Miss Julia Inherits a Mess (16 page)

“Fragile?”

“Her blood sugar is hard to stabilize—it just fluctuates all over
the place and she's in and out of the hospital all the time. And you know that diabetics have to be real careful about their feet—that's why I go, sometimes on my days off, to give her a pedicure. She's just so appreciative, and I'm glad to do it.”

“That's very good of you, especially doing it on your own time.” That didn't surprise me, though. It was exactly the kind of thoughtful thing that Etta Mae would do.

She shrugged as if it were of little account. “It doesn't take long. I mean, one leg has already been amputated so it only takes half the time.”

“Oh, my,” I said, realizing that Etta Mae's promised inheritance might be more imminent than I'd thought. “Is she, this patient of yours, a well-to-do woman? What about her family? Will they resent her leaving something to you?”

“No'm, I don't think she has a whole lot, but she's not a Medicaid patient, so I guess she has something. And the only family she has is a sister who takes care of her, and she was there when the lawyer came, so whatever Miss Irene did, her sister already knows about. And she's still just as nice to me as she ever was.”

“Well, I think that tells you something. It's unlikely that your patient would cut her sister out in favor of someone unrelated. I'll tell you what I think, Etta Mae. I think that your patient wants to show you how much she appreciates your care of her, and she's left you a token remembrance. It could be a small piece of jewelry or some favorite books or a few hundred dollars—there's no telling. But whatever it is, she's pleased about being able to give it to you, or she wouldn't have told you about it. And remember, nobody else has to know anything, so I wouldn't worry about people talking. It's not as if it'll be in the newspaper.”
And
, I thought,
it was not as if she had a friend like LuAnne Conover who would spread it from one end of the county to the other
.

“Well,” she said, straightening herself, “that's true. She really doesn't have much as far as I can tell, so she wouldn't have much to give, would she? That makes me feel a little better—if she left
me something nobody else wants, they couldn't accuse me of taking advantage, could they?”

“They certainly couldn't. And, listen, if it turns out to be more, take it and be thankful. And enjoy it.”

“Oh,” she said, frowning again as she stood, “I hope it's not. I hope it's some little trinket or something like that.”

“Etta Mae,” I said, standing to see her out, “you are the only person I know—perhaps the only person on earth—who'd be happier to get a little rather than a lot.”

And even though I am not a hugging kind of person, I put my arm around her, resisting the urge to tell her that whatever she missed getting from her patient's will, my own would make up for it.

My word
, I thought as I returned to the library. It seemed that last will and testaments were to be my portion in life for some time to come. Etta Mae's problem was easy enough to solve, but mine was still hanging over my head. I sighed at the stacks on the desk and wondered if I'd ever get through them.

And,
I thought
, I haven't even gotten to the stacks of scrapbooks, photograph albums, and various boxes waiting on the shelf and in the back corner of Mattie's guest room closet—the very things that Mr. Cobb was apparently so eager to see.

“Miss Julia?” Lillian stood in the door, a dishrag in her hand. “You an' Mr. Sam got to be at that funeral in a little while, an' you need to eat something 'fore you go.”

“Yes, and I have to get there early enough to see that it doesn't descend into chaos.” I looked at her, noting that she was in a housedress that was nothing like her usual funeral attire, which would certainly have included a large hat. “I thought you were planning to go.”

“No'm, 'cause when it come down to it, I'm jus' not up to it. And ladies be startin' to bring trays an' casseroles an' so on for the reception. I need to be here to get things ready.”

“I'm sorry LuAnne sprang that reception on us—I didn't know a thing about it. But we'll have plenty of help. So if you want to go to the funeral, you can walk over with me or with Sam when
he goes a little later. I'm sure Miss Mattie would appreciate it.” If she knew about it.

“No'm, I got to thinkin' I jus' didn't know her all that good, an' she didn't know me, so I'd jus' ruther stay here. 'Sides, I about had my fill of funerals, what with the trouble that come from Mr. Robert's.”

“Oh, yes, I want to hear about that. What did he do?”

“Well, he died, like I tole you, so he didn't do nothin' 'cept leave a will. An' that's the trouble.”

“Don't tell me!” I cried, simply as an expression, because as Lillian had had her fill of funerals, I'd about had mine of wills.

“I can't right now, anyway,” Lillian said, turning toward the kitchen. “I got lunch 'bout ready, an' I got to get the silver an' china out 'fore them ladies start comin' in. And you need to get dressed for Miss Mattie's funeral. It gettin' late.”

“Yes, I'll do that right now.” With a lingering glance at the envelope that promised a win for Mattie, I went upstairs to prepare to lay her to rest.

_______

I'd had a vague intention of wearing a lightweight navy blue dress with long sleeves against the chill of the air-conditioned church. I had to rethink that. For one, Pastor Ledbetter seemed to think that the air-conditioning unit would be giving up the ghost any minute, and I didn't want to suffer in the heat. And for another, Mattie was wearing navy blue, and even though she wouldn't be seen at the church, she had been at the visitation. So, just as guests should avoid wearing white to a wedding, I figured that since Mattie was the star of her funeral—as a bride is at her wedding—she should be the only one in navy blue.

That being determined, I put on a dove-gray summer-weight suit with a jacket over an ivory blouse. I'd just slipped into gray Ferragamos with a manageable heel when Sam came in, surprised that I was ready so early.

“I can't afford to fiddle around,” I told him. “We have to have
lunch, then I'm going on over to the church. You can come later if you want—whenever the pallbearers have to be there—but I've got to check on LuAnne's plans. For all I know, she's run amok.”

