Lookin' Back, Texas

by Leanna Ellis

  “Her husband and son,” Mother’s frown deepens, “aren’t here right now. They’ll be here later. Won’t they, Suzanne?”

  “Yes, Mother.” I notice she doesn’t mention where Mike and Oliver had to go. I don’t either. Even the silence feels like another lie.

  “The funeral home promised they’d have Archie’s body here by noon.” Mother takes charge like a commander of an army told to march without rhyme or reason. I can almost hear her voice in my head: Be sure and lie convincingly to the preacher. I glance out the window, past the canopy of leaves to the blue sky. No rain clouds. But that doesn’t mean God isn’t going to zap us with lightning.

  “Can I call the funeral home for you?” Pastor Reese pulls a cell phone from his back pocket.

  “Oh, my, no. They’ll be here. I paid good money for them to be here, and they will.”

  I raise my eyebrows, but Mother ignores me.

  “I am sorry for your loss, Mrs. Davidson.” Pastor Reese’s eyes slant downward in a sympathetic expression.

  “Thank you.” Mother clasps her hands primly at her waist.

  Is there a special punishment for those who lie to a man of the cloth? Even if his cloth is leather?

  “Here’s the sheriff.” Pastor Reese cranes his neck to look past Mother out the window. The official car executes an easy maneuver around the orange barricade that cordons off the crack in the ground where it stretches neatly across the unpaved parking lot, and rolls to a stop near the Luckenbach store. “Maybe he’ll know where the hearse is.”

  “He’s not needed.” Mother sounds troubled. “Really, there’s no need for the sheriff. It’s not like there’s been a wreck or anything. Well, not today anyway.”

  “We can make arrangements for the funeral while he’s here.”

  “Arrangements?” I remember Drew had something he wanted to talk to me about. Does it concern funeral arrangements? Or something else? Suddenly my nerves jangle like I’ve had a triple latte from Starbucks.

  “The sheriff’s department will provide an escort for the procession going out to the cemetery, stopping traffic. Those kinds of things.”

  The pastor places a hand on Mother’s shoulder. She stares at his hand until he slowly removes it. He clears his throat, rubs his thumb against his palm.

  “Mrs. Davidson, we need to discuss the service when you have a moment.”

  “Of course. Maybe we can talk after the casket arrives. If you don’t mind waiting until then.”

  “Not at all. Whatever’s convenient for you.” He squints, looking out the window again. “Oh, I was wrong. It’s not the sheriff.”

  I try to ignore the fact that my stomach settles like it’s been given a whopping dose of Pepto-Bismol. I look out and see Flipper, my father’s best friend, step out of the squad car. He walks toward the church, stumbles over a tree root. It’s been years since I’ve seen him. He looks older than I remember—more girth, less hair. When he steps inside the dance hall, he blinks as his eyes adjust.

  “He here yet?”

  “Not yet, Flipper.” I extend a welcoming arm toward this man I’ve known my whole life. “Come on in and wait with us.”

  Grief etches deep lines across his face. The humor of the situation my mother has created comes crashing down as I see the ravaging effects of pain and loss. Of course, Flipper doesn’t know my father is alive and well. He thinks his best friend is dead. And he’s seen his ghost.

  I move forward. “How are you, Flipper?”

  “Suzie Q.” His arms come around me, and he crushes me to his doughy chest. “You came.”

  “Yes, of course. It’s all right.” I pat his shoulder. The truth scratches its way up my throat. “It’s going to be just fine.”

  Mother clears her throat, a clear reminder she’s listening. But I don’t care. I’m tired of this farce. It’s a disgrace. When a man like Flipper has to suffer because of Mother’s pride, then something must be done.

  “Flipper, you must know—”

  “How are you, Flipper?” Mother steps forward.

  He sniffs and releases me, his hand lingering in mine for an extra moment. Then he walks toward Mother, almost tripping over my shoe. “Betty Lynne,” he says, his voice coarse. But he can’t talk. He engulfs Mother with his embrace, mussing Mother’s dress and wrinkling her outfit. “It’s just not fair.”

