Vows (46 page)

 
"Fannie…" Emily came around the table and touched Fannie's arm. The two women stared at each other through a blur of tears, then pitched together and clung.

 
"I don't know what I'd have done without you this morning," Emily whispered. "What any of us would have done without you."

 
Fannie lifted her eyes to the ceiling as her tears spilled. "Yes, you do. You would have persevered, because you're very much like me."

* * *

Edwin came home with Reverend Vasseler to find Fannie and Emily sitting side by side in the kitchen beside Josie, forming roses of black crape: cutting circlets, stretching them over their thumbs, then stitching the tiny petals together to shape the flowers.

 
Reverend Vasseler stood beside the table, said a prayer for the departed and another for the living, resting his hands on Emily's and Fannie's heads, offering special condolences to the younger woman, whose wedding was to have been today. Edwin stood transfixed by the sight of his wife all laid out, grateful he had been spared the agony of having to perform undertaking duties. Fannie, bless you, dear Fannie. His eyes remained dry and unblinking and he forgot about Reverend Vasseler's presence until the minister spoke softly and touched his arm consolingly. "She's in the Lord's hands now, Edwin, and He is all good."

 
The day evolved into a series of vignettes: good Christian women coming to help sew black crape roses, to carry away the soiled bedding, to bring custard pies and chocolate cakes and hamburg casseroles; Edwin carrying the copper hip-tub upstairs and emerging after his bath wearing his black Sunday suit on a Thursday; Frankie returning from Earl's to take his turn in the bath; then the women doing the same; Tarsy, arriving owl-eyed and uncharacteristically silent, volunteering to press Emily's black dress, then remaining at her side throughout the afternoon; the family standing motionless while Fannie stitched mourning bands onto their sleeves; the sound of the church bell announcing the death hourly; and late in the day, Charles arriving with a buckboard, bringing a pungent-smelling cedar coffin, as lovingly and meticulously joined as the cupboard he'd made for Tom Jeffcoat.

 
He entered the kitchen, hat in hand, encountering the ladies still sitting in a circle, within a dozen roses of completing the second impressive black crape wreath, which lay on their laps. Emily glanced up at Charles's long face and laid aside her needle. The ladies murmured, lifting the wreath from Emily's knees so that she might rise and go to him. One of them reached back to squeeze Charles's wrist, offering a low word of consolation. But Charles's eyes remained fixed upon Emily as she rose and left the group with a slow-moving dignity.

 
"Hello, Charles," she said, a subdued stranger in a black tight-necked dress and skinned-back hair parted down the center.

 
"Emily, I'm so sorry," he offered sincerely.

 
"Come," she whispered and, without touching him, led the way into the dining room, around the corner from the black-garbed women whose needles continued flashing. In the empty room she faced him.

 
Sadness lined her face but she stood before him with all other emotions hidden. Reaching down, he scooped her gently against him. A sound came from her throat as her cheek met his jacket—a sob, swallowed; gratitude, unspoken. He felt solid and comforting, and smelled of wood and winter.

 
"I've brought the coffin," he said against her hair.

 
She drew back and reached into his eyes with her own. "Thank you for making it, Charles. Papa appreciates it so. So do I."

 
"It's cedar. It'll last a hundred years."

 
She wiped her eyes, smiled dolefully, and rested her hands on his arms. "I'm sorry about the wedding, Charles," she told him.

 
"The wedding—awk, what does that matter?" For her benefit he assumed a note of false bravado. "We can do that any old time."

 
She experienced a sharp sting of guilt for feeling reprieved when it took such an obvious effort for Charles to mask his deep disappointment. Unable to hide it from her, he dropped his gaze and fiddled with the crease in his black Stetson. He was dressed in proper mourning garb—a black suit and stringtie over a starched white shirt. She stared at his chest while her mind absorbed the fact that the customary period of mourning measured one full year—surely he was aware of that, too.

 
"Charles," she whispered, covering his wrist, stilling his hands. "I am sorry."

 
He swallowed thickly, still staring at his hat, then made a visible effort to put secondary concerns aside until a more appropriate time.

 
"You doing all right, Em?" he asked throatily, as always more concerned for her than for himself.

 
"Yes. Are you?"

 
"I was glad to have the coffin to work on, to keep my hands busy today."

 
With both of her hands she squeezed one of his, then drew a deep breath and squared her shoulders. "And I was glad to have the wreaths."

 
"Well." Charles lifted his bereaved eyes, fingering the hat crease unnecessarily. "I'd better go find Edwin to help me carry it in. You go sit down, Emily. It's going to be a long night."

 
And so it was Charles who helped Edwin lay Josephine in the aromatic cedar box, who moved her broken bones for the last time and arranged them on white muslin, and centered her head on the white satin pillow, and handed Edwin her prayer book and waited nearby as Edwin placed it in Josephine's crossed hands. Then, together they carried the coffin to the parlor, placed it in the bay window upon two wooden chairs, and propped the lid on the floor before it.

 
In the kitchen the ladies formed the last black rose and affixed it to the wreath. Emily respectfully placed it against the coffin lid, then stood in a circle of loved ones, gripping Tarsy's hand on her left and Charles's on her right.

 
"It's a beautiful coffin, Charles."

 
It was. And by his making it, and helping Papa lay Mother in it, and standing beside all of them through this difficult ordeal, Charles had endeared himself to the family more than ever.

