debilitated old folks. Some of them had to be wheeled and walked back to their cars at the far end of the lot. By the time we could safely start the car, Mother had joined us, and I moved forward to pull up behind the hearse in the “next of kin” space for the trip to the cemetery. To our surprise Ernest and his wife had already parked their car there.

  Mother was outraged. “Who do they think they are? Why they’re not even remotely related to William!”

  I felt a stirring of uneasiness, but restrained myself from reminding her that, technically, we weren’t either.

  The graveside ceremony was even shorter and more abrupt than the one at the funeral home. The priest had a taxi waiting. As soon as he declared, “Amen!” he hopped in, and away he went. The only people besides us and the Dibbers who came to the cemetery were William’s two elderly female cousins. The four came together in conversation for a few moments and then parted company. They all left without a backward glance at the open grave. None of them had shed even one little tear for the dearly departed.

  Cassie sat alone on one of the six or seven folding chairs surrounding the raw dirt of the open grave. She stared forlornly at the plain metal casket. At her feet lay a spray of cheap florist greenery mixed in with some inexpensive fake carnations—the ones that florists call “cemetery silk.” It was a rare moment. Cassie was usually in motion physically and emotionally. I had forgotten how truly beautiful she was. For once she had my blessing to wear her favorite color. She had pleased me by choosing a simple black silk dress. It was one that I purchased for her college wardrobe. I had the misbegotten notion that her need for “a smart little black dress” would be the same as mine had been twenty-five years before. I helped her cut off the price tag this morning. It had hung in the closet for more than a year unworn.

  Even standing as far away as I was, I could see her thick black eyelashes. Dark brown hair hung straight and shining to her shoulders. My daughter did not inherit my hazel eyes and freckles. No unruly auburn curls for her. Her hair and eyes were dark like her father’s. He used to say his baby’s hair was the color of castanos. The word always brought to mind visions of castanets. It really meant “chestnut.” That was the wood most castanets were made from. She was truly lovely, and she was still my baby even if she was eighteen.

  A few feet away from her three gravediggers were lounging under a big oak tree smoking. They waited impatiently for everyone to leave so they could finish their dismal business. They had on short white cotton jackets resembling the ones supermarket clerks or butchers wear. The name of the funeral home was embroidered over the breast pocket in a bright irreverent green. Underneath their jackets they wore faded cotton work shirts, or, in the case of one man, a soiled undershirt. They all wore dirty jeans and scuffed boots.

  They began to grumble among themselves. As their voices got purposefully louder and more obscene I could tell their anger was directed at Cassie because she showed no signs of moving. Foolishly, one of them flicked a cigarette butt in her direction. It landed smack in front of her and bounced off the coffin. Hair swirled around her pale face like a dark cloud as she turned quickly toward them. She glared at the men for a moment until they began to shift uneasily, then slowly wiped the tears from her eyes. She gave William’s casket a farewell caress and picked up the still smoldering cigarette. All of her sadness and grief had found a focal point, and for a brief moment I felt sorry for the men. I watched my daughter, the avenging angel, walk toward them with a sweet and terrible smile on her lips. Cassie looked carefully at their faces and decided correctly who had done the deed.

  “I do believe this is yours, Sir,” she said, as she gently lifted a big dirty hand and turned the palm up. The man stared dumbly into that incredibly perfect face and gave only a slight whimper as she ground the burning cigarette out in the center of his lifeline.

  Somehow we managed to get out of the cemetery alive. Considering the ugly shouts that followed us to the car, I foun
d it to be just one more unsettling event of the day. Funerals should be peaceful occasions. So why did our attempt to say farewell to our dearly departed leave me with such a sense of foreboding?

  Chapter Two

  Cassie, Mother, and I drove back home to Rowan Springs in weary silence. I was thinking back to happier days when my father and grandparents were still alive. I was sure Mother and Cassie were having similar thoughts.

  We were strong and hardworking folk, most of us with sound minds and strong tall bodies. We were from pioneer stock with good genes, and we had our share of good fortune. Those who passed on had mostly died in bed, simply exhausted from a long and happy life. There was, however, one great-great-grandfather who died in the arms of his buxom new wife during their wedding dance. She was his third lady, and her “buxom” held him up during the waltz. It was not until the music stopped that anyone realized his heart had also.