  Her nose squinches up, and she wiggles free. Does she feel guilty? From the way she readjusts her dress and pats her hair, it appears she feels no remorse for putting Flipper through such grief. She probably blames Daddy.

  “Mother!” I’m unable to watch the poor man being tortured in such a way. “Tell him!”

  “What’s that?” Mother tilts her head as if listening to something other than me. She goes to the doorway, leans out, and listens as if she hears angel’s wings or the devil’s tail thrashing. “Do you hear that?”

  “Tell me what?” Flipper rests his hands on the sides of his wide black belt.

  “The casket should be here soon.” Pastor Reese tries to fill in the blanks.

  “Shh.” Mother waves a hand to shush them. “Listen.”

  Far away a thrumming beat pulsates. I wonder if it’s my own heartbeat, but it grows louder and louder, pulsing and throbbing.

  “If that’s one of those teens driving around with their radio too loud …” she says. “Disgusting music these days. Pastor—”

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  Then there’s a loud honk, a crack like thunder, and a screech of brakes.

  We crowd the doorway and stare at a black hearse that has crashed through the police barricade and hit the buckled rocks. It takes a moment, like an inhaled breath, for the situation to become clear. Then I take off running, and I’m not sure why. But the pastor is running beside me. Flipper is lumbering behind. Mother must be too because I can hear the click of her sling-back pumps against her heels.

  I stop just short of the hearse. Tourists gather around and stare. Mandy, the gal that runs the bar, comes out. Rick, who watches the store on weekdays, cranes his head out the ever-open doorway. The hearse looks a good twenty years old, and the new dent in the bumper is not its only ding. The front side windows are down, and a steady, annoying musical beat rolls like a wave toward us.

  I can barely hear myself think. “Mother?”

  She steps beside me, along with Pastor Reese and Flipper. “This is not what I ordered. Who are you?” She has to shout to be heard. The driver doesn’t seem to hear her though. His hearing must already be damaged beyond repair from the loud music. “It’s a good thing Archie’s dead and can’t hear that infernal noise.”

  “He got a good enough jolt to bring him back to life, looks like,” Flipper says, peering into the back of the hearse.

  Lifting her chin a notch, Mother takes two strides toward the banged-up hearse. We have no choice but to follow. She bends down, peering in the windshield. “Excuse me.” She taps on the half-rolled-down passenger window. “Excuse me! Can you turn that down? Or off?”

  Suddenly the rap music stops. Silence throbs in my ears.

  “Yeah?” a muffled voice from inside the hearse calls.

  “Are you okay?” I look over Mother’s shoulder at the driver. He resembles Alice Cooper with more makeup than I’ve worn cumulatively my whole life. His black hair is teased and sprayed into a wild array.

  “Yeah.” He twists his head from one to the other. “What happened, man?”

  “You hit the road barrier. Didn’t you see it?”

  “I was looking around, reading the directions, making sure I was in the right place. This here Look-in-back?”

  “You made it.” Pastor Reese looks at the area with pride.

  “Of all things,” Mother huffs. “Did Cal Henry send you? I just can’t believe this! This is not the hearse I agreed to bring my dearly departed husband to his final resting place.”

  “There was another funeral. We needed the other hearse for that service.”

  Mother’s lips pinch
tightly together.

  Flipper walks around the back of the hearse, raps his knuckles on the roof. “Can you get out?”

  “Yeah.” Alice Cooper’s twin alights from the hearse, unfolding his long, lean body. He’s a walking cliché with black jeans, black shirt, tattoos, and piercings in his nose, eyebrow, and lip.

  “I’m gonna have to write you up on this.” Flipper’s grief is replaced by an edge of irritation. “You went straight through a detour sign.”

  “Now, is that necessary?” Mother walks around the front of the hearse to defend her casket chauffeur. “I’ll be happy to pay for it.”

  Flipper glowers at her. “He was recklessly driving a hearse with your husband’s body inside.”

  “Yes, but after all, he’s here. And isn’t that what’s important? It’s not like he could hurt Archie or endanger him.” She puts a hand on Flipper’s arm. “Please. I just don’t think I can take much more of all this.”