Chapter 16

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T
he hard kitchen chairs were arranged in an arc facing the coffin. Sitting on one, Emily experienced some wholly profane thoughts about wakes. What possible good could they do either the loved ones or those who kept their all-night vigils over the corpse? Comfort for the living and prayers for the dead, she supposed, though she found herself praying little and comforted less. The townsfolk were kind to come and pay their last respects, but it put a tremendous strain on the family. How many times could one repeat the same trite phrase? Yes, Mother was better off now; yes, she'd lived a good Christian life; yes, she'd been a good woman. But Emily found Fannie's story about the hair dye a more proper elegy than the doleful study of those who came to gaze down into the casket and shed tears.

 
Guiltily she put such thoughts from her mind, but as she glanced at her brother, the irreverence persisted.

 
Poor Frankie. He sat dutifully between Papa and Fannie, squirming on his chair, being touched on the knee and reminded of propriety if he slouched or slipped too far forward or perched on the edge of his seat. Frankie was too young to be here. Why burden him with this depressing memory? Tomorrow's funeral would be enough. He slouched, toyed with a button on his suit for two full minutes, and sighed, slumping back. Fannie touched his knee again and he straightened obediently. Emily caught his eye, mimed a kiss, and felt better.

 
Her gaze moved on to Papa. Each time she'd looked at him today a knot of tears had formed in her throat and she'd wanted to lunge into his arms and pour out her apologies and tell him about her last talk with Mother. Why was it that the one to whom she most needed to offer an olive branch was the one to whom she had scarcely spoken? There had been people around them all day, lending no chance to speak privately. But that was only an excuse, Emily admitted. It was hardest to go to Papa because she loved him most.

 
She closed her eyes and prayed for strength and made a silent promise to put things right between herself and her father.

 
She opened her eyes again and watched Tarsy quietly open the door to admit another friend of the family. What a surprise Tarsy was turning out to be, loyal to a fault, quietly greeting mourners and taking their coats, thanking them for coming. And Charles was equally as helpful, greeting neighbors as if he were already one of the family, drawing up chairs for the older women who wanted to pause longer and pray, making sure the stoves were kept stoked with coal.

 
Reverend Vasseler began another mournful incantation. Emily attempted devoutness but when she closed her eyes the oak seemed harder, the smell of the black dye in her dress seemed poisonous, and she kept wishing she had a watch.

 
Dear Lord, make me properly mournful about my mother's death. Make me consider it the loss it truly is instead of the fortuity that saved me from marrying Charles today.

 
At the end of the prayer she opened her eyes to find Tom Jeffcoat standing just inside the parlor door dressed in his sheepskin jacket, doffing his Stetson, gazing at her. Within Emily, alarm and glory set up opposing forces. The emotion she'd been unable to dredge up for lamentation swelled abundantly at the sight of him.

 
You came.

 
I wanted to come as soon as I heard.

 
You mustn't look at me that way.

 
Your wedding is canceled.

 
My wedding is canceled.

 
Tarsy came forward to greet Tom, whispering a thank-you on behalf of the family, taking his jacket and hat. They spoke together, low, and Tarsy touched his hand before slipping away. Charles formally escorted him through the candlelit room to the front tier of chairs, where Papa was the only one to rise.

 
"Edwin, I'm so sorry," Tom offered, squeezing Papa's hand protractedly.

 
"Thank you, Tom. We all are."

 
"I feel like an outsider here. I didn't know her well."

 
"Nonsense, Tom, we're all happy you came. Mrs. Walcott was fond of you."

 
"Don't worry about your horses tomorrow. I'll see to them if you like."

 
"Why, thank you, Tom. I appreciate that."

 
"And my rigs are yours for anyone who needs a ride to the graveyard. I'll have them ready to go."

 
Edwin squeezed Tom's arm.

 
Tom moved on to Frankie, extending a hand as he would to an adult. "Frankie, I'm awfully sorry about your ma."

 
"Me too … sorta."

 
"If she's in heaven, you know what they say about heaven." Tom leaned near Frankie, daring a brief note of lightness for the boy's benefit. "You got to keep on behaving or she'll know about it."

 
"Yessir," Frankie replied respectfully.

 
Tom's eyes softened as he moved on. "Fannie." He took her hand in both of his and kissed her cheek. "My condolences, Fannie. If there's anything I can do—anything—all you have to do is say so."

 
"Thank you, Tom."

 
He straightened and moved to the last family member, standing above her for some seconds before speaking. "And Emily," he said somberly, extending his two hands. She placed hers in them and felt the contact warm a path straight to her heart. His eyes, dark with concern and love, fixed upon hers, bringing a momentary suspension of grief, a delight in the memory of kissing him only a short time ago. Her heart swelled, and she felt healed. I needed this so badly, just to see your face, to touch you. The pressure on her knuckles threatened to change their shape. Her mother's admonition came back, granting sanction to the intense feelings she had for him, but Charles and Tarsy looked on so she repressed all outward displays and sat gazing up at him formally.

 
"Tom," she said quietly, the mere pronunciation of his name easing a deep need to rise into his arms.

 
"I'm sorry," he whispered fervently, and she understood that he spoke not merely of her mother's death, but of the fact that he could not embrace her as he wished, and that in the days ahead he would force a painful break between herself and Charles, that even her friendship with Tarsy would be threatened. There would be difficult confrontations for both of them. But in that moment as they held hands before Josephine Walcott's coffin, the decision was sealed. As if Josephine's death had been a sign for them, they realized nobody but they could correct the course of their lives, and they would. It was only a matter of waiting for the proper time.