Miss Julia Rocks The Cradle Part 14

"I expect," I said, somewhat dryly, "that the Lord is able to manage whatever is called for. But I admit I feel pretty much the same way. I'd prefer a burial rather than a cremation, and come to think of it, I'd better write that down too in case Sam has other ideas." If he was even around at the time, I thought but didn't say. A shiver ran across my own shoulders.

"Well," Etta Mae p.r.o.nounced, "I know a lot of people who've had their loved ones cremated, then gotten them back again."

"How in the world?" Hazel Marie asked as she started combing through her still-damp hair.

"Well, see," Etta Mae said, "there's this company that'll take the loved one's cremains and make a diamond out of it and put it in a ring or a pendant or whatever you want. So you can have your loved one always with you."

"I never heard of such a thing," I said, as Hazel Marie's mouth gaped open. "Etta Mae, is this baby all right? Her face is so red and she's sweating all through her hair."

Etta Mae laughed. "She's fine. They get hot and sweaty when they're nursing. Takes a lot of energy, I guess. But I'm telling the truth. About this company, I mean. It's called something like Forever Together Gems. They take the ashes, which are mostly carbon, just like diamonds, and put them under a lot of pressure and out pops a diamond. The only thing I can't figure out is how they can make the different colors. Or maybe," she said, musingly, "the colors depend on what kind of ashes they are. I mean, maybe men have a different color than women do, or children are different from adults. I don't know. I do know, though, that you can get blue, red, yellow, and colorless diamonds, so maybe they just add dye."

"Etta Mae," Hazel Marie said, "you're making that up."

"No, I'm not. I had a patient one time-Mr. Buck Hanson-and he had two diamond rings made from his first and second wives. Wore one on each hand. His first wife was the red diamond and his second was the yellow, but I never did ask him how he'd gotten those colors-whether that's just the way they turned out or whether he'd had a choice. If he did, maybe he picked them because of their temperaments. His third wife wasn't too happy about them because she said his two ring fingers were all taken up and she didn't want to be a pinkie ring."

"You are making that up!" Hazel Marie said, and I was inclined to agree with her, although it was awfully entertaining in spite of the subject matter.

Etta Mae giggled. "I'm not, I promise you. And as it turned out, Mr. Hanson died before his third wife did. I ran into her on the street one day and she was wearing what looked like a big sparkly diamond on a chain, you know, like a pendant? And I'll just bet you that was Mr. Hanson himself, hanging around her neck."

"Well," Hazel Marie said, looking off in the distance as she cogitated about it, "I guess I wouldn't mind being cremated if J.D. wanted to make a diamond out of me. But if he does, he better wear me and not leave me in a jewelry box somewhere."

"Oh for goodness sakes, you two," I said, "let's get off this morbid subject. Etta Mae, I think this child's had enough." The baby was slack in my arms, sound asleep, the nipple loosened from that strong vacuum as milk drooled from her mouth.

Etta Mae showed me how to hold the baby on my shoulder and pat her back, which I did until air bubbles erupted with a loud clap and spit-up flowed down my back. Eau de baby, Etta Mae called it.

Chapter 27.

I went to the Stroud funeral, or rather, the graveside service, hating every minute of it because I felt hypocritical appearing to honor a man who'd stolen from me left and right. Of course, few knew how he'd about picked me clean because I'd hidden the fact that I'd invested with him, and I hadn't had time to tell anybody about the stolen checks.

But having good manners means doing the right thing even when you don't want to. I do my best to do what is correct in all circ.u.mstances, although the Lord knows, sometimes it almost kills me to do it. Take standing around in cold, bl.u.s.tery weather waiting to inter a man for whom I had not the slightest bit of respect. But services for the dead, as this Presbyterian understands them, are really for the comfort of the living-in this case, Helen, although I wondered at how much comfort she actually needed-and not for the glorification of the one who's pa.s.sed on.

