The Obituary Society (3 page)

Chapter 4

Aunt Ada's Fridge

Lila knelt on the wood floor, pushing upward with all her might until the swollen, paint-sealed, window gave way.  She'd hoped to let a fresh breeze into the room, but damp, warm air seeped into her lungs as she inhaled.  The heaviness triggered a panicky feeling in her chest.  Lila took a big breath, and reminded herself she wasn't drowning.

It would take time to adjust to the humidity that laid heavy over her like a wet blanket as she slept.  She'd only left the dry, barren wasteland of Rock Springs, Wyoming, last week.  She'd never loved it there, but at least she got a rest from the heat from sundown to sunup, and the air wasn't like hot tea. 

Aunt Ada's house rested on a hill, the only hill around as far as Lila could tell, and her gaze passed over thick clusters of green tree-tops.  Lila had always had mountains surrounding her like a nest.  She felt vulnerable here, where the horizon stretched off, green and unobstructed, until it dissolved into a hazy blur.  However, the idea of life-giving air that caused the trees and every growing thing to thrive was comforting.  Perhaps this was a nurturing place.

Back in Wyoming, Lila was in the center of a tornado, calm as everything flew apart around her.  She was the party responsible for having Grandpa transported to Nebraska, and making phone calls with a lawyer and the landlord;  then came the packing and travel arrangements.  If she ever wondered if there would be a moment when she felt like a legitimate adult, that was the time. 

But now, here she was, a twenty-four year old woman sleeping on a creaky, twin-sized bed in her aunt's attic bedroom, which looked like it came straight from the set of “Anne of Green Gables”, while the buttery scent of a home-cooked breakfast drifted upstairs.  The feeling of maturity was fleeting.

Lila pulled off her pajamas and put them neatly into the dresser drawer, then slipped into a light summer dress.  She sat down at the chippy blue vanity.  The bedroom used to be her cousin Laurel's, whom she'd met once, a long time ago.  She was some kind of executive in Kansas City now, and Lila smiled to think of Laurel sitting at the sweet little vanity.

Lila cringed as she glanced in the oval mirror.  The moisture had left her long, sun-streaked hair hanging lank and lifeless.  She dragged a brush through it, then gave up and pulled it back with an elastic before applying her mascara and lip gloss.

When she'd finished with her short morning routine, she wandered into the narrow hallway, flip-flops in hand.   She moved slowly, examining the photographs clustered along the wall.  They caught her eye every time she passed.  In an oval frame, a young Ada with a
bouffant hairstyle smiled beside a man in a suit.  His eyes were pale, his dark hair short, glossy waves.  She knew he ought to be handsome, but there was something missing in the expression.  It took a full minute for the name to come to her.  Ada's husband was named David.

She remembered the joy in Grandpa Isaac's face when he'd told her a story about himself and Ada and a mean old goose.  Lila had wanted to hear more, and asked what had become of Aunt Ada, and whom she'd married.  Grandpa Isaac was quiet a moment.  She'd wondered if he and Ada had had a falling out, but his eyes conveyed more sadness than anger.

“David was in the military,” he finally told her.  “After the Vietnam War, he wasn't the same man Ada married, not that I was too fond of him to begin with.  He got a job in sales.  Left for weeks at a time. We all put up with him the best we could when he was around. Tried to help him.  But after he started drinking our patience ran out.”  She could tell from the way Grandpa pressed his lips together and set his jaw that  their conversation was at an end.

Continuing down the hall, Lila stared at an even younger Ada in a sharp collar and pearl necklace.  This Ada looked to be about eighteen, and the black-and-white photo appeared to have been lightly painted over, giving her velvety red lips and azure eyes. 

Lila ran her hands along the aged yellow wallpaper as she walked down the creaky narrow stairs.  

The sun shone through the windows into the charming country kitchen.  At home, anyone who had granite and stainless steel was the envy of the neighborhood.  But to Lila, the worn countertops and white farmhouse sink were perfection.  She loved the green cabinets, and the open shelf containing mismatched containers neatly labeled flour, sugar, salt, cornstarch, rosemary, and various other things.  A milk-glass vase on the table held a perfect little bouquet of pink peonies. 

Lila peered into a large skillet of fried potatoes and scrambled eggs, breathing in deeply, and her stomach growled.  As she wandered the kitchen, wondering where Ada might be, she perused the mass of newspaper clippings attached to the refrigerator with magnets of countless shapes and colors.  She'd passed by them several times, and noticed the small black-and-white photos included in each article.  But with everything that had been going on in the short time she'd been here, it hadn't occurred to her to wonder why Aunt Ada had a fridge full of obituaries.

