Miss Julia Inherits a Mess (17 page)

If you've seen one funeral service, you've pretty much seen them all, unless one is held under a tree in a cow pasture, as I'd been shocked to hear about not long before. The only discordant note at Mattie's was when LuAnne insisted that she and I, along with Leonard and Sam, should sit in the front pew as representatives of Mattie's family.

“I'm not going to do it, LuAnne,” I'd said. “We're not family, and we shouldn't pretend to be.”

“But, Julia, somebody has to. That pew will be empty if we don't sit there.”

“It's empty every Sunday, too,” I reminded her. “Nobody ever sits there.” And, assuming I'd taken care of that, I went off to find my usual pew about five rows back on the side and wait for the service to begin. Sam, of course, sat with the other pallbearers, none of whom bore anything. Instead, they wheeled the rose-laden casket down the aisle to a spot beneath the pulpit, then took their seats.

About the same time, Hazel Marie and Lloyd slipped in beside me. Pleased to see them, I patted Lloyd's knee as he squirmed in between us. Wearing khaki pants, a white shirt under a navy blazer, and a tie, Lloyd looked every scanty inch the well-groomed young gentleman that he was.

“You all packed for your trip?” I whispered.

He nodded and smiled with anticipation. “Don't forget,” I
went on, “to use a lot of sunblock. I don't want you burned to a crisp out on the water.”

“No'm, me, either. But Mama's already told me.” Then he grinned. “'Bout a dozen times.”

Hazel Marie leaned over his head and whispered to me, “Guess who's babysitting.”

I smiled, picturing J. D. Pickens, PI, running after two laughing, screaming, into-everything toddlers for an hour or so. He had certainly calmed down since marrying Hazel Marie and becoming a father of twins, as well as a stepfather to Lloyd, for which I will be eternally grateful. Who would've thought that a man who had cut such a swath among the ladies could be domesticated by the likes of Hazel Marie?

But Hazel Marie was as sweet and caring a woman as you'll ever meet. And I should know, for if anyone had reason to disparage her, I was that person. Instead, though, of despising her for bearing a child by Wesley Lloyd Springer, my first, now deceased but unlamented, husband, I valued her for what she had brought into my life.

Such thoughts were running through my mind as they always did when I attended a funeral service, being reminded, you see, of Wesley Lloyd's funeral—the one that freed me from a dull, gray existence to one in which I took charge and kept it.

After struggling through a congregational hymn, my thoughts returned to the present as I concentrated on respectful attention to the service. Mattie deserved no less.

As we settled back into our pews, Tina Doland rose beside the organ to sing “There Is a Balm in Gilead,” a lovely selection that I would've enjoyed under other circumstances, even though she did get a little screechy a couple of times. Then Pastor Ledbetter took over. I didn't hear a word he said.

As the mourners, some more quickly than others, had taken their seats after the hymn, I had glimpsed a familiar ponytail tied with a beaded Indian band. I couldn't believe it, and I stretched and craned to assure myself that it wasn't so.

But it was. LuAnne had seated Andrew F. Cobb in the front pew, and there he sat as a publicly recognized member of Mattie's family. And, for all anyone knew, he was no more akin to her than I was.

As soon as the service was over and the pallbearers had rolled Mattie out to the waiting hearse for the trip to the cemetery, Hazel Marie, Lloyd, and I slipped through the crush to hurry to my house. A crowd would soon be pushing through my door, intent on deconstructing the pastor's sermon, exchanging favorite stories about Mattie, and partaking of the food on my dining table.

But I was still fuming over LuAnne's high-handed conduct. She'd had no business elevating Andrew F. Cobb to familial status, especially since Mr. Sitton had not confirmed his identity. For all I knew, she'd undercut all of Mr. Sitton's legal attempts to establish who the man was, and I intended to let her know it as soon as I could get her off alone somewhere.

By the time we crossed the street to my house, Lillian had already put out the spread of food on the table in the dining room, so Hazel Marie mixed the punch and I lit the sterno beneath the coffee urn. For a hastily put together repast, it was plentiful and attractive, even though Callie had brought a huge tray of cold cuts and so had Sue Hargrove. Lillian had had to run to the store to pick up enough bread for sandwiches.

When cars began to file into the church parking lot across the street, I knew the interment was over and we'd soon be inundated. An early arrival rang the doorbell, and I hurried to answer it.

“Mildred!” I cried. “Come in. I'm so glad to see you, but you didn't have to come to the front door.” Whenever she bestirred herself to visit, she generally came across our yards and entered through the kitchen door, as the rest of us did.

