The Ladies Farm (31 page)

“You feel like this would work for us?” Della asked. “Even when we couldn’t live together before?”

“Yes ma’am. I do.”

Della tried to imagine it. Maybe Rita and Dave would take the place up the hill and she and Tony could carve themselves a suite out of her own and Pauline’s room. Tony’d go off to Fort Worth every morning and would stop at the store for them on his way home. There’d be picnics on the hill, canoe trips down the Nolan, and deep conversation by the river under the stars.

Of course, reflected Della, Tony had never enjoyed picnicking, canoeing, or conversing. But he seemed more indulgent now.

“Maybe we ought to talk about it,” Della granted. Tony’s eyes widened, and Della wondered if that were panic at possibly achieving what he’d pursued. “We could go out in a canoe, next week. I’ll fix us some lunch and we can paddle down to the landing below Wendells.”

He grinned. “Are you asking me for a date now?”

“I guess I am,” Della conceded. “But just a date. An afternoon date.”

“A little regression therapy might be good for us,” Tony allowed.

Della started to snap about calling an intercourse-free social occasion a regression when Kat poked her head into the dining room. “It’s Melissa. On the phone.”

“I’ll just see how our shed’s doing,” Tony excused himself.

“I think I might have caused a problem,” Melissa said.

“What’s up?”

“Well, Hugh called this morning, and we talked.”

“Well, we knew he’d be mad.”

“Oh, he’s more than mad,” Melissa said. “He’ll be filing writs for the next twenty years.”

“What happened?”

“I think he called Castleburg, and he told Hugh something about y’all buying the neighbors’ place—the Huttos’—and Hugh just thinks the whole thing’ll fall apart, so he’s heading your way!”

“Well,” Della chuckled, “I’ll be happy to talk to Hugh.”

“Oh, Aunt Dell, he doesn’t want to talk with you. He’s going right to Aunt Barbara! That’s why I’m calling. I think you better tell her—you know, about everything with you and Uncle Richard and all, because he’s thinking when she hears it she’ll sign her half over to him.”

Della shook her head at Kat to indicate there was nothing to worry about, but Kat looked unconvinced. “What time did you talk to him?”

“Just now!” Melissa said. “From the car. I’m telling you, he’s on his way there.”

“Well, honey, we’ll deal with him when he gets here. First, we’ve got a wedding to do.”

“Aunt Dell,” Melissa warned, “he’s really mad. He won’t even give me some of mother’s things I wanted. It’s real petty,” Melissa continued. “And I don’t think he’s ever letting go of those journals. He’s going through those things with a fine-tooth comb.”

“Well, we can’t control Hugh.” Della tried to sound calm.

“I know. But I can control what I do, and I want you to know I’ll sell my half to you all.”

“Oh! Melissa,” Della felt her eyes welling up and she turned away from Kat. “Honey, that’s so … you are so wonderful and we appreciate this so much.”

“It’s what my mom wanted,” Melissa assured her.

“I think so, too.” Della gave Kat a thumbs-up. “Even so, this is a big step for you. You and your brother … that’s sure not what your mother wanted.”

“He’ll get over it,” Melissa said. Della could hear the effort to sound breezy.

“Honey, you take care of yourself.” As she hung up the phone, Della turned her back to Kat and held the receiver in place for a moment to calm herself. Think carefully, she counseled herself. Think it all through.

She murmured a few words to Kat to dismiss any fears, then walked down the hall to Barbara’s room.

If Hugh gets to Barbara, Della thought, she might just blow him off. She might already know what he’s going to tell her. She might not care anymore. She might recognize him for the bitter, obsessed loser he is and not pay any attention to him.

Della put one hand on the door knob and knocked with her other hand. “Barbara?” she called.

“Come in.” It was the voice of the home health aide, a young Jamaican named Lydia.

The odor hit her as she opened the door. It was the smell of shit and it came in a wall of warm air that made the room shimmer in its own heat. “We are just getting cleaned up,” said Lydia. Her Caribbean lilt made
getting
two words:
gett ting
.

