The Last Road Home (9 page)

C
HAPTER
16

I
dabbled with the food as long as I could. “That was a really good supper, Mrs. Wilson. I'm going to walk to the house and look after the animals.” Mrs. Wilson was a good person, and I appreciated the way she helped with Grandma. Unlike Mr. Wilson, I never felt she had anything but true kindness in her heart.

She touched my hand. “You come on back before dark so we don't worry.”

I walked across the clover field and cut through the woods. Seemed every tree branch and bush reached out a hand, like long-dead family spirits offering sympathy. I was flooded with memories, talking with Granddaddy under the woodshed, sitting at the supper table listening to the grown-ups talk and feeling safe in my world. They made the sense of loneliness harder. I stopped to sit on the plank bench at the tobacco barn where Grandma and I had talked about what happened after we died. Her words came back: “
Everybody wants a happy ending
.” I wondered if she thought her ending was happy.

The house had a lifeless silence, like it was holding its breath waiting for Grandma to come back. The fire in the stove had gone out, and the air was chilly. I sat on Grandma's bed and lifted her pillow to my face, letting my mind go blank. I could smell her. Against one wall in the room was a black-stained wardrobe with tall doors and a large mirror on the front. It had belonged to her daddy, and she used it for keeping Sunday dresses. On another wall was an old-fashioned picture of Granddaddy's folks, Grandpa John and his wife, whom everybody called Miss Minnie. The oval glass had a crack, and the image seemed to get darker every year. I pulled the bedsheets together and smoothed the quilt, then clicked on the bedside lamp.

I stopped at the barn, scratched Sally Mule's ears, and leaned my head against her long nose. “Grandma won't be coming back, girl. We're going to have to try to get through this together.” She nibbled at my ear.

On the way back to the Wilsons, I walked backward as far as the curve in the road so I could watch the light in Grandma's window. I imagined her propped on her pillows, reading a book she'd borrowed from the bookmobile. When the light disappeared, the full weight of how alone I was slammed down.

It seemed I'd been alone most of my life, Momma and Daddy dying, then Granddaddy, now Grandma, even Grady, and all I had left was a stupid shoe box. I stopped and squatted down, trying to let the grief ease off a bit. My heart had been broke so much I wanted to seal it in its own casket, bury it deep enough nobody else could dig it up, and put a marker on its grave that said, “Don't touch unless you're tired of living.”

Folks would probably say, “But they left you the farm.” Well, what the hell am I going to do with it? I'm frigging fifteen years old, for God's sake. Who will I have to talk to about stuff? Who will make sure I don't do something stupid and burn the place down? If I mess up the tobacco crop and don't make any money, what will I do about paying the bills? Maybe I should just sell the place and go live in an orphanage until I am grown. I got up, brushed myself off, and headed to the Wilsons.

Mrs. Wilson had made up the bed in a spare room. It was clean and smelled fresh, but I couldn't sleep. In the morning, she cooked a large breakfast, but her effort to be cheerful made me feel worse. She had been family to Grandma, and I regretted not being able to show her more kindness. “I'm going to head back and straighten up in case folks stop by. I'm grateful for all you've done.”

At home, I decided to have a look for the money. Rusty hinges on the pack house cellar door squeaked loud. The windowless cellar was clammy and had the strong smell of dirt that hadn't seen the sun in a lot of years. I had to move flowerpots and sacks of potatoes and onions to get to the barrel. A short shovel sat along the wall. After a few scoops in the loose sand, lids of gallon mason jars showed. All were packed with tens, twenties, fives, and silver dollars. I sat in the grass outside and counted. The total was over five thousand. It must have taken a lot of years, going far back from Granddaddy and Grandma, to save so much money. I put five twenties, a ten, and a five in my pocket and reburied everything else.