“Ida Lee dropped me off here at the front,” she explained as she entered. I had to laugh, for no one but Mildred would have herself driven from next door.

“You look wonderful,” I said. “How're you feeling?”

“I'm fine, but I don't want to talk about it. What can I do to help?”

“You can sit at the head of the table and ladle the punch,” I said, directing her to the dining room. “The coffee urn is on the sideboard, so if anyone wants coffee in this heat, they can pour their own.”

“Listen,” Mildred said as she took her place at the table, “I said I didn't want to talk about my dilemma, but I do want to join you on your walks—if you don't mind starting with short ones and maybe gradually building up. I have to do something so I won't need that operation.”

“Of course we can do that. I need the exercise, too. We can lengthen the walks as we get used to them and keep up with how much we do with that pedometer I gave you.”

“That's the most discouraging thing I've ever seen,” Mildred said as she rearranged the cut-glass cups on the tray. “Although I thank you for the gift. But did you know we're supposed to start with two thousand steps and work up to ten thousand—a
day
? Impossible, because I'm starting with barely five hundred. I'm so far behind, I'll never catch up.”

“We'll work at it, Mildred. Don't give up before we've even started.” Hearing footsteps on the porch, I said, “Uh-oh, they're beginning to come in. Well,” I went on, sighing, “it's Mattie's last party. It's a pity she's not here to enjoy it.”

_______

The living room, dining room, and library were fairly crowded for the first thirty minutes or so with people talking, laughing, and eating, but soon after that, the crowd started to thin out. There were, of course, no true mourners to make anyone uncomfortable by their tears or to put a damper on the socializing by their grief.

Delayed by his pastoral duties, Pastor Ledbetter and Emma Sue came in late. As soon as I saw them, I busied myself with hostess obligations to avoid further questioning about the settling
of Mattie's estate. Asking Emma Sue to relieve Mildred at the punch bowl, I guided Mildred to a wing chair in the living room.

“I hope pouring didn't tire you too much,” I said to her. “Rest for a while, and I'll bring you a plate.”

“I'm perfectly all right, Julia,” she said, “but I could eat a bite.”

I carefully selected a few broccoli florets, carrot sticks, radishes, and grape tomatoes, sprinkling them all with a spoonful of dip. Then I piled fruit—pineapple chunks, green grapes, and strawberries—on the side. As a special treat, I added one cracker spread with cheese.

Picking up a fork and a napkin, I took the plate to Mildred. She looked at it, then up at me with such a pitiful expression that I almost went back for three cold-cut sandwiches and several petits fours, which had been brought by Helen in honor of Mattie. Instead, I steeled myself against Mildred's wan look and went to the door to see a group of mourners out.

_______

A while later, after Sam came in and only a few mourners were left, we sat around the living room, recalling fond memories of Mattie.

“You know,” Sue said, “I think we're going to miss her. I mean, she'd long ago given up actually doing anything, but she was always there.”

“That's true,” I agreed. “I'm not even sure that she read the assigned books for the book club. She never offered a comment on anything we read.”

“I know she didn't read them,” LuAnne said. “I'd pick her up for book club, and she'd complain about every book we were reading—too long, too involved, too modern for her taste. I don't know why she bothered to go.”

“Well . . .” Callie Armstrong said, and we all laughed because we knew why Mattie bothered to go. She didn't want to be left out of anything.

Then Mildred said, “Do y'all remember the time that Mattie drove Claire Mcdonald and Evie Addison to Greenville to see some art show at the museum?”

Most of us did, and laughed about it, but Mildred told it again anyway.

“All three of them are gone now,” she went on, “so this was about ten years ago when they decided to make a day of it. Mattie agreed to drive—her car was the largest—and they planned the day down to the last detail. For a full week beforehand, they were on the phone every day, making sure they had tickets, discussing what they'd wear, how long it would take to get there, and which tea room they'd go to for lunch. Mattie had her car serviced and washed, made sure she had a map in the glove compartment, and told the other two the exact time she'd pick them up. An army general couldn't have planned a battle more carefully than those ladies planned that day.

“Well, the morning finally came, and Mattie drove around to their houses and picked them up. Claire brought some finger sandwiches and cookies, while Evie brought a thermos of coffee and some cups, in case anybody got peckish. Now, you realize that Greenville's only about forty miles down the mountain, but they were prepared for a
trip
. So there they were, three powdered and rouged dowager ladies, each wearing a huge hat, white gloves, and dressed to the nines for their cultural outing in the big city. Somebody who saw them leaving said they looked like three pouter pigeons tooling out of town.”

“So what happened?” Callie, who'd apparently not heard the story, asked.