  I stare at her, wondering if she’s totally lost it or ready for Hollywood. I’m not sure which prospect is more frightening.

  “Well,” Flipper seems to lose his starch, “I guess, if—”

  “Good. Now, let’s get Archie inside the dance hall.”

  “You think that’s a good idea?” Flipper mops his damp brow with a handkerchief. “It’s kind of hot today.”

  For a moment Mother looks as if she didn’t consider that in her planning. “He’s embalmed. It’s not like he’s going to start perspiring.”

  “Or stinking up the joint.” The words slide out of the side of Pastor Reese’s mouth.

  Alice Cooper glances around. “You want it where?”

  “I believe we’ll put it center stage.” Mother waves an arm toward the dance hall and the stage where so many performers have strutted their stuff. But they all pale next to Mother’s current rendition of Lady Macbeth. Of course, guilt eventually overwhelmed Lady Macbeth. That seems unlikely with Mother.

  “Pastor?” Mother crosses her arms over her chest, irritation lining each movement.

  “Oh, um … yeah.” He looks shell-shocked. “Yes, ma’am. Of course. Mandy and Rick said there aren’t any festivities this week. Just outdoor concerts between now and the funeral. So Archie should be just fine. They lock up at night anyway.”

  “What funeral home are you with?” Flipper studies the outside of the hearse.

  There’s a brief pause when the painted face of Alice Cooper stares at the deputy as if puzzled by the question. “Boyle Brothers’ Funeral Home.”

  Mother claps her hands together. “Why don’t we all go on inside? You can take care of this, can’t you?”

  Alice Cooper scratches his head. His hair does not move. “I could use some help. It’s kinda heavy.”

  “Sure, sure.” Flipper stumbles forward. “I’ll help. Might be able to take it around that back entrance.” Sweat marks stain Flipper’s uniform. “Where they bring in sound equipment. Might save a few feet of bumps and jostles.”

  Alice Cooper shrugs, his black T-shirt stretching over his thin frame, and gets back into the hearse.

  “Wait!” Flipper holds out a traffic cop’s hand. He rushes to the front of the hearse, bends low to check underneath the hearse. Finally he straightens. “Should be okay. Back up till you can turn around. Just move slowly. I reckon I should ride with you, show you how to get to the other side of the building.”

  “Sure, hop in.”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Mother looks as close to panicking as I’ve ever seen her.

  “Why not?” Flipper’s brow folds into a frown.

  “Well, because … because … I need you, Flipper. I’m feeling a bit shaky.” She reaches out a suddenly trembling hand, and Flipper automatically steps toward her. “Suzanne!” She looks over her shoulder, as Flipper helps her out of the roadway and into the shade. “Will you help the driver, please?”

  Does she mean pay him? Frowning I nod and climb into the hearse. There’s a distinctive smell, kind of a sickly sweet odor, and I’m grateful the windows are down as he begins to back up.

  “So, my mother hired you in Austin.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You work for the Boyle Brothers?”

  “Not really.”

  “Is it a real funeral home?”

  “Oh, sure! I know the owner. He asked me to drive this casket over here.”

  “I see. So there was another hearse that was supposed to be here today?”

  “Yeah. But like I said, some guy popped off yesterday and the family wanted a quick funeral.”

  “Is this your own hearse then?”

  “Yeah. I got it from my … from Boyle Brothers’ when they got their fancy new one.”

  “I see.” I glance back at the rear area where the casket lies. Along the edges I see cords and electronic doodads. “Do you have a band or something?”

  “How’d you know?”

  “Good guess. Did anyone tell you the story here?”

  “Nope.” He doesn’t seem the type to ask.

  “Okay, well, we appreciate your help. And discretion.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Nothing.” I decide not to explain it to him. If he blunders things, then that ends the farce. All the better.

  I point him back onto the highway, then down the other entrance. It’s easy to miss. Eager to get out of the hearse, and well aware of an empty casket behind me, I step out as soon as Alice Cooper comes to a complete stop.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Bennie Boyle.”