  When Abigail died, she simply collapsed behind William as she followed him into the kitchen to make his dinner. We were told she was dead before the ambulance arrived. William had lingered in the hospital only three days after his last heart attack a week ago. “No pain,” the doctor said. “We made sure.”

  So I was somber but comforted by the knowledge that William and Abigail were together again as they had been for the last forty years. And we were going home where a nice cold glass of Chardonnay awaited us.

  My father had designed the patio behind our house. It sat like a compass right in the middle of the huge grassy expanse of ten acres that made up our backyard. I had placed the brightly colored mosaic of tiles in each compass point. Dad made sure they corresponded to true north, east, south, and west. In the center was a beautifully hand-painted tile with a compass rose. Under the “W” for west was a moon, and you can guess what was set in under the “E.” During the last forty years, many wonderful plans had been made and many delightful words had been spoken east of the sun and west of the moon.

  On the patio this evening, Cassie was curled up like a cat on a chaise lounge. She was all cried out and seemed to have come to terms with the day’s events. I sprawled in limp exhaustion on the wide double rocker beside her. As a writer I suppose I should say something corny like “the brilliant scarlet sky swallowed the golden sun in a ravishing gulp of splendor,” but the truth is that I was, as always, simply ennobled by the beauty of the sunset. It is amazing how much you can see of nature without the intrusion of skyscrapers and industrial fumes. I was quiet, humbled by the glorious sight. So, I thought, was Cassie until she spoke.

  “How much do you think William willed to Gran?”

  I was truly astonished! It had never occurred to me that poor William, who lived in a 750 square foot house with threadbare carpets, would have enough of an estate to actually will anything to anyone.

  “Really, Cassie! The poor old soul is not even cold yet! For God’s sake wait ‘till the dirt settles.”

  “I loved William and Abigail with all my heart! You know that. But he is dead, and I do remember Granpapa saying that he was worth a fortune.”

  “Honey, the way your grandfather spent money, anyone who had a hundred dollars salted away was worth a fortune! And besides.…”

  She interrupted. “I know, but William did sell that land of his father’s to the coal company for at least ninety thousand. And you saw the awful way the poor old souls lived! Their refrigerator was four hundred years old, the carpet was moth eaten, and I almost fell through a hole in the kitchen floor. They surely didn’t spend that money on creature comforts.”

  “I had forgotten William once had money, but that was years ago, Cassie. I can’t imagine how you remembered. You were just a baby. Anyway, they must have made some bad investments and lost it.”

  But Cassie was on a roll. I could not imagine where she had heard all these things until she continued.

  “And Abigail told Gran that after they married, they lived on William’s salary alone. She put all her salary back into her company’s stock option program. Fifteen years worth of AT&T must be a small fortune!”

  She went on without even pausing.

  “I just know Abigail would have wanted Gran to have whatever she had. I mean, they were the closest thing to sisters. Gran has to have all those lovely blue chips. After all, if William had died first, Gran would have inherited Abigail’s estate. I wonder if she would like to go back to Paris with a companion? A really smart and capable young woman who speaks some French and can carry enormous bags?”

  “Did someone mention my name and Paris in the same sentence, I hope?”

  Mother stood for a moment silhouetted in the last orange and gold rays of the setting sun, and I marveled for the hundredth time at her strength and resilience. I knew that William’s death meant more to her than just the passing of a dear and treasured friend. With William gone she was the last one of her generation left. There were no more ties to a beloved and happy past. She was alone now, a dinosaur, a lovely and elegant white-haired dinosaur.

  I struggled up from the rocker to give her an embrace, but she turned from the sunset and held out a small silver tray with wine for us and a soft drink for Cassie. Mother raised her glass in a toast.

  “Salud, my darlings. The wine has been under the stairs since Christmas, but I think it’s still potable. What a lovely sky. My goodness, look at that gorgeous harvest moon!”

