by Lexi George
She shivered, her mind balking at the terrible image.
Brand accompanied her to the funeral home, looking disgustingly gorgeous in his blue dress shirt and black slacks. The guy was a major hunk, no matter what he wore, but in dress duds he was a killer. Every time Addy looked at him, her eyeballs did a little happy dance in their sockets and her hormones went into overload. To her disgust, all the females at Corwin’s had a similar reaction. And a few males, too, she noticed, taking mental notes about who was and was not out of the closet in Hannah. In fact, she suspected there might have been a stampede if they’d been anywhere other than a funeral home.
Addy went straight to the chapel, a two-hundred-fifty-seat space decorated in traditional funeral home blah. Canned music floated out of the speakers mounted in the four corners of the room. The blond paneling on the walls gleamed softly in the muted light from the arched windows. The flowers had been moved from the viewing room and lined up on one side of the pulpit in anticipation of the service. Working quickly, Addy made a few last-minute repairs to the arrangements and hurried to take a seat beside Brand on a cushioned pew in the back of the room. The casket was rolled past the Farris family members and placed in front of the wall of flowers. Shep came in bearing a large, framed picture of Dwight Farris. He placed the picture on an easel and stepped back. Addy studied the likeness. Young Dwight looked a lot like Dinky, sans mullet. There was one gene pool she wouldn’t want to take a dip in.
Shep turned, and Addy stifled a gasp. Although he was dressed with his customary care, his hair smooth and polished, something about him seemed different. The expression on his face startled Addy. He looked beatific . . . serene. Heck, Big Bro looked stoned. Shep wasn’t into drugs or a big boozer. Still, it had been a stressful forty-eight hours, what with Dwight disappearing and showing back up decapitated. Who could blame Shep if he had a little something before the funeral? Poor guy was probably petrified Dwight would lose his head again.
Shep’s weird behavior increased Addy’s anxiety. She needed to know that Dwight was dead. She wanted to see the head. Shirley was bound to notice if Dwight didn’t have a head. Sure, she cut things off the poor guy. Important things, Dwight’s favorite thing, rumor had it. But that didn’t mean anyone else was allowed to do it. So, when the eerie wailing from the phantom organ overhead intensified and, one by one, people began to drift out of the pews to file past the dearly departed and pay their respects, Addy got up and got in line.
Shirley stood at the head of the casket accepting condolences. Dressed in a powder-blue, double-knit dress with a belt and shoes to match, she clasped a shiny patent leather blue purse in one hand and a white lace hanky in the other. Addy couldn’t help but wonder if Shirley had it in the bag. Knowing Shirley, the answer was probably yes.
With a combination of morbid curiosity and dread, Addy shuffled closer to the body. Reaching the deceased at last, she sent up a prayer that the dead guy cooties wouldn’t jump out of the casket and permanently stick to her eyeballs and looked down. Dead dude’s head was right where it ought to be. Dwight’s eyes were closed, thank you, Lord Jesus. One of the worst things about Ghouly Farris had been that horrible wet, purple-black gaze, like liquid evil. As she gazed upon Dwight’s waxen features, she realized something. She was nose to nose with a dead guy, and she hadn’t fainted or run screaming out of the room or thrown up. Her fear of dead people was gone. She still wasn’t crazy about the living-impaired, but she could deal. Huh. How about that? Her little run-in with Ghouly Farris probably had something to do with it. Nothing like rolling around on the floor with a flesh-eating dead guy to cure a girl of necrophobia. Immersion therapy at its best.
She inspected the corpse critically. For a guy who’d been emasculated, demonically possessed, beheaded, and barbecued, Old Man Farris didn’t look half bad. The gray suit was a definite improvement over the cheap polyester nightmare Widow Farris had put him in. His cheeks had been restuffed and the damage to his mouth repaired. Super-glue was good stuff. Her big brother was some kind of freaking funeral home genius, because the only evidence of the ugly gash between Dwight’s lower lip and chin was a single thin line that looked like a scar. The collar hid Dwight’s neck, so Addy couldn’t tell how Shep had reattached the head. She suspected duct tape was involved. Southerners use duct tape for everything from patching mufflers and hemming pants to wart removal. There were rumors floating around town that Darryl Wilson had once used Saran Wrap and duct tape to create a super condom. The duct tape stuck to his skin, so the story went, and Darryl and the Silver Surfer ended up at the ER in Paulsberg.
