Love, Ruby Lavender

by Deborah Wiles

  When I didn't answer, he turned his head to find me. "What's the matter, honey?"

  "I'm disappointed." I studied my scratched-up legs.

  "So am I!" Great-uncle Edisto took a Snowberger's handkerchief out of his shirt pocket and mopped at his face. "I like to pic-a-nic more than a bee likes to bumble!"

  He did.

  While we straightened the table and chairs and cleaned up the spilled cereal, Great-uncle Edisto told me about how disappointments can be good things—like the time he thought he'd planted Abraham Lincoln tomato plants in the garden but found out later they were really Sunsweet cherry tomatoes. He'd had his heart set on sinking his teeth into those fat Abe Lincoln tomatoes, but then he discovered that he liked the Sunsweets even better—and besides, he could pop a whole Sunsweet into his mouth at once and save his front teeth some wear and tear. "A distinct advantage at my age," he said.

  "That doesn't help my mood," I said. The rain pounded so hard on the tin roof, it made a roaring sound inside the kitchen and we had to shout to be heard.

  "Think of disappointment as a happy little surprise, Comfort. For instance..." Great-uncle Edisto pushed his glasses up on his nose and smiled like he had just invented a new thought. "I think I'll get me a nap." He was breathing hard. "There's always something good to come out of disappointment, Comfort. You'll see."

  I could tell by the rhythm and tone of his voice that he was working up to his grand finale: "Open your arms to life! Let it strut into your heart in all its messy glory!"

  "I don't like messes," I told him. "I like my plans."

  Uncle Edisto patted me on the shoulder and lumbered off to his room. I called Declaration on the kitchen telephone, but her line was busy. I hung up and waited for her to call me, but she didn't, so I tried dialing her six more times. Then I gave up.

  Tidings slammed the downstairs doors on his way back outside, and Dismay came to find me. We went to my closet to wait for something good to happen. I do my best thinking in the closet. It's quiet and comfortable and smells like opportunity. I sat with my back against the wall and my knees under my chin. Dismay sat facing me (it's a big closet), with his paws touching my bare toes. He panted nervously and his dog saliva drip-drip-dripped onto my feet.

  "Thunder's gone," I said. "You can rest easy, boy."

  Dismay wasn't sure, but he smiled at me anyway, with those shiny dog eyes. It made me want to hug him, so I did. His tail thump-thump-thumped the floor.

  The next thing I knew, Great-uncle Edisto surprised us all.

  Great-great-aunt Florentine whooped for everyone to come. (Her bedroom was next to Great-uncle Edisto's bedroom, and she was standing at her mirror, she said later, soaking wet, untying the ribbon on her sunbonnet, when Great-uncle Edisto took his tumble.)

  "It's an apoplexy!" she hollered. "Stroke!"

  Everyone came running. We picked up Uncle Edisto from where he had landed, put him into bed, covered him with one of Aunt Florentine's lavender-scented quilts, and called Doc MacRee. Mama sat on one side of Uncle Edisto's bed. She held Merry on her lap and looked exquisitely sad. Daddy kneeled next to Uncle Edisto on the other side of the bed and stroked his pale forehead. Tidings stood at attention next to Daddy, with his hand over his heart and a devastated look on his face.

  Great-uncle Edisto gazed at us peacefully. He took us all in, like he was seeing us new, for the first time. His face was soft (turning a little gray), and, with the covers tucked under his chin, he looked for all the world like a small boy.

  "Time to go home," he whispered. He blinked a slow blink, and when he opened his eyes, he seemed to be looking beyond us, to a land we couldn't see ... a new world to explore.

  "You are home, Uncle Edisto," I said. My heart pounded against my chest in a Don't go! Don't go! Don't go! beat. I kept one hand on Dismay; my dog stood next to me, calm and silent, keeping watch.

  "You go on, Edisto," said Great-great-aunt Florentine, tears streaming down her wrinkled face. "It's your time. Have a wonderful trip, darlin'." She kissed him on the forehead and he closed his eyes. Then he smiled and ... off he went.

  I cried into Aunt Florentine's wet bosom. Everybody cried, because death is hard. Death is sad. But death is part of life. When someone you know dies, it's your job to keep on living.

  So ... we did. We adjusted. We did what we always do when death comes calling:

  We gathered together.

  We started cooking.

  We called the relatives.

  We called our friends.

  We did not have to call the funeral home.

  We are the funeral home.

  I wrote the obituary.