  I could see Cassie opening her mouth to contradict her grandmother. I knew that the harvest moon does not appear until after the last day of summer, and so did she—so did Mother for that matter. I shook my head just a bit. Cass obeyed and backed down from what could have been the beginning of one of their silly disagreements over trivial facts. I sighed in relief as Mother settled comfortably on the rocker next to me.

  We sipped the crisp wine and gazed at the “not yet” harvest moon in peace if not contentment. The crickets and the tiny little croakers down in the pond began their twilight song. The deep blue that immediately follows sunset surrounded us for a brief gorgeous moment and then deepened into true nightfall. The little solar-powered cap lights twinkled along the walkway and confused countless yearning fireflies that blinked back in unrequited love.

  With Cassie at college in Atlanta and me in New York trying to sell my latest children’s book, almost a year had passed since the three of us had been here together. I felt a lump form in my throat as I realized how much this place and being here with these two people meant to me. Tonight was definitely not the time to burst into sentimental tears.

  “Billy has the place looking like a million dollars,” I offered in a scratchy voice.

  “And that’s just about what he charges,” replied Mother shaking her head. “I may have to find somebody else. Maybe I can hire some high school student. I do have the tractor mower you know. It’s hardly been used since your father died. Maybe one of Mavis’s grandsons could help out.”

  “But Gran,” protested Cassie, “Billy has been working for you and Granpapa since I was a little girl. He taught me how to ride a horse and fish and climb trees. You can’t fire him. He’s like one of the family.”

  “It’s not a matter of firing him, darling. It’s a matter of not being able to afford him. After all, he has a family to support. He cannot charge me less than his services are worth.”

  “Mother, I didn’t realize you were in a bind.”

  I felt the lump again, a big guilty lump.

  “I should be getting this last book deal signed by the end of October. Pam will send me the advance. I should have helped out before now.”

  “Nonsense, Paisley, I’m fine, really. For heaven’s sakes, let’s not discuss anything as depressing as money. Hasn’t the day been morbid enough?”

  Cassie cheerfully ignored her grandmother’s request.

  “Speaking of money, Gran, how much do you think William left you? Wouldn’t it be terrific if he left you all of Abigail’s AT&T? Then you wouldn’t have to worry about anything. Forget about Paris. This is your home. It com
es first. And the house does need a new coat of paint.”

  I could feel Mother’s dilemma. Ordinarily, she loved to speculate on any and all aspects of a given situation, but this was different. Like me, she felt it was improper to discuss wills before the second sun set over the grave. Also, I do believe the thought of a monetary inheritance from her cousin’s husband had never occurred to her. She considered all her options for a moment and then decided to get a little mileage out of Cassie.

  “Cassandra, be a dear and bring the rest of the wine from the table on the porch. There’s a good girl.”

  Mother knew that Cassie hated to be patronized but had to obey or risk missing out on the conversation. Cassie jumped up from the chaise with the agility of youth. It had taken me three tries to get up the last time I sat in it.

  “Paisley, you have raised the devil’s own daughter!” laughed Mother.

  “Ah,” I responded theatrically, “you remember him well!”

  Cassie ran back with the wine.

  “What about Daddy?”

  “Nothing, darling,” Mother and I both answered together.

  The night was too short to begin that discussion.

  Cassie poured the wine in the dark by holding a finger inside the lip of each glass to keep it from spilling over. She sat down on the patio and crossed her long slender legs. Her big brown eyes sparkled impishly in the moonlight as she asked, “Well, Gran? What do you think? Are you an heiress or not?”

  “I have no expectations at all of any money, Cassie, dear,” Mother finally admitted. She ignored the loud disappointed sigh emanating from her grandchild and went on to explain.

  “Joe Tom’s father was William’s first cousin just as I was Abigail’s. Since his father passed away four years ago, Joe Tom will be the sole beneficiary of whatever estate there is. I cannot imagine there is more to it than that miserable little house.”

  She smiled tiredly in Cassie’s direction. Her voice held a note of forced gaiety as she continued, “I do know that William promised me the table that Abigail got from our grandmother. He offered it to me the day of her funeral, but I was too tired and heartsick to try and bring it home. Ernest Dibber told me today that William mentioned me in his will. I’m certain that it’s your great-great-grandmother’s table. Poor William had nothing else to leave to me.”