The soiled linens made a huge, tightly wrapped ball on the floor next to another ball of red plastic bag, which no doubt was the receptacle for the articles with which Barbara had been cleaned.

“The bridesmaid wore a diaper,” Barbara whispered. She sat in the wheelchair and wore a cotton robe over what looked like a hospital gown. Flops, oddly patient, settled next to the chair.

“Better than a maternity dress,” Della rejoined. She stepped over the balled-up linens and sat on the edge of the freshly made bed.
“How you doing?” She reached over to take Barbara’s hand. Flops lifted her head a moment to look at Della, then laid it back down.

“Oh, smelly but okay,” Barbara said. Her voice grew a little stronger. “Lydia’s going to help me in the shower, then I’ll get dressed.” She managed a smile. “Can’t keep the bride and groom waiting.”

They sat awkwardly for a few moments, Della leaning forward and stroking Barbara’s hand as Lydia busied herself carrying bundles out of the room. “Anything I can get you?”

“Makeup,” Barbara said.

“Pardon?”

“Do my makeup, after the shower?”

“Oh, sure,” Della agreed. She stood as Lydia approached the bed to lay out Barbara’s clothes. “Just like a high school pajama party.” Barbara managed a smile. “Are you in pain?” Della asked.

“No, no.” Barbara lifted a hand, then dropped it. “Just weak.”

“You are ready now for your shower?” Lydia asked. Barbara nodded, and Lydia wheeled her away, Flops following a step behind.

Della supposed she should shower and get dressed now, too. Most of the kitchen work was done; Nancy and her sister would take care of serving the food after the wedding. There was no point hanging around in her work clothes.

She wandered through the living room and peered out back. The folding chairs were lined up under the live oaks before two pedestals, which sported arrangements of white gladiolus, purple irises, and flaming birds of paradise.

In the salon, Rita had tortured Tiffany’s tresses into an elaborate configuration of curls on top of her tiny head and was now lacquering the creation into place with a can of hair spray. Della nodded toward Darlene, who stood with Dave just out of range of the hair spray, but she didn’t stop to talk. She knew better than to break Rita’s concentration.

Her own outfit for the wedding was silk, a flowered, matronly thing that screamed for a wide-brimmed hat. As she combed her hair, Della recalled Tony’s garnets and, smiling, went searching for the old jewel box she kept on a shelf in the closet. There, among the high school trinkets and dime-store pins selected by her children for birthdays past, she found the garnet pendant.

Della sifted through the cache a little more to find the matching ring. Thankfully, it was a small stone that didn’t look outlandish on her pinky, since that was the only finger it would fit now. If we do remarry, she thought, we’ll have to get new rings.

She stopped in the middle of fastening the necklace. My God! she thought, then shook her head. This Hugh business has you rattled, she told herself. Forget it.

And she did, at least while she applied Barbara’s makeup. “You sure you’re up to this?” Della asked.

“The question is, are you?” Barbara retorted. “I want the full treatment.”

Full treatment meant using almost every type of makeup in what Della judged to be a world-class collection. “Moisturizer first,” Barbara directed. “Then the eye-toner. Make sure it soaks in before we do the foundation. And use the yellow concealer under my eyes, the green stuff around my nose … counteracts the red.”

Barbara was a patient craftswoman, Della thought, preparing her palette step by step. It was fifteen minutes before she spread the foundation over Barbara’s face and could begin coloring and contouring. Barbara kept her head still, her muscles relaxed, as Della layered two colors of blusher beneath Barbara’s cheekbones.

Full treatment meant false eyelashes, with which Della was unfamiliar. Barbara instructed her, advising her on how to avoid lumps in the adhesive that held the lashes to her eyelids, counseling about using a toothpick to place the edge of the lashes exactly at the base of her real lashes.

“You must have had these made for you,” Della marveled. “They fit exactly.”

“My indulgence,” Barbara murmured. “No two eyes the same, you know.”