The first one she read had a picture of an older man wearing a hardhat.  In addition to the date of birth and death, surviving family members, and funeral details, it said:  “Paul worked as an accountant, but was famous for his experimental cooking and the yellow hardhat he was often seen wearing.  No one knows if Paul participated in an activity that required the use of a hardhat, or if he was simply fond of it, since when asked, Paul gave a different answer every time.”

The second pictured an old woman in large, dark-framed glasses.  “Ilene Rendlesbocker Peterson had a serious disposition and valued order and cleanliness.  She got her first taste for leadership when she became hall monitor in the first grade and never looked back.  She has held leadership positions from class president, to the Garden Club, to the Women's Circle in the Protestant Church, and was Principal of the Auburn High School for thirty years.”  After the funeral information, it stated, “Her vast collection of whimsical feather art will be displayed.”

“
Aren’t they beautiful?”

Lila started at Aunt Ada's unexpected voice behind her, and turned quickly.  “The clippings?” she asked.

Ada nodded, a sparkle in her eye.  She gestured to the curling papers that clung to the lower part of the fridge.  “These are some of my favorites, here.  These up top are the more recent ones.  We’ll be discussing them next week at the meeting.”
“The meeting?” Lila asked.

“
Yes.  Officially it’s called the  Auburn Ladies' Society.  But Laurel calls us the Obituary Society, and I’m afraid the name stuck.  She thinks it’s morbid that we discuss such things.  I tried to explain to her that at her age, it’s all wedding announcements and baby showers, but at our age, funerals are the main events.  This is what our friends are doing now.”

She paused a moment, her smile faint as her bright blue eyes perused the black and white pictures. 

“Well, they are . . . interesting,” Lila said, for lack of an appropriate adjective.

But Ada seemed pleased with the response.  “That’s exactly what I think,” she said pertly.  “Their whole lives condensed into this little article.  You get the important information, and sometimes a little more, but your imagination has to fill in the rest.  The ones like these here are fun, though.  They give you something more interesting to work with.”  She gestured toward Mr. Erikson of the yellow hardhat and company. 

Ada turned briskly, the scent of a flowery perfume wafting behind her as she bustled across the room.  She stood on her toes to pull two dainty teacups out of the cupboard.  “Would you like some spearmint tea with your breakfast, dear?”

“
Sure.”

“
Could you pop in some toast and get the raspberry jam out of the fridge?”
Lila unwrapped the bread and dropped it into the toaster.

“
Do you have any big plans today?”  Ada asked.

“
I talked to Mr. Whiting yesterday, and got my own key to the house.  I think I'll go inside today and take a look at the place.”

“
I know it needs a lot of work,” Ada said.   “But you're going to love it.”  Ada put the tea in to steep, then piled eggs and golden fried potatoes on two plates.  “I still can't believe you're here.  I’m sorry about the circumstances, of course.  I just wish Isaac would have brought you out himself, and we could have seen him again.  By then he was too ill, I guess.  The last time I saw him was . . . ,” she bustled into the adjoining dining room, Lila following behind her, and clunked the plates down on the table, her face troubled.  “Well, it’s been too long.”  Something in her expression brought Lila back to the memory of her conversation with Grandpa Issac.

“
He never spoke about why he left,” Lila said.  “I could tell he loved this place.  He loved that house.  Then one day he just up and moved to dry, barren Wyoming?”  She smeared jam on two slices of toast and sat down on a metal-framed chair at the small table. 

Ada set the cups down, along with a rose encrusted sugar bowl, and joined her.  “Well, he never was one for talking, at least about personal things”  Ada said, stirring sugar into her tea.  She pursed her lips and avoided eye contact, as if she didn’t care to discuss it further.  Apparently it was a family trait. 

Before Lila could respond, Ada changed the subject.  “I had so many raspberries last year I still have four jars of jam in the freezer.  I sold some of it at the last Society fundraiser.  It's almost time to start making it again.”
Lila took her cue.  “It’s delicious.  I’d never had homemade jam until I came here.” 

Ada looked at Lila, her face pinched with pity.  Then she turned her eyes to the window.  “The mint is practically taking over the west side of the house,” She sipped her tea slowly, a dazed expression on her face.

June 1968

Phoebe squinted her eyes at Isaac, carefully watching his face.  “Remember you told me to pick any color I liked.”

“
I remember.”

“
Did you mean it?”

He placed his hands on her shoulders, looking into her eyes.  “I've meant everything I ever said to you.”

She stepped away from the large paint bucket.

Isaac crouched down and pried the lid open. 

Phoebe waited, wringing her hands.  For a long moment she watched the top of his head, waiting for him to raise his face and look at her.  It dropped, then started moving as his shoulders jiggled up and down.  Finally a deep chuckle forced its way out.