And to be perfectly honest, I thought that Sam would be there. We could've at least stood together and maybe he would've reached for my hand. Instead, I was one of only eight or nine others gazing down at the casket resting on straps over an open grave, listening to Pastor Ledbetter read from the Scriptures. Most of the mourners were men who, most likely, had had business dealings with Richard. I recognized two bank vice presidents who probably were there to make sure they couldn't sue him for unpaid loans. And of course there was old man Randall, who never pa.s.sed up a funeral whether he knew the deceased or not. I'd once heard him say that he'd lived so long he knew everybody in town even if he couldn't remember who they were. He never missed a postfuneral reception either, making full use of the buffet table.

Then there was Stuart Hardin, a local restaurant owner, who may or may not have known Richard but who made it a practice to attend any community gathering, usually holding forth vigorously on some issue he was interested in. I squinted as I tried to read what was on the big round pin on the lapel of his overcoat, but he was across the grave from me and it was hard to see. But when Stuart adjusted his position, stepping closer to the gaping hole, I silently gasped. The man was running for county commissioner, and even though it was months before the primary, there he was, sporting a campaign pin advertising himself. Of all the tasteless things I'd ever seen, using a funeral service as a campaign event was among the worst. If I were Helen, I'd snub him good.

Holding my coat together against a cold blast of wind, I glanced at Helen, not wanting to stare at her. She was dressed fittingly in black but was dry-eyed and without expression so that I couldn't help but wonder what she was thinking and feeling. Maybe she'd loved Richard deeply-after all, they'd been a couple for years and seemingly had been content and well suited. It had only been Richard's fairly recent foray into investments and developments that had started him on his downhill slide.

Actually, I figured that any grief Helen had experienced had come when Richard was in the process of sliding, not now when he'd finally hit bottom. The shame and humiliation he'd heaped on her head must have been worse for her than losing him entirely.

All unbidden, a line from something I'd read or heard suddenly flitted through my mind: I'm glad you're gone, you rascal, you, and I had to stifle myself.

Funny, isn't it? How in the most somber and inopportune of circ.u.mstances, the mind will play such a trick on you. I had to think of Sam and the pain in my heart to keep myself from laughing out loud.

The service was short, as it was designed to be, and no one, other than the pastor, was given the opportunity to say a few words. I declare, I've been to funerals that went on and on as one person after another praised and eulogized the deceased until he was unrecognizable. I've even on occasion wondered if I'd gotten the time wrong and ended up at the wrong funeral.

I well remember just such an amazing two-hour lovefest, during which the deceased had been praised to the skies for his humility, his commitment to the Lord, his kindness, honesty, compa.s.sion, and generosity to Christian causes, specifically those operated by the eulogizers. I'd walked out of the church behind the man's sister and heard her whisper to her husband, "I wish I'd known the man they were talking about."

That was the saddest commentary on a life I'd ever heard. When you treat others better than the ones closest to you, something is wrong with your priorities.

When the pastor finished the last prayer, he walked over to Helen and took her hand, murmuring a few comforting words. The rest of us swayed from foot to foot, eager to leave but waiting for a signal of some kind. It came when Helen turned away, head lowered, and walked toward the funeral home's limousine. Ordinarily, family members would linger to receive condolences, hugs, and shoulder pats from those attending the service, but understandably Helen wanted to leave. As she pa.s.sed, she caught my eye and nodded an acknowledgement of my presence. I think she appreciated it, because not another single, solitary person in our social circle had come.

As I trudged down the hill toward my car, avoiding tombstones and grave sites, it struck me that Richard had probably perpetrated his investment schemes on every one of our friends. That was why none of them had shown up. And in a way, it made me feel less foolish for having invested with him myself.

"So, Lillian," I said as I walked in the door, "that was my good deed for the day, although how much good it did I don't know. Probably gave me pneumonia from standing out in the cold, but Helen saw me there and that was the whole purpose."

Lillian turned around, her eyebrows raised. "You didn't go to the house?"

I stopped with my coat halfway off. "Why, I didn't even think of it. But you're right, I should've gone on to Helen's for the reception. But everybody was getting into cars and leaving, and nothing was said about any kind of gathering." I studied the situation for a minute. "Maybe I should run over to her place and see if anybody's there. Attending the service was only half a good deed."