“They got a mile past the city limits and ran out of gas.”

After the laughter died down, LuAnne looked at Sue and said, “I don't know if you know about this, but Mattie told me about it one day when I'd picked her up for some meeting. She said she'd been to see your husband on a Friday for a complete physical exam, and the very next Sunday, she of course went to church. ‘I started in the door,' she said, ‘and the first person I saw was Dr.
Hargrove, who was ushering that morning, and I just turned right back around and went home.' When I asked her why, she said, ‘I wasn't about to walk into church with a man who'd seen me upside down only two days before. I
knew
what he'd be thinking.'”

Sue laughed as much as the rest of us.

As we closed the door behind the last guest, I turned to Sam and said, “That went fairly well, don't you think?”

He nodded, put his arm around my shoulders, and turned me toward the library. “As always, honey. Mattie had a good turnout.”

“She certainly did, but that's mainly because there's a high level of socially correct behavior in this town. We do as we ought to do.”

“Or,” Sam said, as we sat on the leather sofa in the library, “a good many of them expect to profit from her will. I hate to tell you, but the word has gotten around—both Leonard and Ledbetter asked me when you'll have the will probated.” He grinned. “And that was before we'd even gotten to the cemetery.”

“Oh, for goodness' sake. Well, they'll have to hold their horses. I'm nowhere near making any distributions. For one thing, we have to wait until Mattie's so-called great-nephew, or whatever he is, makes a legal declaration that he has no claim on her estate.” I leaned my head against the back of the sofa. “I just wish that Mr. Sitton would get that little matter of his identity cleared up. I mean, either find out he's not actually kin to her or, if he is, get him out of the running completely by making him sign a quitclaim or something to her estate.”

“He'll get it done, but . . .”

“But, Sam,” I interrupted, “part of me wishes he'd prove to be a direct relative and that he'd petition the court to be declared
the legitimate heir to her entire estate. Just think what a relief it would be to me. No more appraising furniture and sending it to Atlanta, no more going through recipes and twenty-year-old postcards, and no more worrying about where the money's coming from to carry out Mattie's instructions.”

“I'm not sure it would be that easy,” Sam said, “but you just may get your wish. Andrew Cobb didn't come to the reception, did he?”

“Why, no,” I said, sitting up as I realized the oversight. “I don't recall seeing him. And, as a matter of fact, I don't think Mr. Sitton came, either.”

“I saw them leave the cemetery together and assumed they were on their way here.”

Still disturbed by my seeming lapse, I said, “Surely they didn't expect a personal invitation. It was printed in the service bulletin, so they should've known.

“Oh, Sam,” I cried, turning to him. “Even though I'd love to be free of the problems, what if those two are cooking up some way to bypass Mattie's will?”

“No, not Sitton,” Sam said, pulling me back. “Don't worry about that. He's a stickler for the law. If anything, I'd say that he's getting close to Cobb so he can figure him out. Believe me, the only one Sitton is working for is Mattie Freeman—you can count on that.”

“Well, that's reassuring,” I said. “I guess. But I hope he works a little for me while he's at it.”

Sam was quiet for a moment, then he said, “Did anyone tell you what happened at the cemetery?”

“No, what?”

“Well, Cobb was pretty much treated as the chief mourner by the funeral home. He was directed to a place by the graveside and LuAnne and Leonard stood beside him. Everything went smoothly—Ledbetter said a few words and had a prayer, and that was about it. Until Cobb started crying.”

“Crying! Why, he didn't even know Mattie.”

“I know, but he held this huge handkerchief over his face and his shoulders starting shaking, and of course everybody was trying to console him.”

“You, too?”

Sam smiled. “No, I was watching for actual tears. I didn't see any, but I heard a lot of moans and groans.” Sam pushed his hair from his forehead. “I don't know, Julia, it could've been an act, or he could be one of those tender-hearted souls who tear up at any funeral. After they got him to sit down—you know, in one of those wobbly folding chairs—he tried to explain. Said it just hit him that all his family was now gone, and he was the only one left. And he regretted not getting here sooner so Mattie wouldn't have thought that she was the last one.” Sam shook his head and said, “I can't figure him out. He could've been sincere, but it was a little over the top—a real meltdown, as Lloyd would say.”

“Oh, my,” I said. “I'm glad I wasn't there to see it, but, Sam, it had to've been an act. Who makes a public spectacle of themselves over the burial of a perfect stranger?”

Sam smiled. “Well, that seemed to be the general opinion. Most turned away and left. Even Ledbetter could barely offer a sympathetic word.”

“No one believes he's Mattie's kin—that's the reason. Or, at least, they
hope
he isn't. He could surely play havoc with their expectations if he is.”