Various family members and friends had left little offerings in the casket with Dwight, a kind of Great Beyond travel kit. There was a pack of apple-flavored Skoal, a pair of nail clippers, a fountain pen—Wha? Did they think the guy was going to write?—a bag of circus peanuts, a box of Good & Plenty, a girlie magazine, and ajar of spiced peaches. The edge of a photograph peeked out of Dwight’s lapel pocket. Addy bent over for a better look. It was a picture of Dwight standing next to Bessie Mae. In the photo, Bessie Mae wore black, leather-look, spandex leggings, a leopard print tube top, and five-inch black stilettos. A cheetah print headband separated the front of her jet-black, cotton-candy hair from the high poof of sprayed and teased hair in the back. Dwight had a death grip on one of Bessie Mae’s boobs. Like he was afraid it might escape or something. Girlfriend had a terminal case of camel toe. Addy could practically read the woman’s lips.
Addy glanced over at Shirley. Clueless, bless her heart. Bessie Mae was like the Stealth Bomber of girlfriends, able to penetrate the enemy’s defenses, nuke ’em, and glide back out again without being seen.
Mama appeared out of nowhere at Addy’s elbow. Mama was a Stealth Bomber, too. Real sneaky like Bessie Mae, only without the camel toe, thank God. Mama’s genitalia would never betray her in such an uncouth manner. Growing up, Addy was certain Mama was a smoothie, like Barbie. No hootie at all.
“Move along, Addy,” Mama said. “You’re holding up the line. You want to make a scene?”
A scene at the Farris funeral? Heaven forbid. Addy gave Shirley a sympathetic smile and sat back down.
Three preachers, two yowling soloists, and an hour and a half later, Addy and Brand waited at River Oaks Cemetery for Old Dwight to be interred. Located at the edge of the older part of town, the cemetery had been built at the turn of the twentieth century on the slopes of a gentle hill. Hundred-year-old oaks shaded the lots. The Farris plot was one of the newer ones situated at the front of the cemetery on a small rise. Shep stood to one side of the prepared grave, his expression unnaturally placid. The sarcophagus was removed from the hearse by eight deacons from the Cleansing Waters Baptist Church—referred to by the irreverent as Massengill Baptist—and placed in the center of the tent that covered the gravesite. The pallbearers stood sharply at attention as the family members exited their vehicles and seated themselves in fabric-covered chairs under the awning and out of the heat. Everyone else was allowed to bake.
Addy looked around. It was past noon on a blistering Alabama summer day. The heat index was one hundred and ten in the shade and the humidity was so thick the air was breathed in chunks. Everybody was sweating buckets except her and Brand. Score another one for Dalvahni DNA. She looked back at Shep and frowned. It was one thing to adopt a funereal demeanor as part of his job as funeral director, but Shep didn’t look solemn. He looked like nobody was home.
She made a mental note to check on her big brother as yet another preacher mumbled something over the body. At last, Shirley and the rest of the Farrises got up to leave. Someone pushed past Addy. It was Bessie Mae Brown. She’d gone all out for the funeral, pouring herself into a hot pink bustier that displayed an acre of tanned, wrinkled cleavage, a clingy midrifflength short-sleeve sweater in bright lemon yellow, a tight, short black skirt, and open-toed pink pumps. The pleather on the four-inch plastic heels had started to peel. Her signature barrette roosted at the back of her nest of black
hair.
Bessie Mae tottered onto the white gravel walkway and right into Shirley’s path.
“Uh oh,” Addy muttered. “It’s fixing to hit the fan.”
Dinky and his brothers took one look at the two women and darted off like startled rabbits. Clumps of sweating funeralgoers hesitated, their fascination with the imminent outbreak of hostilities clearly at odds with their desire to escape the brutal heat.
Shirley’s china doll eyes narrowed. “What do you want, Delilah?”
“Between the two of us, you’re the one who’s scissor happy, not me. What else did you cut off the poor man before you buried him? Serve you right if he haunts your ass.”
Shirley’s grip tightened on the blue purse. “I got the only part you were interested in, you trollop. That’s all you need to know.”
“That right?” Bessie Mae gave Shirley an evil smile. “Checked that deep freeze in your garage lately?”