"Don't stay too long, 'cause we gonna eat early. If I got to wander all over creation in the middle of the night, I got to get to bed."

I smiled with relief. She would be going with me when the time came.

I drove to the area Helen had moved to when she'd had to give up her home to help pay the rest.i.tution demanded of Richard by the court. That would've been a bitter pill to swallow, right at the time of life when a woman would expect financial demands to ease off. I knew how she must've felt because there'd been a time when it seemed that Wesley Lloyd Springer had sent me to the poorhouse, and I still had the occasional nightmare of being homeless and penniless in my old age.

Coming up to the Laurel View condos, I turned into a paved parking area and studied the four two-story buildings to find Helen's address. It was in the fourth building, the one at the back, and as I parked at the curb, I made note of the many empty s.p.a.ces. If Helen was having a postfuneral reception, not many mourners had shown up.

Standing on the small stoop, I rang her doorbell, waiting and hoping that at least one or two people would be there. I had no desire to be the only comforter. Shivering as the wind gusted around the corner, I checked the address I'd written down against the number on the door. I was at the right place, but n.o.body else was. Ringing the bell again, I looked around to see if any others were coming to comfort the widow. There wasn't another soul anywhere.

Turning away, I thought that maybe Helen had had all she could stand and didn't want to see anyone. I could understand that. She was probably in bed with the covers over her head, as I would be-and often was after discovering Wesley Lloyd's perfidy. I slipped a calling card behind the bra.s.s house numbers so she'd know I'd been there and walked to the car.

Interesting, though, that Helen's white Volvo was nowhere to be seen. There were no garages or carports for the residents of Laurel View, only a.s.signed parking s.p.a.ces for each unit. Maybe the reception was being held at the church in the Fellowship Hall. But no, from my house across the street, I would've seen people going and coming.

There was only one conclusion: Helen's grief, if any, was being a.s.suaged somewhere else. But I couldn't think of anyone close enough to her who would provide it. Maybe she was at her attorney's office, seeing to last-minute legal issues. That was the most likely explanation.

On the way home I thought of swinging by Sam's house, just stop, go in, and have it out with him. In a sweet way, of course. But not begging either. There was no reason in the world why two mature individuals who loved each other couldn't sit down and work out their problems without one walking off and taking up residence in his own house. The thought of it still frosted me, and as I approached his house, I could feel the resentment building up. There it was, with the yellow glow of lamps in the windows, smoke curling from the chimney, all looking so warm and homey that it about tore me up. And to top it off, I could see James inside the hall, busily Windexing the windows in the front door-something he probably hadn't done in weeks. I had no doubt that there would be a meal in the oven, filling the house with the aromatic promise of good things to come.

I sped on past, fuming as I realized that the rival for my husband's attention had turned out to be none other than that sorry James.

Chapter 28.

"Lillian," I whispered, as I leaned over the bed in the dead of night to put my hand on her shoulder.

She didn't move, but Latisha groaned, turned over, and flapped her arm across Lillian's head. I carefully moved the arm and gave Lillian a gentle shake. "Lillian!" I whispered a little louder. "Wake up. It's time to go."

Lillian's eyes popped open, or at least I think they did, because I was stumbling around in the dark for fear of waking everybody. I felt her staring up at me, then she carefully slipped out of bed, adjusted the covers over Latisha, and reeled out of the room behind me.

"My clothes in the bathroom," she mumbled. "I gotta get 'em on."

"I'll be in the kitchen," I said, and felt my way downstairs, thankful for the meager glow from the streetlight on the corner.

Dressed in all the layers of clothing I'd earlier laid out, I waited by the back door, holding two of the large flashlights we'd used when the power was out. Lillian shuffled in, looking twice her size from all the sweaters under her coat. She didn't look at me, just went through the door I held open, grumbling with every step. I ignored her and stepped outside, pulling the back door shut as firmly and quietly as I could, and stumbled down the steps behind Lillian. And ran into her as she came to a dead stop in the yard.

"You got yo' car keys?" she whispered.