For the next two hours I used the old straw broom and a dust rag to clean the house. In Grandma's black wardrobe, I found the blue dress I'd given her for Christmas. It should make a suitable burying outfit. I held it to my face and thought about her smile on Christmas morning. I couldn't decide whether to take undergarments, but figured Grandma would never be caught dead without underwear. I caught myself on the “dead” part, but figured she would get a laugh from it. I put everything in the Christmas box she'd saved.

Mr. Wilson came by early afternoon, and we rode to the funeral home. When he rounded the curve leading into the city limits of Apex, I remembered the redbrick building on the corner. The sickly sweet odor inside smelled like flowers had soaked into the furniture and carpet. Church hymns played softly in the background. The sense of death in this place made the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

Mr. Ashley was a neat-dressed, formal, aloof kind of man. I guessed dealing with dead folks every day didn't leave much for emotions. He invited Mr. Wilson and me into his office. It had expensive-looking brown leather chairs, deep gray carpet, and pictures of Jesus. The burying business must be pretty good. He told me how sorry he was for my loss and began to ask questions about taking care of Grandma, surprising me when he said she'd already paid for her casket.

I handed him the box. “Here are clothes for her to be buried in.” He thanked me and asked about the viewing. Mr. Wilson told him the church service was set for Saturday and reckoned we would have the wake Friday night. Mr. Ashley made a note in his book before he went over the cost. Since Grandma had already taken care of the biggest part, renting their viewing room, embalming, having somebody come in and do her hair and make-up, and getting Grandma to the church on Saturday would run three hundred and fifty dollars. When everything was decided and agreed to, he asked if we would like to visit Grandma.

I struggled with the thought of having to share the moment with Mr. Wilson. “I've already said good-bye.”

When we got to the truck, Mr. Wilson looked over. “You holding up all right?”

“As well as can be, I reckon.” I couldn't stop my hands from shaking.

“You have enough money to take care of Miss Rosa Belle?”

“Yes.”

He looked surprised. “Well, if you need help, just ask.”

I reached in my pocket. “That reminds me, here's the five dollars you lent me at the hospital.”

“Wasn't lending, was giving.”

“I'd feel a lot better if you'd take it, might be another time I'll need to borrow.”

He stuck the five-dollar bill in his pocket. “Today is Wednesday, and now that word is out, you're going to get a lot of neighbors dropping by the house. Be nice to them because they just want you to know how much they thought of Miss Rosa Belle.”

How did he think I would treat folks? We were almost out of the city when I remembered. “I need clothes to wear to the funeral. You mind stopping to let me buy something?”

“Sure. The store is just down the street a ways. I'd lend you a suit, but don't reckon it would fit.” He laughed at his stupid joke.

It was just a short distance to Sharp's Clothing. Suits and jackets hung on racks along the walls, and folded shirts, ties, and belts lay on tables down the center of the room. It was darker inside than Miss Adam's Dress Shoppe, more reserved, like church. Mr. Wilson led me over to where a bunch of suits hung along the wall. “Should be able to find one here.” He started checking the size tags.

A salesman came over. “Can I help you?”

“The boy is looking for a suit for a funeral.”

“Let's see what size he needs.” He pulled out a cloth measuring tape and stretched it across my shoulders, then down my arms. When finished, he stood me in front of a section. “Anything in this rack should fit you. Were you thinking of a black suit?”

Mr. Wilson edged between us and started flipping through, looking at price tags. “No use paying a whole lot since you won't wear it much.”

Red came up my cheeks. “Don't mean any harm, Mr. Wilson, but let me look for myself.” He backed away and went to stand in the front of the store, pissed off. The salesman had a grin on his face.

I did pick out a black one and tried it on. “Mr. Wilson, you think the pant cuffs are too short? I asked.

He hardly looked. “Folks won't be looking at the bottom of your pants.”

At home, I hung up the suit and a white cotton shirt in the closet. I decided to make soup for supper the way Fancy had, pulling vegetables out of the pantry and wild onions from the yard. It tasted like shit so I threw it out.

