Twenty-Eight and a Half Wishes
Page 23
“Violet, I’m sorry if you are unhappy with my new haircut, but I honestly had no idea what Aunt Bessie was goin’ to do to it. I thought she was givin’ me a trim. But that bein’ said,” I smiled at Aunt Bessie. “I’m not sorry she did it. I love it and I’m sorry if you don't. And perhaps the timing was bad, but you and I both know that the people in this town are goin’ to talk about me one way or the other. They always have.”
Violet looked like she was about to start spitting out carpet tacks. Mike grabbed her arm and dragged her away from our group, their heads bent together in a heated discussion.
“Rose, if I had known Violet would react this way, I never would have cut your hair.”
“Don't be sorry, Aunt Bessie, for heaven’s sake, it’s only hair.” But the truth was that the problem lay much deeper. I was changing and Violet didn’t like it.
Violet calmed down a little before it was time to go into a private room to wait while the mourners were seated in the sanctuary. Violet looked like she would burst out the door to escape my presence at any minute.
A few minutes after eleven o’clock, we walked to the front of the church. I offered a prayer of thanks that I didn’t fall over in my two-inch heels.
Violet remained chilly at the graveside service, but I reached over and grabbed her hand, overcome with a wave of grief. I took it as a good sign when she didn't snatch it away, instead hanging on tight. We sat next to the open grave and clung to each other as we buried our last remaining parent. We were orphans. I choked back a sob of despair. Even if Momma hadn’t been the best mother, she was still our Momma. And now we were alone.
We rode in an uncomfortable silence to the church for the traditional funeral dinner. Any good Southern Baptist knows there’s nothing that can’t be fixed with a casserole potluck, death included. I told myself if I could just make it through the dinner, then I could return to my solitude, or at least my own inner demon.
We’d made it through the funeral and graveside service without mishap; I knew it was too much to expect to make it through the dinner, as well. Two older women watched me while I stood to the side of the buffet table. I recognized them as Momma’s friends, if you could call backstabbing, busybodies friends.
Violet and Aunt Bessie made their hostess rounds while I did my best to stay out of the way. One of the women pointed to me, shaking her finger in outrage, then buried her face in their huddle. I did my best to ignore them, but they soon worked themselves into a chattering tizzy. A few moments later, they moved toward me and didn't waste any time getting to the point.
“You have some nerve showin’ up at your mother’s funeral lookin’ like that.” The ringleader pointed to my dress with a gnarly finger covered in gaudy rings. Ethel Murdock, self-appointed morality czar of Henryetta. I had no doubt that Momma and Miss Ethel spent many an hour judging the actions of the First Baptist Church members. Then they’d move on to the remaining citizens of Henryetta for good measure.
The blood rushed to my face and the all-too-familiar response to hide took over. I shook it off. It was time to stand up for myself.
“What exactly are you talkin’ about? What’s wrong with the way I look?” I asked in a shaky voice.
Miss Ethel’s eyebrows knit together and her mouth puckered as if she were about to give me a kiss. I knew there was little chance of that happening. “You’re dressed up all high and mighty. We know you never dressed like that before. You killed your own mother to get her money and you haven’t wasted any time spendin’ it, have you?” Her face turned red and splotchy. I worried Miss Ethel would have a stroke right there. I’d probably be blamed for that too.
Adrenaline surged through my blood. My chest constricted, cutting off my air supply. “How I spend my money is no concern of yours,” I choked out.
Miss Ethel picked up her cane and waved it in front of my face. “You’re not goin’ to get away with this! It’s a travesty that you’re walkin’ around free to murder some other unsuspectin’ victim!” Her words echoed throughout the fellowship hall.
Beulah Godfrey stood behind Miss Ethel, her arms crossed and lips pursed. She nodded her head in agreement.
Anger riled up in me. I had no idea where this seemly bottomless pool of rage came from, but it just kept flowing out. “Well, I’m sorry you feel that way,” I said through gritted teeth, “but this is neither the time nor place to discuss it.”
My words enraged Miss Ethel more and she puffed up like a bantam rooster, thrusting out her chest and bobbing her head. She lifted her cane higher, swinging it around. “Don’t you talk to me about time and place, you murderess!”
Miss Ethel lost her precarious balance and swung her cane as she flailed, catching Miss Beulah on the chin. Miss Beulah shrieked and fell sideways, landing smack dab in the big pan of mashed potatoes on the buffet line. She jumped off the table as if it bit her, her face and chest covered in the creamy mixture. In her haste, she bumped a bowl of red Jell-O salad, sending it sideways off the table toward Miss Ethel. Miss Ethel screamed as she saw it coming toward her, accidently falling on her bottom as she tried to get out of the way, the bowl landing on top of her head. Red gelatin dripped down her hair and into her startled face. Miniature marshmallows clung to her tight blue-gray curls like dandelion puffs caught in a spider web.