Shirley stiffened. “What do you mean?”
“Oh, I don’t know, thought you might have missed this.” Bessie Mae plucked a neatly wrapped brown paper package out of her pink and yellow purse. “It says, ‘Dwight’s weenie. Do not microwave,’ on it. That’s real thoughtful, Shirley. Wouldn’t want anyone to mistake poor Dwight’s manhood for a leftover hotdog or an old pork chop, would you?”
“Give me that weenie.”
“I don’t think so.”
Shirley swung her purse at Bessie Mae’s head. “You give me that weenie, Bessie Mae Brown.”
Bessie Mae waved the package at Shirley. “Wiener, wiener, who’s got the wiener? Ooh, whadda yah know? Looks like I do!”
It was like waving a red cape in front of a bull. Shirley lowered her gray, sausage-curled head and charged. Bessie Mae took off at a wobbly run with Shirley hard on her heels. Shep gave them a bland smile and stepped smoothly to one side. Bessie Mae darted past him and under the tent. She made a lap around the casket with Shirley in hot pursuit.
“Tramp!” Shirley screeched as they made a second loop. Her pink bow mouth was drawn back in a snarl. “White trash bimbo!”
“Call me all the names you want, you crazy old heifer,” Bessie Mae panted. “I got my Sugar Scrotum’s lollipop, and I ain’t giving it back!”
“Stop this, both of you. Stop this unseemly behavior at once.” Deacon Forrest Hewlett pointed his finger at Bessie Mae as she rounded the bend. “Mend your wanton ways, Jezebel. Lest the dogs lap at thy flesh.”
“Oh, blow it out your ass, you old fart,” Bessie Mae said.
She pancaked him as she went by with a hard thrust of her elbow. He plowed into Deacon Samford, who fell into the man behind him. Boom, boom, boom. Eight deacons toppled like dominoes. Shirley caught up with Bessie Mae, grabbed the back of her bright yellow sweater, and yanked. Bessie Mae pitched backward into Shirley. Shirley made a grab for the package.
Bessie Mae held the package out of Shirley’s reach. “Oh, hell no you don’t.”
Shirley squealed in frustration and wrapped her arms around Bessie Mae’s neck. Bessie Mae grabbed hold of Shirley’s ample waist. The two women careened drunkenly around the tent, clinging to one another like a couple of winded boxers in the tenth round. Shirley slammed Bessie Mae into a support pole. Bessie Mae grabbed Shirley by the hair. They staggered back, snapping and snarling. Bessie Mae caught her heel on the rumpled carpet and crashed on top of the casket, taking Shirley with her. Dwight’s casket tilted sideways and slid to the ground. The weakened support pole buckled, and the tent collapsed.
Muffled squeaks and grunts and more than one un-deaconlike swear word were heard from those trapped under the tent.
Smiling sweetly, Shep threw back his head back and sang.
We are one in the Spirit,
We are one in the Lord.
And we pray that all unity may one day be restored.
His rich baritone floated down the hill, swelling as he reached the chorus.
And they’ll know we are Christians
By our love, by our love,
Yes, they’ll know we are Christians by our love.
“Tart,” Shirley wheezed from beneath the folds of the fallen tent.
“Fat ass,” Bessie Mae said.
Chapter Twenty-seven
Addy and Brand made their way down the graveled path behind the flow of mourners streaming back to their cars. She’d parked the delivery van, a Pepto-Bismol pink monstrosity that came with the shop, under a tree so the vehicle wouldn’t overheat. A blistering steering wheel and a car seat like molten lava were not her idea of comfort.
Herbert Duffey and Jefferson Davis Willis trailed at the back of the departing crowd. Addy and Brand soon caught up with them. Addy slowed her pace. The last time she’d seen Mr. Duffey, Brand had announced to anyone within earshot that she and Brand were going to have sex. Like that, twenty-seven years of staying on the down low gone faster than a green bean casserole at a Methodist covered-dish dinner.
She and Brand did have sex, but that was beside the point. The point was she was crazy about Brand. She didn’t regret having sex with him one minute, but she couldn’t face Mr. Duffey without her face catching on fire. Muddy was right. She was a hopeless fuddy duddy, so small town it was pathetic. What hope did a girl like her have of maintaining the interest of a man like Brand? The guy was ten thousand years old, for Pete’s sake. He probably had so many notches on his bed post the damn thing was a toothpick.