"We're not taking the car. I don't want to wake anybody."

"Yes'm, but if you have yo' car keys, that mean you have yo' door key too."

Oh, Lord, locked out! It took me a minute to come to grips with my lack of foresight, but there was nothing to do but plunge ahead. Clasping Lillian's arm and urging her onward, I said, "Let's worry about it when we get back."

"I can't see a thing," she said, b.u.mping up against me.

"Well, I can't turn on a flashlight yet. Hold on, Lillian, and we'll be on the sidewalk soon. Careful," I said, steering her to the right. "Don't run into the car."

When we gained the sidewalk, the walking was easier, lit by pools of light from the streetlamps on each corner. I could see one circle of light after the other stretching out before us in the still, cold air. Worried that some insomniac neighbor would glance out a window and see us, I walked as if I had a purpose for being out at such an unG.o.dly hour. I had discarded the idea of slipping from bush to bush through backyards to avoid being seen. It was too cold and too dark and too treacherous underfoot for such evasive action when all we had to do was act as if it were normal to take a walk at two-thirty in the morning with the temperature hovering around eighteen degrees.

As we pa.s.sed through a circle of light a block from the house, our shadows stretching out behind, then in front of us, I looked at Lillian, whose breath was steaming out of her mouth in puffs.

"Here," I said, pulling Lloyd's hats from my pocket. "We better put these on to keep from losing heat. That's what they say, anyway."

We each pulled a toboggan cap over our heads and down across our ears and foreheads. I looked at the light blue cap with a Tarheels basketball logo on her head and had to laugh until I saw she was doing the same at me. And no wonder, for the one I put on was a garish mixture of red, olive green, and orange with a yellow ta.s.sel on the top. It was too cold for humor, though, so we hurried on, Lillian pulling a scarf over her mouth and nose leaving only her eyes showing, while I did the same with my coat collar.

"Come on," I said, urging her on. Then glancing down, I almost tripped. "Why, you're wearing pants! I've never seen you wear pants before. Where'd you get them?"

"You never seen me walking 'round when it so cold before either," she said. "I get them at Walmart when I know you gonna go through with this. They got flannel on the inside."

"Well, you were smart. I wish I still had those green polyester ones I threw away. Let's step it up. I'm about to freeze."

Six blocks is a long way to walk when you're trying to blend into the shadows and keep blood circulating in your feet. And as it turned out, the walk was longer than six blocks because I realized that we'd be better off approaching the toolshed through Miss Petty's yard rather than through Thurlow's. So we had another block to go around before stopping at the edge of her yard. Her house was dark, and I pictured her lying asleep, dreaming of raucous middle schoolers and how she could tame them. At least I hoped she was asleep. I didn't care what she was dreaming of.

The streetlights at each corner of the block gave us enough diffused light to see a thick hedge along what seemed to be Miss Petty's property line.

"Let's scoot along the hedge," I whispered. "We'll follow it to the backyard and find the toolshed."

Lillian didn't move. "I don't know, Miss Julia. Scootin' don't suit me, an' it too dark to see anything, much less no toolshed."

"We can't stop here, Lillian. There's nothing to see. We might as well go home."

"That's what I think," she said, turning away. "Le's us go."

"No, wait, don't leave me now. We're almost there."

"What if she got a dog?"

"I already thought of that," I said, pulling a wad of tinfoil from my pocket. "I brought a chunk of meat, just in case."

"That from the roast I cook for supper?" Lillian's voice edged up in disbelief.

"It's in a good cause, Lillian. Now, come on. We could've been halfway there."

I eased into the shadow of the hedge, and after a brief hesitation, she followed me, her hand gripping the back of my coat. I couldn't tell what kind of hedge it was, maybe laurel or rhododendron or, more likely, as I felt needles swish across my face, hemlock.

Lord, it was dark. No moon or stars visible in the cloudy sky and too scared of discovery to turn on a flashlight, we stumbled along, stepping in and out of dips in the uneven ground, and slipping on frozen patches of snow. Pa.s.sing the house, I could barely make out a smaller building, or rather a darker, uneven blob, a little farther back. Surprised at the size of Miss Petty's lot, I mentally figured it to match Thurlow's, which was one-fourth of the block, facing the opposite street.