We sat for a few minutes, both lost in thought of the dire consequences that might be in the offing—all dependent upon the decisions of a stranger in a two-wheeled trailer.

Sam broke the silence. “Did you get a chance to talk to Helen?”

“No, why? I mean, we spoke, but she came when everybody was crowded around the table, so that was about it.”

“She was leaving as I got here, so we stood on the porch and talked a bit. A little unusual, I thought, because she's always friendly, but rarely stops long enough for a conversation. At least, with me. I think, though,” Sam said, smiling at me, “I figured out
the reason. Nate Wheeler came out the door, and Helen lit up like a Christmas tree.”

“Really!”

“Yep, and he looked equally glad to see her still there. They talked a few minutes about Mattie's furniture, then they left together.”

“How interesting.”

“Well, don't read too much into it. They came in separate cars.”

“Even so,” I said, musing over a possible mismatch with romantic overtones. “Mr. Wheeler does clean up quite nicely. I saw him inside and almost didn't recognize him without all the sawdust sprinkles.”

“He does, indeed,” Sam said, then turned to another subject—one that he'd apparently been thinking about since this wasn't the first time he'd brought it up. “Listen, Julia, we'll be leaving Monday as soon as Lloyd picks up his report card. And I'd feel better if you had someone in the house with you. Why don't you ask Lillian and Latisha to stay over while I'm gone?”

“Well,” I temporized, “I'll see if they can, but with Lloyd gone, Latisha may not want to. There're no children around here for her to play with. And with school out, she'll be underfoot and bored all day long.”

“Then how about you staying with Hazel Marie? She'll be alone, too.”

“Sam, she's the least alone woman in town. She has James living over the garage, and Granny Wiggins is in and out, to say nothing of running after toddling twins all day long. Believe me, she doesn't need a houseguest. And, to be honest, I'm not sure I could put up with all the turmoil for an entire week. Don't worry about it,” I went on, “I'll be fine right here by myself. Did you pack your sunblock?”

“Two tubes. My lovely complexion will be well taken care of.”

“Oh, you,” I said as we laughed together.

“Actually,” I went on after a few minutes, “it's the three of you
floating around on the ocean that I'm concerned about. I want you to have a good time, but, Sam, do keep an eye on Lloyd. I don't want him falling off the boat.”

“He's not going to fall off. Besides, we'll have on life jackets or vests or whatever they are. If anybody goes overboard, it'll be me because I plan to catch the biggest fish in the gulf, have it mounted, then hang it right here in our fancy library. Don't you think it'll fit right in with the decor?”

“I don't believe I'll tell you what I think. Oh,” I said, sitting up with a sudden, perfect thought, “I know what I can do. I'll ask Etta Mae to stay the week with me.”

Sam smiled. “That's a good idea, which I think I suggested some while back.”

“You did, but now that we're down to the wire, it'll be a comfort to have her here at night. So I'll ask her, and that'll put your mind at rest.”

“Well, I don't know about that. There's no telling what you and Ms. Wiggins will get up to.”

From previous experience, I had to agree with him, but not out loud. Besides, I was too busy with Mattie's affairs to go looking for any more trouble.

_______

The following morning, Saturday, found me torn between doing what I should do and what I wanted to do. What I wanted to do was to go to Mattie's apartment, which would be empty for the weekend, and get started on the albums and scrapbooks stacked up in the back of her guest room closet. I wanted to sit down all by myself and go through them without any distractions. It had come to me during the night that there just might be some hint of Andrew F. Cobb's existence in the things she had saved. Wouldn't it be interesting to find a baby picture with the name
Andrew
penciled on the back?

But, no, I did what I should have done because Sam hadn't. His idea of packing was not mine, so I spent most of the day
folding clothes, packing them, and listening to him tell me he wouldn't need them.

“Just some shorts,” he said. “That's all I'll need.” And he started unpacking what I'd just packed. “Honey, it'll be in the nineties down there. I won't need a jacket.”

“Well, I thought you might go to a nice place to eat, one that requires a jacket.”

Sam laughed. “Think about who I'm going with. You think Pickens and Lloyd will want to dress for dinner?”

“You're probably right,” I conceded. “Just put everything you want to take on the bed, and I'll pack them. Don't forget your hat and . . .”

“And the sunblock,” Sam finished. “I gotcha. Now, why don't we go out for dinner and put a lid on Mattie, Andrew Cobb, and getting sunburned.”

So we did, putting aside all the troublesome matters, and enjoyed each other's company. My word, I was going to miss him. The week stretching out ahead seemed an eternity.