Sam's eyebrows went up as he grinned. “Amok?”

“She's been known to before, as you well know. She already has the entire choir up in arms because she asked Tina Doland to sing a solo. And Tina's a Baptist.”

“Oh, horrors!” Sam said, laughing.

“Yes, but it makes sense in a way. Mattie did like to hear Tina sing—she always went to the First Baptist's rendition of Handel's
Messiah
every Christmas. But our choir feels slighted because they have a few good soloists, too. And did I tell you,” I went on, “that LuAnne ordered a full casket cover of roses, for which I'll be billed for half?”

“I believe you did—sometime between midnight and one o'clock last night.”

“Oh, you,” I said, smiling at his good humor. Then I went downstairs to wait for lunch.

_______

While I waited, I went into the library to see what was inside that winning envelope. I looked again at the bold announcement on the outside—
YOU ARE A WINNER
!!—and hoped against hope that Mattie was. Tearing it open, a few slips of paper fell out, each advertising something to be ordered: a miraculous cleaning product, an easy-to-use grout applicator, and a never-fail wrinkle cream. And a check for ten dollars. But with just one more order, Mattie would be in the semifinal drawing for ten thousand dollars.

Oh, me. Another scam, just as I'd feared. How many of them had Mattie fallen for? Only a thorough audit of her checkbook register would reveal how gullible she'd been. And I didn't have the heart to do it. I thought of how years ago, when my first husband was alive and each day had seemed like the one before, I'd
looked forward to hearing the postman put something in the mailbox. Not that I'd been expecting anything, it was just that the thump of the newspaper landing on the porch in the morning and the rattle of the mailbox in the afternoon were the high points of my day—each holding the potential for something new and different.

Maybe Mattie had felt the same way. And maybe she made sure that the postman would have something to put in her mailbox, something she could look forward to, as well as the possibility that whatever it was would change the sameness of her days.

By that time I was feeling so sorry for Mattie that I knew I'd have no trouble being appropriately grieved at her funeral.

Which reminded me that I had an even closer friend to be concerned about, and I picked up the phone.

“Ida Lee?” I asked when she answered, as one does even though the voice is recognized. “Did Mildred come home this morning?”

“Yes, ma'am, we've been home about an hour, and she's trying to decide whether or not she feels like going to Mrs. Freeman's funeral.”

“Well, that's why I'm calling. Would she be able to walk over to the church with me? I'll be going in about an hour.”

“No, ma'am, I don't think so. She mentioned something about my driving her around to the front of the church and letting her out at the door—if she goes, but I don't think she will. She's lying down now—feeling a little low, she said. Would you like to speak to her?”

“No, that's all right. Just tell her I called, but tell her that if she feels up to it, we're having a reception here after the funeral. She may want to come to that.”

We hung up, and I stood there for a minute, feeling torn between attending the funeral of an acquaintance and attending to a much closer friend. Mildred was facing an uphill battle with her weight, and I didn't doubt that the prospect of being stapled was enough to make social obligations a matter of little concern.

I decided that if I wasn't feeling more than a little low myself by the time the funeral and interment and reception were over, I would visit her that evening. In the meantime, I hurried to put away the papers and folders that I'd been going through, straightening the library for the influx of mourners after the funeral. I didn't want anything belonging to Mattie setting out in full view of curious eyes. Not that I'd found anything of significance, but still.

_______

Entering through the back door of the basement level of the church, I almost walked right past the choir room. The lack of a hubbub of voices stopped me, and I cracked the door to look in. Not a soul was inside, the choir robes were neatly hung, and sheet music was carefully stacked on shelves in the bookcase.

I sighed and backed out. Either every choir member was running late or they weren't coming. Maybe they were on strike because LuAnne had preferred a Baptist soloist to a Presbyterian one. The grass always seems greener, you know.

Refusing to add the choir to my list of concerns, I walked up the stairs to the area behind the apse, where I found plenty going on. One of the large Sunday school rooms had been designated the family waiting room, and in it LuAnne was busily giving last-minute instructions to the organist, the soloist, and Pastor Ledbetter.

“Julia!” she cried and broke away from the group around her. “I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I didn't even think of it, because not every funeral has them. It just didn't occur to me, or you know I would've gotten somebody.” She clasped my arm. “Will you do it?”

I stepped back warily. “Do what?”

“Give the eulogy. You knew Mattie as well as any of us, and obviously she knew you well enough to trust you with her estate. I think you'd be the perfect eulogist.”

“No, LuAnne, no. How could you ask me to do that, here at the last minute?” Although I wouldn't have done it if I'd had a month's notice.

“Well, that means I've just totally messed up Mattie's funeral. I can't believe I forgot something so important.”

I thought she was about to cry, so I took her arm and walked her over to a corner. “Listen, LuAnne, the pastor will love having the pulpit to himself. Just ask him to mention Mattie's faithfulness to the church and maybe her love of getting together with friends. Especially if petits fours were served. He'll do a good job, because he's used to speaking in public. People will be glad not to have to listen to some rambling, stumbling attempt to eulogize Mattie by somebody who barely knew her.”

“You think?” LuAnne carefully blotted her eyes.

“I know they will. Just pretend you planned it this way, and they'll think you're brilliant. Now, go tell the pastor what he should say.”

“Well, okay, but I've already told him a lot.”

I didn't doubt that, but Pastor Ledbetter had officiated at an untold number of funerals, so I knew that he'd do this one exactly as he wanted, regardless of what he'd been told.