Isaac put a hand over his mouth.  Then he stood up and turned to face Phoebe, no trace of humor on his face.  “Did you get the brushes?”

Phoebe sighed with relief and smiled, then nodded.

Half an hour later Isaac was dipping into the paint, making long strokes on the house. 

Ada's voice rang out behind him.  “Good heavens!  Pink, Isaac?  When are you going to learn to say no?”

Isaac smiled.  “It's raspberry.”

“Well, I guess we know who rules the roost around here.”  Ada sighed.   A moment later she stood by his side with a paintbrush in hand.

Chapter 5

The Mail Order House

The house hadn't felt like it belonged to her until she stood facing it, in all its pink majesty, with the key biting into her palm.  The paint had faded to an odd shade over the years, and had cracked and peeled until it resembled a tired showgirl who had seen better days.

Until today she had only looked at it from the street, staring into the windows as if she might catch a leftover glimpse of life inside.  She had envisioned her Great-Grandmother Elaine picking out the house from the pages of a Sears catalog, her index finger firmly planted on the picture.  “That one.”

How many trucks would it take to deliver the materials for a whole house?  And how many men had pulled on thick gloves and work boots and gathered to help her great-grandfather build the house?  She liked to think it was a neighborhood project, the way things used to be.  Or perhaps she was thinking of the Amish.

Lila walked up the sidewalk for the first time, noting the multiple fractures that had been invaded with grass and weeds.  She was already making a mental checklist of things that would need fixing:  new paint, sidewalk, trim shrubs.  It made her feel like her old self again;  the one who had been responsible for taking care of Grandpa Isaac during his last year.

The rails that bordered the porch were uniquely shaped.  They reached toward each other and met at the top in a pointed arch.  The white paint was badly chipped, and a couple of them had toppled over, but she could see they were all accounted for, and that should make it a fairly easy fix.  She visualized the charming porch in its former glory, and it pulled her up the weathered steps and wrapped around her in a welcoming embrace.

If her mother could see the dreamy look in her eye she would laugh.  She always said Lila was 'sentimental.'  Her mother had worked at an insurance company in Bozeman, and seemed to put more of herself into her job every year after Lila's father passed away.  Lila had almost finished her second year of college when her mother remarried, and the little apartment they shared quickly became crowded. 

Grandpa Isaac was her father's father, but her mother must have felt just sentimental enough to be concerned about finding a home for him in Green River when he became ill.  Lila decided to pack up her things and take a Greyhound bus to Wyoming to take care of him instead.  She had only visited him a couple of times before that, although he'd sent her a birthday card every year.  Her early memories of him consisted of the way he had towered over her, the deep but soft sound of his voice, the impressive whiteness of his thick hair, and how he always kept lemonade in his fridge.  She also remembered his sense of humor and his big, yellow guitar.

He was just as she remembered him when he opened the door and took her suitcase, only he didn't seem quite as tall.  Living with Grandpa Isaac had finally given her a feeling of roots.  One more connection in this world.  Even though he was gone, she felt a little more steady on her feet from having known him.  He told her so many things;  about Grandma Phoebe's affinity for the thrift store find, and her father's innocent pocketing of the waitresses' tips in the diner until age seven.  But he had never explained why, at fifty-two,  he left his home-town, where he had married Grandma Phoebe,  moved into the house his father had built with his own hands, and raised his family. 

Standing on this porch, she felt as though new roots were extending from her feet down through the slats in the wood and deep into the earth below.  She took a slow breath and turned to let herself inside.

The old lock resisted, making a grinding noise before the loud click.  She pushed the solid door inward.  As she passed through each room, she imagined three generations living there;  Great-Grandma Elaine proudly hanging curtains, then perhaps Grandma Phoebe making her claim in the choice of yellow wallpaper in the dining room many years later.  She laughed at herself, thinking that she wasn't so different from Ada, who read between the lines of her black-and-white obituaries, making the stories more colorful.

An old house is alive with ghosts.  Each person that lived there made some kind of mark;  if not in the choice of paint or cabinetry, then in a ding in the wall, a faucet with the handles installed backward, or a name carved out in the wallpaper behind the bed in secret.  In some way, each voice that wandered its rooms whispers, “I was here.”

The house had been locked up since grandfather left.  He didn't want it rented out or sold to someone who wasn't family, and Ada was the only family member who seemed to want to live in Auburn.  The windows had been boarded over, creating narrow shafts of light swimming with dust motes. 

When Grandfather left, he hadn't done a very thorough job of clearing the place out, which was strange, considering how clean and fastidious he'd been in all the time she knew him.  Most of the furniture had been left behind, although someone had taken the time to throw sheets over the sofa and chairs.  The effect was eerie, like the Barbie Dream House gone terribly wrong. 