When dark fell, I went to sit on the porch. It was a pitch-black moonless night. I went out the screened door and down to the field behind the feed barn. The trees were heavy green with new leaves that looked black in the dark, full of water sucked from roots a hundred years deep. The moist smell of old ground was strong. At first the woods were silent, but as soon as I got still, night things started to rustle in the brush. I sat against a tree. “I'm missing you awful bad, Grandma. If you want to come visit, I'm not afraid.”

I imagined myself becoming invisible, closing my eyes, and pretending to watch the world from a secret place. I liked it there. The night sounds soothed my mind. I fell asleep against the oak.

* * *

Mr. Wilson had been right. By eleven o'clock the next day, people started coming to the house, bringing food, and quickly filling the kitchen table. Mr. Jackson brought a big cooler full of ice and cups for the gallons of sweet tea. Mrs. Seagrove took over and served everybody a plate. I was overwhelmed by how they pitched in, not letting me do anything. The story of what happened to Grandma got retold and retold. Mrs. Wilson stayed close to me, making sure I spoke to each person, introducing me to those I didn't know.

The ladies fawned over me right smart, and the men wanted to shake my hand. The house filled and people spilled out onto the porch. One elderly lady, Mrs. Beula Sands, said she taught my daddy when he was in grade school. “He was a good boy, but hardheaded as a goat.” It felt okay to laugh with her.

At sundown the last folks had long gone home when somebody pushed open the porch door. It was Fancy, a wrapped bowl in her hands. “My momma fixed this sweet potato casserole for you.”

I took the still-warm dish. “She didn't have to, you can tell we got plenty. Get something.”

Fancy lifted different aluminum-foiled plates. “I believe I will have a piece of this chicken. Want me to fix you something?”

“I'll sit with you and eat a piece or two myself.” I got cold buttermilk out of the refrigerator and poured us each a glass.

We talked while we ate. “Why do you think your grandma was seeing the angels at the end, Junebug?”

“I don't know. Maybe those already gone come back to help a soul cross over.”

She poked the air with a chicken leg. “What if all them you knew had been mean and would surely be living in hell?”

I chewed on a thigh. “What if there ain't any hell, Fancy, or no heaven either; what if our spirit simply floats around out of sight?” I watched her face.

Fancy's eyes narrowed. “Junebug Hurley, don't you go to being blasphemous. God's promises are true. Just because we don't always understand His reasons don't give us a right to question them.”

We discussed the pros and cons while we finished off a bowl of potato salad. When it got toward eight, she got up to go. “Will you be okay by yourself?”

“It's sure different with nobody in the house.”

“Don't worry if your grandma comes, she won't mean you harm. She might just want to make sure you're not suffering.”

I hadn't thought about it like that before. “In a way, I hope she does come.”

Fancy cut a sideways look. “You want me to stay with you?”

“Well, sure. I been wanting an ass-kicking from your daddy for a while.” Although it might be worth it to sleep next to her, have the comfort of another soul.

“Don't be a smart-ass. Rest some if you can. The wake tomorrow night?”

“Yeah. Something else I ain't anxious to do.”

“We'd come, but they don't let coloreds in the funeral home. Daddy promised we could go to the services Saturday, though. You know I'll be thinking about you.”

I watched the bouncing light as far as the curve. In the dark of my bedroom, eyes wide open, I replayed everything from the night Grandma got sick, and tried to think of what I could have done different.

C
HAPTER
17

B
irds made love calls to one another and squirrels stretched in the spring sun. The day was warm and pleasant, a good day to be alive, exactly the kind of day Grandma would have said, “God sure has given us a blessing this morning.” The last place I wanted to go was to see her in a death box.

I stopped inside the door of the viewing room. Grandma was laid out in her casket. She looked natural in the blue dress, like she ought to be able to get up and walk. I wanted this to be some bad dream, but it wasn't. The reality that I'd never see her smile or feel her hugs or walk into the kitchen to find her busy at the stove again, hit me hard.