An eerie silence descended upon the fellowship hall and everyone froze, forks halfway to their mouths. The room looked like a scene out of “Sleeping Beauty.” Nothing this good had happened at a Henryetta funeral since Elmer Wainwright fell out of his casket five years earlier.
Violet looked like she was about to start spitting out carpet tacks. Mike grabbed her arm and dragged her away from our group, their heads bent together in a heated discussion.
“Rose, if I had known Violet would react this way, I never would have cut your hair.”
“Don't be sorry, Aunt Bessie, for heaven’s sake, it’s only hair.” But the truth was that the problem lay much deeper. I was changing and Violet didn’t like it.
Violet calmed down a little before it was time to go into a private room to wait while the mourners were seated in the sanctuary. Violet looked like she would burst out the door to escape my presence at any minute.
A few minutes after eleven o’clock, we walked to the front of the church. I offered a prayer of thanks that I didn’t fall over in my two-inch heels.
Violet remained chilly at the graveside service, but I reached over and grabbed her hand, overcome with a wave of grief. I took it as a good sign when she didn't snatch it away, instead hanging on tight. We sat next to the open grave and clung to each other as we buried our last remaining parent. We were orphans. I choked back a sob of despair. Even if Momma hadn’t been the best mother, she was still our Momma. And now we were alone.
We rode in an uncomfortable silence to the church for the traditional funeral dinner. Any good Southern Baptist knows there’s nothing that can’t be fixed with a casserole potluck, death included. I told myself if I could just make it through the dinner, then I could return to my solitude, or at least my own inner demon.
We’d made it through the funeral and graveside service without mishap; I knew it was too much to expect to make it through the dinner, as well. Two older women watched me while I stood to the side of the buffet table. I recognized them as Momma’s friends, if you could call backstabbing, busybodies friends.
Violet and Aunt Bessie made their hostess rounds while I did my best to stay out of the way. One of the women pointed to me, shaking her finger in outrage, then buried her face in their huddle. I did my best to ignore them, but they soon worked themselves into a chattering tizzy. A few moments later, they moved toward me and didn't waste any time getting to the point.
“You have some nerve showin’ up at your mother’s funeral lookin’ like that.” The ringleader pointed to my dress with a gnarly finger covered in gaudy rings. Ethel Murdock, self-appointed morality czar of Henryetta. I had no doubt that Momma and Miss Ethel spent many an hour judging the actions of the First Baptist Church members. Then they’d move on to the remaining citizens of Henryetta for good measure.
The blood rushed to my face and the all-too-familiar response to hide took over. I shook it off. It was time to stand up for myself.
“What exactly are you talkin’ about? What’s wrong with the way I look?” I asked in a shaky voice.
Miss Ethel’s eyebrows knit together and her mouth puckered as if she were about to give me a kiss. I knew there was little chance of that happening. “You’re dressed up all high and mighty. We know you never dressed like that before. You killed your own mother to get her money and you haven’t wasted any time spendin’ it, have you?” Her face turned red and splotchy. I worried Miss Ethel would have a stroke right there. I’d probably be blamed for that too.
Adrenaline surged through my blood. My chest constricted, cutting off my air supply. “How I spend my money is no concern of yours,” I choked out.
Miss Ethel picked up her cane and waved it in front of my face. “You’re not goin’ to get away with this! It’s a travesty that you’re walkin’ around free to murder some other unsuspectin’ victim!” Her words echoed throughout the fellowship hall.
Beulah Godfrey stood behind Miss Ethel, her arms crossed and lips pursed. She nodded her head in agreement.
Anger riled up in me. I had no idea where this seemly bottomless pool of rage came from, but it just kept flowing out. “Well, I’m sorry you feel that way,” I said through gritted teeth, “but this is neither the time nor place to discuss it.”
My words enraged Miss Ethel more and she puffed up like a bantam rooster, thrusting out her chest and bobbing her head. She lifted her cane higher, swinging it around. “Don’t you talk to me about time and place, you murderess!”
Miss Ethel lost her precarious balance and swung her cane as she flailed, catching Miss Beulah on the chin. Miss Beulah shrieked and fell sideways, landing smack dab in the big pan of mashed potatoes on the buffet line. She jumped off the table as if it bit her, her face and chest covered in the creamy mixture. In her haste, she bumped a bowl of red Jell-O salad, sending it sideways off the table toward Miss Ethel. Miss Ethel screamed as she saw it coming toward her, accidently falling on her bottom as she tried to get out of the way, the bowl landing on top of her head. Red gelatin dripped down her hair and into her startled face. Miniature marshmallows clung to her tight blue-gray curls like dandelion puffs caught in a spider web.
An eerie silence descended upon the fellowship hall and everyone froze, forks halfway to their mouths. The room looked like a scene out of “Sleeping Beauty.” Nothing this good had happened at a Henryetta funeral since Elmer Wainwright fell out of his casket five years earlier.