Lila entered the kitchen, bracing herself for what she might find there, but fortunately it had been completely cleared out.  An empty tin of Ajax and a shriveled-up sponge had been left behind.  Several of the cupboard doors hung open and the fridge was slightly out of place. 

She paused and pulled a newspaper clipping from her purse.  Ada had offered to write up Grandpa Isaac's obituary.  Then she'd gotten hold of an extra paper and cut the segment out for Lila.  Lila looked around for a magnet, and finding none, pulled a bit of gum from her mouth and stuck the obituary to the fridge.  She admired her handiwork, laughing at herself.  Somehow it felt right.

Isaac Grant Moore, Oct. 23, 1941-June 15, 2014.  Isaac was born to Phillip and Elaine Moore in Auburn, Nebraska.  Isaac farmed in Auburn for many years, living with his wife Phoebe and son Nicholas in the beloved pink house built by his father.  He moved to Rock Springs, WY, in 1994, but his heart was always here.  He was a lover of lemonade and music and books, was devoted to Phoebe, a defender from errant fowl, a laugher, a keeper of secrets.  He is survived by his sister, Ada, and his granddaughter, Lila.  There will be a simple funeral service at the cemetery on June 20 at 9 am.

Her chest tightened.  It summed up Grandpa Isaac simply and well.  And it was what she would expect from Ada;  a few beautiful details sprinkled with mystery.  Lila couldn't help but wonder what secrets were buried with Grandpa Isaac.

Turning to leave the kitchen, Lila noticed a drawer partly open.  When she shoved it closed, something slid around inside.  She opened it and found a collection of skeleton keys.  She was so fascinated by the shapes and patina that she stuck them in her purse.

Exploring the house was like a treasure hunt.  The old furniture, the details in the lighting, moldings, and doorknobs were so much more interesting than in modern homes.  She walked up the creaky stairs and peeked into the three bedrooms.  She couldn't help but grin when she opened the bathroom door and beheld an iron claw-foot tub.  She'd always dreamed of bathing in one of those.  It needed cleaning, but there were no nicks or rust. 

Some of the discoveries were not as pleasant.  Old coats and other items hung in one of the closets.  They smelled so bad Lila gasped and sputtered before slamming it closed.  A thick film of dust on every surface in the house made her cringe.  She appreciated the beauty in imperfections of age, but like Grandpa Isaac, she liked things clean.  It was all she could do to keep herself from running out of the house in search of cleaning supplies.   

Lila went back downstairs, and stepped into the living room once more.  This time as she scanned the room, she didn't see the state of disrepair as simply the natural effect of time and neglect.   She noticed a corner of the rug was rolled up and all the furniture looked as if it had been shifted slightly out of place.  She strode over to a dark-stained antique desk, and noticed that most of the drawers were pulled partway out.  One of them sat overturned on the floor.   

It was as if the house had been searched through.  It was unlikely that Grandpa would be this careless, unless he was in a big hurry.  Both possibilities were unsettling.  Most likely there was an entry in the house that had been overlooked.  If nothing else, an empty house like this was a temptation for teenagers.

She would have to make a thorough check for possible entries;  perhaps a window or cellar.  Ada or Asher might know if there had been any incidents.  Asher had seemed so willing to help, and she wouldn't mind having an excuse to talk to him again. 

Despite the growing list of repairs she was aware of, and doubtless many she wasn't, something green and eager burst to life inside her.  She found herself already envisioning paint options, and which wallpapers would stay and which would have to be painstakingly removed.  The hardwood floors looked okay.  It was hard to say yet whether they just needed a good cleaning to bring out the brilliant warm tones, or if they needed sanding and refinishing.  She would need to have the plumbing, electrical, and who-knows-what-else checked by a professional, but some of the work she could do on her own.

The next steps would be ordering some books on home restoration and getting referrals for reputable professionals.  But for now she needed to leave, and let everything she had taken in settle in her mind.  Besides, she knew Ada  needed help getting her house ready for her upcoming Obituary Society meeting.

As she went to the front door something crumbled under her foot.  It was a clump of dry mud that she hadn't noticed on her way in, with so much to see all at once.  Stepping aside, she inspected it closer.  It had a clean edge, like a shoe print.  It was long enough that she guessed it to be a man's, and there were a couple more nearby, confirming the appearance of footprints. 

Perhaps it was possible that this mud had been here for a long time;  that someone had been in at some point to do work at Grandpa or Ada's request.  But she couldn't shake the impression that someone had been here uninvited, and that they had come right in through the front door.