I took Lillian's arm and stepped out of the cover of the hedge, moving across the yard toward the darker shadow at the back of the lot. I almost stumbled as my foot stepped off the uneven ground onto a gravel drive. We followed it to the black shape that indicated a building of some kind, and feeling around on the weathered and splintered boards, I was able to make out a pair of large doors.

"It's a garage," I whispered. "The toolshed must be on the side."

Lillian was breathing heavily by then, not from exertion but from anxiety, maybe from pure fear. She was walking so close to me that she was almost on my heels. I felt my way past the garage, heading for what appeared to be an appendage on the side. Tall weeds beside the wall hindered our way, and Lillian almost fell as she sidestepped what turned out to be a discarded bucket.

"A little way more," I whispered. "I can't find the door."

As I turned the corner, a long moaning sound floated through the night. Lillian stopped, stiff as a board, just as my hand found a tattered strip of slick weatherproof tape. Torn crime-scene tape, I figured because I watch television.

"This is it," I whispered, relieved that we were on the spot. "The door will be here somewhere."

She didn't move. "You hear that?"

Another moan, ending in a m.u.f.fled bark, stiffened me beside her. I stood stock-still, staring at Miss Petty's dark house.

"That's Ronnie!" Lillian said, panic edging her voice.

"Who?"

"Mr. Thurlow's ole dog. We got to go 'fore he get here." She started to turn away, but I grabbed her.

"Wait, don't leave. He's in the house, Lillian, and Thurlow won't let him out. It's too cold, and that dog's as old as the hills. Please wait-it'll only take me a minute to look inside." Even as I rea.s.sured her, I pictured Thurlow's huge, slavering Great Dane bounding across the yard, intent on launching himself through the air and onto our backs. My hands trembling and my heart banging in my chest, I kept scrambling along the wall, hoping to finish up and be gone.

"Gimme that chunk of meat," Lillian said, her voice quavering. "Maybe it hold him off if he come."

I pushed the foil-wrapped meat into her hand, and hurriedly feeling my way, I found the door to the toolshed and pushed it open. Now was the time for the flashlight. I clicked it on and swept it around the dirt-floored room. Shelves filled with old pots and various hand tools lined the back wall, while rakes and shovels leaned against a side wall. An old power mower stood in a corner, and half-empty bags of fertilizer and potting soil rested haphazardly under the shelves.

But not entirely haphazardly, for as I played the light around the room, I saw that two full fertilizer bags-one stacked on the other-had been placed a suggestive length from the side wall-the wall at the very back of Miss Petty's property.

"Miss Julia!" Lillian hissed, as she stuck her head in the door. "Hurry up, that dog still cuttin' up."

"Just one more minute." As I recalled Thurlow's dog, I remembered it as being stiff and grizzled, much like Thurlow himself, and unlikely to be allowed to roam free. I was sure the dog would be kept inside on such a cold night. The truth of the matter was that after my first flash of fear, I was now too intent on what I was doing to pay attention to the sound of long-distance barking. Thurlow would think a cat was roaming around.

Carefully guarding the beam of the flashlight, I walked over to the two stacked bags and played the light over the cleared s.p.a.ce around them. Large footprints were visible in the soft dirt, which could've been Richard's or, most likely, those of investigating deputies. I shivered, picturing Richard's final moments in this lonely shed, the pungent smell of mower gas and fertilizer filling his last conscious sense. At the thought of his dying moments, I swung the light beam around in case his ghost was hovering in a corner. I had to grit my teeth to keep from running out the door, screaming.

Making a mighty effort to be sensible and do what I needed to do, I turned the light back onto the stacked bags. There'd be no clues, I was sure, for the shed would've been thoroughly searched. Still, those bags put me in mind of something, and positioning myself to face the wall, I gingerly sat down on them, figuring that the indentation would perfectly fit somebody's rump. It did, for it fit mine fairly well.