Mrs. Wilson took me by the arm and we walked closer to the coffin. “She looks mighty good, Junebug.”

Up close her skin looked waxy, nothing natural about her, like one of the fake women in Miss Adam's Dress Shoppe. “Wish they'd fixed her hair in a bun.”

Folks began arriving at the funeral home around six, and I took my position beside the casket. Mrs. Wilson stood close in case I needed her. Everybody stopped to shake hands and say something nice. The room was soon full, and the noise of conversation made it feel more like a reunion than a wake. Grandma always enjoyed a good gathering of friends.

After an hour, it became harder to hold the smiles. Mr. Jackson offered to take a break with me. We went around the building and I lit a smoke. He reached in his coat pocket, pulled out his flask, and offered me a drink. The whiskey bit hard going down my throat, but the alcohol settled me. Back inside, Mrs. Wilson suggested it would be proper to mingle with the visitors. I made a point to thank every one of them again.

The wide tile-floored hall outside the viewing room was empty by eight thirty, and I was alone with Grandma. When I bent down close, the inside of the casket had an odd, unpleasant perfume smell. I nervously touched her hair and straightened the collar of her blue dress. I whispered, “You'll always be in my heart, Grandma, even if my mind gets to the place I can't see you. I hope that was Granddaddy in the room and you're with him now. When it's my time, I hope you'll come.” I turned to leave, then stopped and went back. I reached into the casket, took Grandma's gold-rimmed glasses off and put them in my pocket.

That night I felt like an old shirt somebody forgot, left behind flapping on a clothesline at a deserted house. I found myself at the edge of the field again. I disappeared into the darkness, looking for something, but didn't know what.

On Saturday, I stood in the yard and gazed at a bright blue sky dotted with cotton balls, and thought about a particular Sunday when I was a kid. The preacher had talked loud and long on how Jesus would soon return. All the way home I watched out the truck window, hoping to spot Him riding down on a cloud.

When Mr. and Mrs. Wilson and I got to the church, the single bell in the steeple was ringing. At the door, Mrs. Wilson put her arm around my shoulder. “You ready?”

I tugged on the suit coat. “No, but reckon I'm willing.”

There wasn't an empty pew inside; the casket was open in front of the pulpit and a few people stood over it and talked quietly to each other. I wondered what would happen if Grandma's hand suddenly jerked up. Fancy said she'd heard of such things. The deacons closed the lid and placed the flower cover over it. Like every funeral I'd been to, the choir led off with “Amazing Grace” to get as many folks crying as possible. The preacher quoted a lot from the Good Book, said he'd talked to Grandma often about her favorite passages. I thought about the long Sunday afternoons she spent reading her Bible in front of the living room window.

Under the tent-covered gravesite, I chewed on the inside of my lip until blood ran. I hated the idea of being left to rot underground like a bushel of potatoes. I refused to shed tears in public. I had no more family and nobody to share them with.

When it was over, folks stopped to speak as they headed to their cars and trucks. I saw Roy, Clemmy, and Fancy standing at the back of the crowd and went to them. I hugged Clemmy and Fancy. “Grandma would surely appreciate y'all coming.”

“Your grandma was a fine person,” Clemmy said, “and we thought a lot of her.”

“Sure is going to be hard.” I looked at Roy. He reached out his hand, and when we shook I could feel the kindness and sympathy. “Anything you need, you ask.”

A strong breeze blew across the graveyard, unleashing a flurry of whirligigs from maple trees that surrounded the cemetery. It looked like a brown snowstorm. “'Bye, Grandma,” I whispered.

When Mr. Wilson pulled up in the front yard, I said, “I'm really grateful for all the help.”

Mrs. Wilson smiled. “You're very welcome, Junebug. We're going to be right here if you need anything.”

That night, I got out a piece of paper and started making a list. There was so much to remember, like being sure I knew how to pay the bill for the electric, and a dozen other things I'd never had to do. How would I ever get along by myself?