Mr. Duffey, thank God, hadn’t seen them yet. The path was uneven, and he kept his eyes and his cane on the ground. Mr. Willis did likewise. With any luck, maybe they wouldn’t notice her. Maybe they—
Brand stepped forward and took the two old men by the elbow. “The path is rough, gentlemen. Allow me to assist you down the hill.”
Mr. Duffey peered up at Brand. “Thank you, young man. Jefferson, this is Addy’s beau, the one I told you about.”
Translation: This is the guy Addy’s humping. Oh, God, maybe she would move to New Zealand. Maybe she’d join the Peace Corps, become a missionary in the Congo, or join the circus. She’d become a rodeo clown. Yeah. Nobody would recognize her under all that makeup. Too bad there really wasn’t a cow pie mushroom drug cartel in Hannah. She could turn government snitch and join the witness protection program. Move to North Dakota and never have to look at Herbert Duffey again. Uff da.
“Nice to meet you,” Mr. Willis said.
Mr. Duffey peered over his shoulder. “That you, Addy?”
Busted. Oh, well, might as well get it over with.
She hurried to Mr. Duffey’s side. “Yes, sir. It’s me.” She took him by the arm. “How you holding up in this heat?”
“I’m making it. That was some funeral, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, sir, it sure was.”
“When I die, I want them same three preachers at my funeral,” Mr. Willis announced.
Mr. Duffey gave him a startled sideways look. “Why in tarnation would you want to do that, Jefferson?”
“ ’Cause if I ain’t dead, I’ll climb right out of that coffin and kick them Sunday jawers in the ass.” Mr. Willis slammed his cane on the ground for emphasis. “Never seen such a windy bunch of fellers. And if the sermonizing wasn’t bad enough, every one of ’em prayed at the end. I counted thirty-seven ‘Jesus-We-Justs. ’ ”
Mr. Duffey shook his head. “Remind me not to outlive you. I ain’t sitting through another one like that, not without the Shirley and Bessie Mae show. Funniest damn thing I’ve seen since Beau Shackleford’s wife caught him with another woman. You remember that, Jefferson?”
Mr. Willis snorted. “Reckon I do. She knocked him out with a frying pan, painted him red, and rode him naked through town on the back of a mule.”
“Nekked,” Mr. Duffey corrected. He blinked at Brand through his thick glasses. “You know the difference between ‘naked’ and ‘nekked,’ young man?”
“No.”
“When you’re naked you ain’t got no clothes on,” Mr. Duffey said. “When you’re �
��nekked’ you ain’t got no clothes on and you up to something.”
“I see,” Brand said, although it was obvious he did not.
“Dude, it’s a Southern-ism,” Addy said.
Brand’s expression grew distant, like he was cross-referencing Mr. Willis’s comment against his Dalvahni translator.
And maybe he was, because a moment later he nodded. “I see. ‘Up to something,’ as in ‘unclad and engaged in lascivious and/or questionable behavior.’ It is quite humorous, is it not?”
“A real stitch,” Addy said. “Especially when you put it that way.”
Mr. Willis eyed Brand. “How ’bout you? You up to something with our Addy?”
“If he ain’t, I sure would like to be.” Darryl Wilson sauntered up with his brothers Dean and Del. Darryl nudged Del. “Told you she was fine, didn’t I? Uh uh uh, I’d like to get me some of that.”
“Hint for the future, Darryl,” Addy said dryly. “ ‘I’d like to get me some of that’ almost never works with women. Neither does, ‘Yo, sweet thang, wanna ride my baloney pony?’ ”
“Ooh, she knows all your lines, baby brother,” Dean said. “You got burned.”
Darryl scowled. “Shut up, D.”
All the Wilson brothers called each other “D,” maybe because they had as hard a time keeping their names straight as everybody else. The Wilson brothers were long on beef and short on brains.
Del made a rude noise. “You’re a dumbass, D. Raeleene catches you with another woman she’ll have your ass for lunch. She’s meaner than a snake in heat.”
Darryl scowled. “Who you calling dumbass, dumbass?”
Addy heard a low rumbling sound in the distance. She glanced at Brand. Uh oh. He had that pissed-off predator look. The Wilson brothers had stepped in it for sure.