  “Well, thanks, Bennie.” I note the last name.

  “Hey, what about payment?”

  “I believe my mother is handling that. You’ll have to speak to her.” I close the car door.

  Already Flipper is at the back, opening the rear door. Inside a gleaming champagne-colored casket waits. I feel a catch in my throat and force myself to remember that my father is not lying in the casket. He’s not dead. Then Flipper blows his nose and snuffles into his handkerchief. I pat him on the back. I promise myself that as soon as I can get him alone, I’m going to tell him the truth. I don’t care what Mother says. This is beyond cruel.

  “Should we look inside, make sure Archie’s okay?” Flipper’s features wilt with misery.

  Okay? He’s supposed to be dead. That’s as un-okay as I can imagine. But I touch Flipper’s hand for reassurance. “He’s all right.”

  “He got a pretty good jolt back there.”

  “I’m sure he’s fine.” I bite the word for emphasis, trying to send a subliminal message to my father’s dear friend.

  Pastor Reese steps forward. “Where’s the lift?”

  “The what?” Something clicks against Bennie’s teeth each time he speaks, and I catch myself staring at the black lipstick outlining his thin lips. “I didn’t catch a lift. I—” A gleam of silver flashes against his tongue. He has another piercing.

  “The lift,” Pastor Reese speaks slowly, “is like a platform with wheels. It rolls the casket, lifts it up and down. The funeral home usually brings one. It’s standard procedure.”

  There is nothing standard about this.

  The young kid shrugs a thin shoulder. “Don’t have one. We just picked it up. Shoved it in the back there. Might be in the good hearse.”

  Flipper flinches. “That’s highly irregular.” He leans toward Mother. “What funeral home did you use?”

  “I’m sure they’re doing the best they can.” Mother forces the corners of her mouth upward. “Now, let’s get Archie unloaded. It’s hot out here.”

  “I’m sure it’s not that heavy,” I offer. I don’t add, because it’s empty!

  “I’ll help.” Flipper sniffs. “Wouldn’t want Archie tipped over or nothing.”

  Mother has the look that says she’d dump Daddy in South Grape Creek if she could. “We’ll wait for you inside.”

  She holds out her hand to me, wanting a partner in her crime. I am reluctant to participate in this charade
any longer. I want out. But as in the old westerns that Oliver used to watch on Saturday afternoons, once you’ve hooked up with the outlaws, there ain’t no goin’ back.

  “Suzanne?”

  I move toward her but don’t take her hand, then follow her into the dance hall like I’m walking to the gallows.

  “I should have had him cremated,” Mother whispers, “but I wasn’t thinking clearly at the time.”

  And she is now?

  * * *

  SUNLIGHT SLICES THROUGH the open windows along the dance hall. The air is hot and heavy like a wet blanket. Mother walks briskly, her heels snapping and clacking against the hardwood dance floor.

  I hear my name called from outside and turn.

  Mike waves from the footbridge that goes over the South Grape Creek. He’s wearing jeans and boots. And a cowboy hat. Not his usual style. He jogs up to the dance hall and through the doorway.

  Oliver is a close second. He’s wearing a do-rag.

  What exactly happened on their trip to the clinic?

  “What’s with this?” I touch my foot to Mike’s pointed-toe snakeskin boot.

  “Want to look like a native.”

  “Dad got scalped.” Oliver flops down on a bench.

  “You too.” Mike puts a hand on his son’s red-bandannaed head.

  Oliver’s hair is shorter, but it was short to begin with. I lift the cowboy hat off Mike’s head and gasp. His hair, longer than most men wear these days, is … gone! In its place is a field of stubble.

  “What happened?”

  “Horrible, right?”

  “N–no. Really.” I touch the chopped hair at his nape. I used to be able to run my fingers through it. It used to touch his collar. Now my nails simply slide along his scalp like a bare foot through cut grass. I lean forward and kiss him. There’s no way to make him unattractive, but I suddenly miss the old Mike. “It’s okay.”

  “You love me for my brains anyway.”