“Hold still another sec,” Della said, pulling the top off a soft pencil liner. She outlined Barbara’s eyes in a smoky plum, then shadowed them in a slightly lighter shade. Lydia had laid out the lavender silk pajama suit with a floral scarf. Della worked to match the color over Barbara’s eyes, then picked up a rust from the scarf for the lips.

They didn’t talk much. Barbara watched her in the dressing table mirror, but after the eyelashes, she said little. “Are these your earrings?” Della picked up the amethyst drops and, when Barbara nodded, gently put them on her ears.

Della stood back and assessed her work. It looked garish and overdone. The slashes of color beneath Barbara’s cheekbones screamed bad taste and the false eyelashes stuck out way too far. It looked all the things Richard would have hated, and it looked all the things at which Della had always laughed. But it hid the dark circles and gaunt cheeks and yellow color and, despite the chair, once they wheeled Barbara out to the lawn, no one who didn’t know would guess she was dying. And everyone who did know could forget for two hours.

Della checked the clock on the dressing table. “Here,” she offered, reaching for the lavender silk. “Let’s get you dressed.”

Della managed to get the suit onto Barbara’s body, lifting her to a standing position only once to pull on the pants and kneeling before her when they got to the shoes. She pushed Barbara’s feet into her gold flats, then stood. “I think we’re ready.” Della walked behind the chair and turned it.

Barbara grunted a little, and Della paused to see that the chair hadn’t caught on anything as she turned it. “You okay?” she asked.

Barbara waved her hand a little. “Ring,” she said.

“What ring?” Della asked.

Barbara replied by waving her hand again, and the lavender sleeve conveyed the message.

“You want your amethyst ring?”

Barbara nodded.

It took a moment to search through the jewel boxes—Barbara had always resisted using the safe—but she found the ring in a Popsicle-stick box probably made by Dickie in Scouts. “Here,” said Della, leaning down and taking Barbara’s right hand. “Let’s put this on.”

It wasn’t until she was wheeling Barbara toward the ramp to the back that Della realized they had forgotten to dab any Gucci behind Barbara’s ears.

Oh, well, she thought, watching Tony greet Barbara. We can do it later.

By the time Hugh Jr. called, Barbara had been parked on the aisle of the first row. Darlene sat down next to her, and Flops settled herself at their feet.

Della let Kat hurry her out to the kitchen. “I think he’s calling from the car,” Kat hissed. “He said if I didn’t want him busting up this wedding I’d get your ass to the phone now!”

“I’m in my car,” Hugh Jr. said without preliminaries. “I’m coming to see Barbara.”

“I’m afraid that’s impossible,” Della said. “Barbara is attending a wedding, after which she needs to nap. She’s very sick, Hugh.”

“You’re the sick one, Auntie Della. Pretending to be so kind to Barbara when you were fucking her husband.” Della stayed silent. “You want to protect Barbara, you meet me in Sydonia this afternoon and sign over your interest in the Huttos’ place. Or, you pay me four hundred thou for my interest.” Della did not reply. “Did you hear me?”

Della stood holding the phone to her ear and watched Nancy and her sister follow Kat around the kitchen as she showed them what to serve. She saw Tony leaning against the cabinet drinking a Dr Pepper.
And in her mind she saw Richard, saw the blue eyes and the steel hair and the barrel chest, heard his deep laugh, felt his hand on hers. That isn’t much, she thought, over which to destroy someone else’s peace. I could slip away during the reception, she calculated. No one would notice. Maybe he’d agree not to announce it until after Barbara dies. I don’t have to have the Ladies Farm. I can go anywhere, do anything, start another bed and breakfast. Barbara could die in peace.

“Hello?” It was a demand, but she could not respond, could not rouse herself for one more deal, one more arrangement.

Somehow the snarling in the telephone grew fainter until she noticed Tony staring at her and realized she held the receiver out in front of her as if it were some anthropologically significant specimen of late twentieth-century technology. Della slipped her thumb up over the reset button. The snarling stopped.

She smiled at Tony. “Hugh Junior’s on his way,” she said. “I think we should complete the wedding before he gets here.”

Tony stepped forward and Della rested her arm on his and let him lead her outside and to her seat.

Chapter 20